Oscar meets Myles

Have you ever wondered what it's like to be a dog? Well, this piece I wrote for my murder mystery book might shed some light on the topic. I'm not real sure I'll keep it in but it is a little different so I thought I'd share it here. Perhaps you'll enjoy it.

THEY CALL ME OSCAR

I was licking my balls when I first heard it.

Thump. Thump. Creak. .

Something was on the front porch.

I looked at the kid. Nope. He hadn’t heard it.

But someone was there all right. I stood at attention and yelled my loudest.

“Oscar,” the boy shouted, “Your barking is…”

Louder they came. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Stupid humans can’t hear anything.

Then, the doorbell rang.

I knew it. I knew it. A stranger was here. I bolted for the door, sliding the final few feet on the polished floor. Then, I ran round and round in quick circles.

Fortunately, Butch, my friend from next door, joined in. He must have been at his fence, probably on his hind legs.

The kid stood up, headed my way. Finally! Our pack was united. Determined to do my part, I screamed so hard I almost lost my voice.

Then, all of a sudden, the stupid boy grabbed my collar, yanked me backwards, as if I was the one causing all the trouble, “Damn it Oscar, get back.”

Why the hell was he choking me? We’re supposed to be on the same team.

I had to overcome his stupidity. I tugged and yapped with all my might.

“Come in.”

The door knob jiggled.

Holly Lassie crap, we were being invaded.

Then it happened, the intruder opened the door and seized some of our space. That was the final straw. I went for him.

“Oscar. Get back, boy. It’s okay.”

The trespasser held steady. He must have sensed I meant business. I sniffed the air. Nothing unusual. My throat was throbbing.

“Oscar, GET BACK!”

I let the kid think he was the boss. I sat. I sniffed. I watched. I let my neighbor know I had it under control.

Then the intruder extended his hand toward the kid, “Hi, I’m Myles. You must be Stump.”

“Yeah. Hello.”

“Can I pet the dog?”

“Sure.”

The stranger squatted to my level. I got a good look at him. Seemed friendly enough. His hand came slowly at me. A good sign.

Then it happened, he scratched that spot right behind my left ear that I can never quite get. He was off to a great start.

“Hi there, Oscar. How you doin’, huh, boy?”

I like it when they talk to me, but that’s not enough. I flopped on my side, spread my legs, to see if he knew what I really wanted. He did. He scratched my belly. I had him right where I wanted him. I wagged my tail to let him know he was on the right track. There was one final test, the big one. I wanted to find out if he would go “all the way”, sniff each other’s crotches?

I waited for the big fella to stand up, then, I leaned in and took a good whiff. Humans smell so weird. Kinda like flowers.

It was his turn. I was proud of how I smelled down there. I waited. I waited. I waited. But he took too long. Must have been playing “hard to get”. Too bad for him. Maybe next time.

I decided not to hold his apprehension against him. I was satisfied. Wagged my tail. Welcomed him into the pack.

I wondered if he knows how to play catch.

Money for Physical Pleasure

I have never traded money for the physical pleasures offered by a woman….that is, until yesterday.

The story involves a loan on an apartment building that I own. The lender lost billions of dollars when the housing bubble collapsed and they were among those that were considered to be “too big to fail”.

They got a bailout, and were required to divest themselves of the remainder of their commercial loans to pay back as much of the money as possible. So one day they came to me and asked me to get some other loan and use the proceeds from that new loan to pay them off. To make it worth my while, they agreed to accept WAY, WAY less than what I owed them. It was the equivalent of hitting a small lottery.

Yesterday, we closed the deal and by the mid afternoon, I owed many tens-of-thousands of dollars less than I owed when I got up in the morning.

Later in the day, I was planning on celebrating by eating a root beer Popsicle, but first I had to get some gas. All the pumps were full so I randomly pulled in behind an elderly woman…say 70ish. Her grandson, probably six or so, was in the back seat.

Nothing came easy for her. By the time she got out of her car, another lane opened and I could have moved, but something compelled me to stay there. I watched her read the instructions on her pump and try to prepay with a credit card. Her first attempt failed. So did her second.

Meanwhile another space opened up, but I stayed put.

She switched to another card and tried again…no luck. I could see the colored buttons on the key pad and watched as she tried all sorts of combinations (pay outside credit, pay inside credit, is this a debit card, etc.) but nothing worked. It was very obvious she was flustered.

I rolled down my window and politely said, “Would you like some help?”

Unfortunately, she was so shook up she misinterpreted my intentions. She snapped back in frustration, “I’ll get out of your way as soon I can.”

By that time, there were several bays open, but I was determined to see this one through. “No problem,” I said. “You have as much right to be there as I do. Just let me know if you need any help.”

Then she sensed I was sincere, “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m having trouble with my credit card.”

She turned around and repeated the same steps that failed her before. It was time to intervene.

I got out of my car, and said, “Let’s see what we can do.” We pushed the buttons again and when it was time to “insert card” I inserted mine instead. It worked perfectly, which made it obvious that the reason she was having trouble was her card was maxed out.

“No. Sir, I can’t allow you to do that,” she insisted.

I responded, “It’s okay. I’ve had a very good day and I am happy to share some of my good fortune with you.”

Well, you know how women are (I can get away with sexist statements like that because I have endured a lifetime with six sisters). The floodgates opened, and tears filled her tired eyes.

“You don’t know how much this means to me. I am having so many financial problems,” she whimpered. On and on she went. “I really needed this right now”, “Oh thank you, sir”, “you are my angel”.

“You’re sure welcome ma’am," I said. "Maybe you can do something nice for somebody else and pass it on.”

"I will. I know just what to do. I’m going to send a letter to a magazine that prints articles about things like this."

After she put the pump nozzle back, she turned and held out her arms. We hugged. She shivered as she held me close and swayed and whispered, “thank you, thank you, thank you".

When we finally released, her wrinkled cheeks were drwoning in tears from grateful reddened eyes.

A moment later, she drove off...very, very slowly.

I looked around and realized all of the bays were open. I pulled forward and thanked God for one of the best days of my life, then I went to the store to get that root beer Popsicle.

It was the best one I've ever had.

It is my hope that by reading this, you too will do something kind for a stranger. Take my word for it, it feels pretty darn good.

My Brother, Eddie

To change the shade of gray, one simply alters the ratio of black to white. My childhood was similar because it too was a mixture…of good and bad, with a little too much bad. Oh sure, I performed a few good deeds, but for some reason they simply aren’t as memorable as my screw-ups are. That is where Eddie comes in.

Actually, Eddie was not my brother, but he should have been. In many ways we were closer than most real brothers. When we first met, I was nine and my life-long pal was seven and a half (when you’re a kid, a half-year seems significant, you know) Ike was President at the time and life was simpler then, but mischievous boys have no problem finding ways to keep their lives interesting, even in simpler times.

I thank God I met Eddie. He was an island of sanity amid a sea of madness. His sister, Donna Mae and my new step-sister, Sarah, were best of friends for years before my mom and step-dad merged their two families together. There were no other boys in either of the families…just girls. GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS!!!

It was inevitable that they introduced Eddie and me. Predictably, we hit it off right away.

Eddie was totally unique. To this day, I have never met a youngster like him. For one thing, he started smoking when he was just four years old. Most adults smoked at the time and some of them thought it was cute to have Eddie light their cigarettes. He was happy to oblige.

As you would imagine, Eddie and I were always trying to get away from all our sisters. It was a survival strategy. This mutual need to escape would spawn a few adventures that would rival those of Sinbad.

Several nights a week, Eddie and I walked arm-in arm, via a secret route, to the local shopping center, just to hang out. Young lads can gain lots of wisdom cutting through yards, strolling down alleyways and passing by government housing. We learned a lot more by cruising the dark underbelly of the city than we did playing hide and seek in the well-lighted streets with our sisters. Sometimes our new wisdom was gathered by unseemly means.

For instance, there were all those pissing contests. Were they really a good idea? It sure seemed perfectly natural to us. We had powerful bladders and constantly sought opportunities to discover who could out-wiz the other. We particularly liked peeing over viaducts on cars as they passed underneath. But we didn’t really need moving targets. Sometimes we just drew a line in the dirt and had a spontaneous contest to see who could pee the farthest, the longest or the fastest. I imagined that I peed outdoors at least twice a day during those years. Yes sir, two young boys can learn lots in the alleys, like how much fun you can have just going to the bathroom

Perhaps my most vivid memories from the alleys have to do with Eddie’s dog, Nichols. Nichols was always getting into trouble. A long-haired 60 pound black and white mutt, Nichols knew it was his job to watch out for us. In fact he saved us from attacks by other dogs several times.

Dog fights are super-exciting when you’re a kid. I don’t remember Nick ever losing a fight, although it was very close one time. The day he met his match, he nearly lost his ear in a thrilling blood-fest with a huge German Sheppard. The incredible brawl must have lasted 5 minutes.

The Sheppard outweighed Nick by at least 15 pounds. Although Nick was out-classed, he made up for it with experience and spirit. Eddie’s dog fought with the tenacity of a crazed pit-bull. Each canine snarled and took a stance, half-cocked and ready to spring into the flesh of the other. Within an instant they were standing on their hind legs, face to face, growling, twisting and dancing, biting and cutting each other over and over, willing to fight to the death. The vicious battle persisted until there was blood everywhere. Each fighter took turns ripping into the other, seeking the ultimate victory, which could only be secured by gaining a split-second access to his rival’s throat.

Eventually, they just wore out and the contest ended. Any impartial observer would declare it a draw. Both animals were winners although it looked as if they were each losers. What a thriller. Eddie beamed with pride as his shaggy-haired mutt, his right ear half-hanging from his blood-soaked and saliva-drenched head, limped up the alley with us. Nichols truly performed like a gallant gladiator that day, protecting us from the threat of a much more powerful animal. Nichols was tough. He was a great protector and a fabulous fighter. Nichols was cool.

Sometimes Eddie and I did our bonding outside the alley, like the time his father passed away. Eddie was nine years old. Harold was the first person I knew who died. He was a cross-country truck driver so Eddie didn’t get to be with him much, but like most young boys, Eddie idolized his dad.
After the death, Eddie’s mom, Francis, was forced to go to work to support Donna Mae, Eddie and herself. It was not easy. Women didn’t have very many options then. Francis had to work in an assembly line for a meager salary. It is amazing that she was able to provide for them at all. I guess adversity draws the best out of some people…like Francis. At any rate, after the loss of Eddie’s father, everything got harder for all of them.

When Plato said, “Necessity is the mother of invention” he must have been anticipating Eddie’s new-found financial hardship. We were too young to get jobs and most of our neighbors were too poor to pay us to do chores, so when we wanted money, we had to tax our active imaginations.

Any financial advisor would tell you, if you can invest your money and enjoy an instant ten-fold return, you have stumbled upon a gold mine, and we did just that. Eddie figured out that if he used the coarse cement of the sidewalk as sandpaper, we could rub off the rim of a penny and the resulting coin would be very close to the same size and weight of a dime. That new copper-dime worked perfectly in the vending machines of the era. I bet we bought two-hundred cokes that way.

One of our other money-making enterprises was much bolder and way more successful. I hope God subscribes to the philosophy. “Boys will be boys” because we really need him to forgive us for this one.

There was a Mormon church within walking distance of our home. It had a great gymnasium and most nights there were basketball games played there. There were no lockers in the locker room, but there were hooks provided on which players hung their street clothes while they were busy playing their games. What a bonanza.

On selected nights, usually busy weekends, we took our basketball down to the gym, but not to play basketball. The ball was merely a tool for our scheme.
Once the players were preoccupied by the contest, I would serve as lookout outside the locker room bouncing the ball. Meanwhile Eddie would inspect the wallets in the pants hanging on the hooks. A quick inventory of our victim’s resources would tell us if he was poor like us, in which case we left his money alone: but, if he had a sufficient wad, we would accept “donations” of five or ten bucks.

If anyone approached, I simply bounced the basketball up against the locker room door and Eddie knew to cool it. It was a simple but brilliant plan that worked over and over again. Some nights we tapped several wallets and “found” twenty dollars or more to spend at the shopping center. Naturally, now I realize this entire money-generating scheme was sleazy, but at the time, we felt like Robinhood – stealing from the rich and giving to the poor – us.

The Fire Department had their hands full dealing with our misdeeds too. One time, the drought-like conditions of the summer made the field near Eddie’s home especially vulnerable to our not-so-harmless pranks. We took turns shooting lit matches at each other. After the target person dodged the little flying flame, naturally it would hit the ground. Then we allowed the weeds to catch fire and let the fire grow as big as we dared then put the fire out by any means necessary.

As you undoubtedly already know, one time we went too far and a raging weed fire ensued. Several fire trucks and about 20 firemen were called in. Several neighbors suspected we were to blame, but we never did get caught.

There are many other stories I could tell you about my brother Eddie and me, each one as mischievous as the ones I have mentioned here, but a quick overview of some of the ones that took place before we were old enough to drive should suffice to make the point. Some of them include drag racing a GTO; discovering our first girl friends; stealing coins from the fountains in downtown Denver; getting drunk; selling cigarettes door to door; sneaking out at night; street fights; girly magazines in the crawl space beneath his home; sneaking on the ski-train to Winter Park and into movie theaters; a Saturday that we walked to Red Rocks Park and hitchhiked home; stealing beer; spying on nudists; trampoline wars and many more.

So the logical question after all of this is, “What ever happened to Eddie?” Where did those trips down the alley eventually take him? Perhaps you supposed that he ended up in prison; or, maybe you thought he became a dog catcher or a fireman. But he is none of those things. He has devoted his entire adult life to providing for the neediest people in our society.

Eddie serves developmentally disabled people who lack the means to take care of themselves. He refers to his disabled friends as “clients.” He coordinates the maintenance and repair of their homes and an entire fleet of vehicles just to get them through their challenges with as much comfort and dignity as possible. Eddie has genuine compassion for these people because he can relate to them. Like them, he has overcome plenty of adversity. As far as I am concerned, his devotion to these people more than compensates for a few childhood pranks.

Even though there is a lot of dark gray in our past, neither Eddie nor I would trade our childhoods with anybody else. We learned some priceless lessons about life from those days. We learned a lot about each other; but more importantly we learned about true friendship.

My life-long friend goes by “Ed” these days, but I still think of him as Eddie. I don’t really care what I call him, just so long as he remains a big part of my life. In fact, I think I’ll go call him right now to see if he’d like to walk to the old shopping center via our special route. Perhaps we can even pee in the alley for old time’s sake. If so, I couldn’t have better company because as far as I am concerned, Eddie is my brother.

UPDATE: Eddie died in 1999 from lung cancer, and I still miss him.

What Really Matters?

Sometimes we get so absorbed in this day-to-day experiment called life, we accidentally forget what Really Matters. The grocery store runs out of an ad item or somebody cuts us off on the highway or we burn a birthday cake. But, do any of those things Really Matter?

This week, I had a couple of unexpected life-lessons that reminded me for the umteenth time what Really Matters. I am a bit disappointed in myself for needing reminders, but I guess I am no different than anybody else. We get so engrossed in the present moments we forget about the grander importance of the long term.

The last time I got the message was about a month ago when my step father passed away. That ended a certain branch on the family tree. A life-time of memories have been created but cannot be recaptured or modified. After his death, I realized “again” the type of things that Really Matter.

The time before that was 8 months earlier when my sister Carol lost a long battle with cancer.

I don’t know why it is so easy to temporarily forget those critical reminders and ooze back into our day-to-day lives, where we lend way too much importance to trivial things instead.

This week, I entered a speech contest and botched my speech…but does that Really Matter?

How many people do you suppose would love to trade their problems for mine? Wives of wounded soldiers, mothers of sick children, Fans of the Denver Broncos!

I spent a couple days trying to put that speech into perspective. It wasn’t overly difficult. I received at least ten kind and supportive emails. It was easy to see that people matter and botched speeches don’t.

Then, Monday evening I got another one of those “special” reminders.

About 6 weeks ago we took in a short-term addition to our home. Chyna ("China") is mostly Saint Bernard.

When you foster a dog, you don’t always know its background but Chyna brought several clues about her past with her. She is about 4 years old, house broken, well behaved. She walks well on a leash, she is a record-setting tail wager, she sits, lies down, shakes and goes to her bed on command. In spite of those great qualities, Chyna comes with baggage.

There are the usual things about Saints: their size, slobber and shedding, happy tails that clear the coffee table, train-loads of food and poop the size of footballs. But in Chyna’s case there was still another issue.

She must have come from a place where there was a lot of competition for food because she eats her dinner as fast as she can. She can wolf down a bowl full of Kibbles faster than a commercial grade garbage disposal.

Then there is this other issue. Somebody allowed her to get ridiculously obese. We have been walking her everyday and watching her diet. She has peeled off 8-10 pounds over six weeks. Even though she is regaining her girlish figure, she still weighs nearly 150 lbs and could stand to lose 20 more.

You have to wonder, why somebody would show so much attention to a dog and teach her all those wonderful tricks and then let her get so out of shape…and then abandon her…what were they thinking?

After Chyna’s Monday walk, I was on the computer trying to research some ways to slow down her eating habits and came across some information from a vet who said Chyna’s habit can be very dangerous. When dogs eat like that, they can take in way too much air and become bloated. If the bloating is not caught soon enough, their stomach can twist and that can easily lead to their death, usually within an hour.

A little later, after her dinner, she went outside like she always does. We watched her out the window for a minute and Chyna started acting silly. She was running around in circles and plopping on her belly, then getting back up again, then repeating the pattern.

Suddenly, my wife, who is a lifetime caregiver, realized Chyna was not playing…something was wrong. A quick examination revealed that Chyna had indeed bloated. Her stomach was huge and hard as a rock.

In an instant, my wife called the leader of the Rescue group with whom we work. Brent knew exactly what to do…Stop everything else and rush to the animal hospital. Chyna was at a crossroad.

Fortunately, Patty’s quick thinking, Brent’s knowledge and a $2500 medical procedure saved Chyna’s life. Nobody knows if she will bloat again but if she does the surgery assures her stomach will not twist and she will not die from it. A couple GasX pills can safely release the air in her stomach.

We picked up Chyna yesterday and she is on the road to recovery. In a couple days we will be able to take her for walks again. But when we do, we have to gather her leash and that sets her in a wild frenzy. No dog gets more excited about going for walks than Chyna does. All one-hundred and fifty pounds leaps up and down and whirls around as if she was auditioning for Dancing with the Stars and Considering what Chyna has been through, that my friends, is the kind of thing that Really Matters.

Smashin Compassion

I have been a little busy lately and unable to get back to this blog. I entered a humorous speech contest at my Toastmaster club and advanced farther than I expected. First there were tryouts at our own club. There are 20 members but only 3 wanted to give it a try. On the day of the tryouts, one of the ladies, was unable to make it. Therefore it was just me and Scott. I won and went on to the Area Meet which was a competition between six winners/survivors from 8 clubs. They broke us into two groups and I won again. That meant...on to the Division Meet...where I would compete with the top 6 winners/survivors from about 28 clubs. I got second and a small trophy. I lost to a lady who spoke about the wrinkles on her neck. We both had 'em laughing out loud for seven minutes. What a kick!!!

It is not easy to capture a speech in written form, because it is difficult to illustrate pauses, changes in pace, volume, pitch and body language. But I wrote it out the best I could. Here is the speech in written form. It is about my real-life problem trying to kill a mouse. Perhaps it will make you smile.

SMASHIN' COMPASSION

(Sing first two lines from Mighty Mouse Theme Song) “Here I come to save the day…my name is Mighty Mouse, I’m on the way”

Mighty Mouse was a popular cartoon character in the late 50’s to early 60’s

I actually met MM one time in a real-life situation, only he wasn’t wearing his cape.

It all started when there was some construction near our home and some field mice went looking for a new place to live. A couple of them found our home. When that happens, it’s Dastardly Dave’s responsibility to get rid of them

I set a few traps including one under the sink and just like that…Snap (loud clap) one of them went off

I went to the cabinet and there was a bunch of commotion in there.

We had indeed caught a mouse, but it was by the tail.

(fast) He was a running around in that cabinet trying to get away from that trap, but the faster he ran the faster the trap followed. Then he started jumping up and down trying to shake off the trap, but nothing worked

(normal pace)What would you do if you were in my situation? Would you want to reach in that cabinet and grab that trap, knowing full well that that mouse was going to get on your hand?

(Louder and faster) Well that idea gave me the HEEBIE JEEBIES… and I didn’t want any part of that!!!

(normal pace) I decided I would get a sledge hammer and (act like hitting it) in one good swing, the whole thing would be over.

Just then the fair damsel who lives in out house figured out what was going on and inquired

(High pitched) “What are you gonna do, Dastardly Dave?”

When I told her what I had in mind she replied, “Oh no, that would be too gruesome.”

(new voice, like a commentator) I learned years before that the fair damsel will even wash my socks if she gets her way sometimes…this was one of those times

I got a pair of pliers, instead of a sledge hammer. The new idea was to catch the back of that trap and make a little chain, the links bein…my hand, the pliers, the trap, and the mouse, hangin by his tail. Then take him to the toilet and DUNK HIS LITTLE HEAD UNDER WATER UNTIL HE DROWNS… kinda like Dairy Queen does with your ice cream cones

But I found out when that little mouse’s head goes underwater, HE’S NO ICE CREAM CONE…he has a mind of his own.. and he wants out ...(higher pitch and faster) and the only way out was right back up that trap…(higher pitch and faster) and then he was getting close to the pliers…(higher pitch and faster) and next woulda been my hand……(higher pitch and faster) and that gave me the HEEBIE JEEBIES…(higher pitch and faster) and I didn’t want any part of that! (Exhale) WHEW!!! I had to think of something else.

While I had the chain in tact and hangin over the toilet, and the mouse still dangling by his tail, I wondered if I could flush the stool and while the water was whirling around use a screwdriver to release the tension on the spring so the little mouse would drop in the middle of the water, and off he would go to mousey heaven.

I decided to give that a try, only to discover the spring was stronger than I anticipated and instead of releasing the spring and the mouse’s tail, the pliers lost the grip of the trap so the trap and the mouse, still attached, both hit the whirling water and they both went away and my problem was solved (long pause)…or so I thought.

Two days later when we flushed the stool, the water came up instead of down and it was spilling over the rim right away. At that very moment, I heard (Hum the tune, “Here I come to save the day…”)

It was the ghost of Mighty Mouse, and he was comin back to avenge his death and he was comin after Dastardly Dave.

You see, inside a toilet there is a little ridge and everything has to go up over that ridge before it enters the sewer line, but the mouse and that trap were stuck in that ridge.

I went and got a plunger (make wooshing sounds) I couldn’t get ‘em out

I unfolded a coat hanger and put a cute little hook on the end..,

(quickly) Shoved it in, pulled it out

Twisted that thing all about

Wouldn’t get a mouse out

I even went and got a plumber snake…you know, one of those cables you twist round and round and they go up in the sewer lines,,,some of them will even take out tree roots…but they wouldn’t get that mouse out.

2 ½ hours later, I was out of ideas and exhausted. The only thing left to do was disconnect the stool from the floor and wall and take it outside, on the front lawn, and lay it on its side and reach through the bottom and all that yucky stuff and see if I could get the mouse from the bottom

(act like holding something heavy) When a fellow is walking around on his front yard with a used toilet and then he starts messin’ with the innards…(pause)…it catches his neighbor’s attention. So it was. Tom came over and asked…(fold arms take new voice) “What you doing, Dave?”

Well, Tom already thought I was a nut

One time I was practicing fly fishing in my driveway and I got my fishing line caught in a tree. The more I tried to get it out, the worse it got…Now I have a reputation of bein the only fellow in our neighborhood who goes fishin where there is no water

Tom already thought I was a nut

Because I put up a $2,000 fence...to keep in a $25 dog…that doesn’t even like to go outside

Now I had to explain what I was doing playing around in the business end of a toilet

Before I could say a word, the strangest thing happened. I still can’t explain it to this day. That little mouse, still attached to the trap, dead, and all shriveled up from bein’ under water for two days…just slid out the bottom of that toilet. He landed right at our feet on the grass.

You can bet Tom saw it all.

I looked up at him, and (wide eyed) he was starin’ down at that mouse…(whirl fingers by temples) and processin the information, but I could read his face just as clear as a bell…he was wonderin’, “What in the world is my stupid neighbor up to now?”

I was trying to think of something clever to say, but just then (louder) Mighty Mouse saved the day. That little mouse lifted up his head and said…(long pause)…(look around the audience for about 5 seconds)

(commentator voice) You know somethin’? I’m pretty sure that there are at least a couple of you out there who realize that mouse didn’t really say anything…HE WAS DEAD!

(point finger around the room) But, what does that say about the rest of the people at Toasmasters?...Some of us are liars and we all look forward to it. WE’RE SICK!

This story ends two years later, when the fair Damsel and Dastardly Dave caught another mouse in a similar situation. It too was very much alive. Having learned their lesson from mistakes of the past, we just scooped it up into a coffee can, drove it up to the mountains and let it go…

But as we were getting into the car to return home I swear I heard (Hum MM tune) He must have been the son of Mighty Mouse because their family beat Dastardly Dave again. END

Well, that is it. it doesn't really translate to written form, but nobody will punish us for trying. See you again soon!

Old Blue

I bought Old Blue on eBay. It is a '94 Chevy pickup. I have an unnatural attraction to it. It has lots of miles on it, but it seems to want to keep going. I am the second owner and the 4th owner. You read it correctly – I have owned it twice.

The original owner was the State of Colorado. They put 108,000 miles on it. When they were done with it they turned it over to the prison system. Prisoners put it in decent running shape and then listed it on eBay. I paid $1,800 for it. Not bad considering it had air conditioning, auto transmission, V-6 engine and a good interior. Overall I thought it was a good system. They got to learn a trade; I got a good deal and the state got some money from an old asset.

Old Blue has helped me remove hundreds of trees from the forest and that alone paid for it. But it has done a lot more than that. It has also hauled many cords of firewood over the mountain, most of which was given to my elderly step-father or sold by my nephew.

After I used it for about 5 years, a friend needed a cheap vehicle. I sold it to her , mostly as a favor. She had to put a few dollars into it, but not a lot. Eventually she saved up enough money to buy something better so I bought Old Blue back,

This week, I put another $1,000 bucks in it and I think it will last another few years. I am not sure what happens next. There are two people showing interest in it. Time will tell.

What ever happens, Old Blue will probably limp along like the old friend it has always been

The Bomb

Have you ever named a vehicle? In 1966 I was at the end of my junior year of high-school. I bought a 1950 Plymouth. It was one of those big, bulky bubble-shaped cars that you see on the old black and white movies about gangsters. I was just 16 at the time and I had already ruined a 1955 Ford. It leaked oil and I didn’t watch it closely enough, so it died of dehydration.

I had been driving since I was 14 so when I suddenly found myself without wheels, after two years of relative independence, I went through freedom withdrawals.

About 6 weeks after killing the Ford, my dad stumbled upon a buddy who owned that ’50 Plymouth. Don was a scary-looking fat, bald-headed fellow (OMG, I have become Don) who had owned the car for quite some time. It was in fairly good shape. He only wanted $75 for it, but there was a problem. I didn’t have any money.

My dad told me that he talked Don into letting me pay him off at $5 per week. Dad went on to say, “Let me warn you. Don is one mean son-of-a-bitch, and if you don’t pay him he’ll just take your car away”.

YIPPEE!!! New wheels!!!

The Plymouth may have been a minor step backwards from the Ford, as far as I was concerned, but nobody else would have noticed the difference because both cars were essentially just clunkers. It had hints of its original dark-blue paint job, but there was just as much red primer paint showing through. Every time I washed it, which was only once or twice, more blue was replaced by even more red.

Anyway, with new wheels under my way-too-heavy teenaged lead-foot I raced (relatively speaking, considering it weighed about two tons, only had a 6-cylinder engine and was 17 years old) over to my girlfriend’s house. We were both happy to have a means to escape the piercing eyes of the old people. Susan climbed into the front seat and took up the position in the middle, right next to me. She instantly, affectionately and accurately named that Plymouth, ”The Bomb.” From that day on, it had its moniker.

As that summer progressed, The Bomb slipped further and further into disrepair. It had two very bald tires, but that was no problem. In those days all tires had inner-tubes, so I just waited until the tread got so thin that the inner-tube squirted out and popped. Then I scrambled to buy another old used tire and inner-tube.

One time I took several buddies to the mountains to go tubing (In those days we tied inner-tubes together). On the way back, Lee scraped his initials into the fuzzy fabric that made up the remainder of the headliner, then everybody else had to do it.

Before long, I took The Bomb 4-wheeling and was surprised how well it did. But I bounced off a tree, so the already-ugly body had a nice new dent in the right rear fender. About that time Ivan suggested I paint a bunch of witty one-liners on the outside, but I never did do that.

To make matters worse, I tried to make day-to-day repairs myself. That was a disaster because I was completely car-dumb in 1966 (It is hard to believe, but I was even worse than I am now). The windshield was in two parts, split by a vertical frame. Somehow, the driver’s side broke, so I just took out the glass from that side. That made for some fairly interesting experiences when it rained. Both rain drops and the windshield wiper flopped around on the dash board while my legs got soaked.

Eventually the radio went out, probably from a combination of bouncing around on jeep trails and drowning from all of the rain water. No self respecting teenager can function without music so I pulled the radio out of the dash and used the mountain-sized floor-hump as if it was an operating table. I had no idea what the heck I was doing so I performed the only radio surgery I knew, which was to jiggle the wires. Oddly, that worked for a while, so I put the radio back into the dash.

A couple days later, the radio went out again, so I knew I needed to adopt a wiser tactic. I removed the radio again and jiggled the wires until it worked, just like the previous time, only this time I didn’t bother to put the whole contraption back into the dash. Why bother? It might need fixed again. So, I just left it there on the hump, and told it, “You’re on your own.” Thereafter it did a fairly good balancing act, but once in a while it tried to venture into the peddle area.

Meanwhile Susan had to find a new place to dangle her long and skinny, teenaged legs.

Before you criticize me for not maintaining The Bomb, you should take into consideration the fact that I had no money. After all I never had time to look for a job because I was too busy terrorizing the mountain roads. So, through no fault of my own, I was on a very limited budget.

That fall we went back to school and right away they held the annual Sadie Hawkins Dance, in which the girls ask the guys to go with them. One of our class-mates was named Doug. He owned a very nice and well-repaired 1957 Chevy. For some reason, known only to God himself, Susan dumped me and asked Doug to go to the dance. Humph!!!.

That winter, I nurtured The Bomb along the best I could and found the heater to be a good friend, considering there was no windshield on the driver’s side. About that time Patty and I started to see each other.

In my quest to impress her, The Bomb and I took her up a dirt road and then headed strait up a VERY steep mountain-side that had a hint of a trail, which must have been made by a tractor. I just wanted to show her how high The Bomb could climb.

I made several runs at it, each time starting out farther back so I could get more speed and climb even higher. By about the third run, Patty had enough. She “acted” like she was scared by screaming and digging her fingernails into the seat, but I knew she was bluffing; so, when she insisted that I let her out, I went even faster.

Then, I hit a big bump and the trunk popped open, spilling everything, including the very bald spare tire that I had not bothered to fasten down – just like the radio. The tire was so anxious to escape it immediately stood up on its end and rolled right down that hill. It was so happy to get away it was jumping up and down as it rolled down the mountainside, eventually reaching speeds upwards of mock-two. I guess The Bomb really impressed Patty because she has been hanging around ever since.

As I reflect back, The Bomb was the most tolerant friend I have ever had. Now, I realize that I got away with a lot more than I should have. About the only thing I did correctly regarding The Bomb was make my 15 payments right on time, mostly because I feared a bald-headed dude named Don.

Many years later, I learned that my dad paid Don the full amount for The Bomb right up front and Don forwarded my payments back to my dad. Dads can be pretty cool sometimes.

Next time we can discuss "Old Blue".

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Saying Goodbye

I have come to the conclusion that my family does not understand what “Good Bye” means. My wife, for instance, must not have ever been taught that good-bye is what you say when you or somebody else is leaving. For her and others like her, good-bye is a process not a parting comment. A recent family gathering served up one of my favorite examples.

On that particular day, two of my sisters had come to town from Texas. Jeanine also brought the majority of her daughters (four of five). They were all hanging around at my aunt’s house with her and her daughter (my cousin), Genise. Patty and I went over to visit them. If you haven’t added it all up, that makes 9 females and me.

As usual, we had an enjoyable time talking about the good old days, and gossiping about people who were not there and other girly stuff like bugs, babies, recipes, wine types and home decorating. We did not discuss interesting topics like trucks, fishin’, stinky feet, football or peeing outdoors. Eventually, it was time to call it an evening.

“It” usually begins when somebody says something like, “We probably ought to be heading home.” That comment is usually met with some resistance like. “Ah gee, don’t go. We don’t get together very often.” Well, once one of the people is mentally leaving and the others are not yet done visiting, a fascinating conflict ensues.

The departing party does not want to be rude or appear like she is not enjoying herself, so she drops that matter for a while and engages in further conversation. However, the others know that the train has left the station so they wish to embrace any remaining moments together. They return to their corners, like boxers, for another half hour or so. And the conversation lives on like reruns.

The next phase is reached when someone stands up. The others follow suit and they resume the conversation for another ten minutes while standing in the exact same space that their feet were in when they were sitting down.

Eventually, someone leans toward the door and that is the point when they all realize the gathering really is winding down. About that time one of them visits the ladies’ room. The others put the conversation on hold and engage in a round of hugs. They say things like, “We have to get together more often.” When one comes back from the bathroom, another one takes her place.

Then, someone grabs the doorknob. That should end it all. Everybody has already peed, hugged and bid their farewells. But no, no, no! We still have a long way to go. They all line up, single file, and one by one they follow the leader out the door. Then the leader turns around and hugs somebody. Well, when she re-hugs one person she has to re-hug them all…again. Many others join in a new round.

We got to that stage the other day. I had already been in the front seat for about 10 minutes before my wife completed her rounds. Just when she was about to join me, my aunt asked her another question. Patty returned to the circle of hugs and a new round of discussions were under way.

By that time, I was giggling at the fact that none of them know what Good Bye means, so I thought I would see just how far they would take it. I decided to get out of the car and face my aunt with open arms. Naturally, she took the bait; and, a whole new round of affection was underway. With that event in motion, my giggles elevated to a genuine laugh. While they were wrapping up that round I was laughing so hard I could not stop. Then my cousin figured out what was going on and she started to laugh too. Then we had to explain it to everybody else and smiles consumed the group.

Patty finally got in the car. I have to admit that I had not been so entertained in quite some time and I have changed my mind, at least temporarily. If saying good-bye in their way can bring so much pleasure, it cannot be wrong.

With that, all that is left to say is good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye,

Hug Me

One of the fun things about a “Human Interest” blog is there are a broad range of topics to draw from. In my case, my large family has some interesting quirks. Hugging is right near the top of the list. That may because of the unusually high female population among the group.

I have been blessed with 6 sisters. Between them, they have had 12 daughters but only 4 sons (so far that is 18 girls to 4 boys). Patty’s core family is also loaded with girls, and so are our extended families. As you would expect, I am the oddball in this equation: I have 2 sons, no daughters.

With that many women around, you can bet there is some serious hugging going on. Women are trained for it. When they are little, they are taught to hug their dollies as well as their mommy and daddy and their siblings. Before long they are experts at hugging their immediate family and then their grandparents. From there. it spreads to other family members, their friends, their pets, other people’s babies, people at church, and eventually their spouses and then their own children, and the circle begins again. My wife even runs out to hug the mail man every day (not really).

Most men are willing participants in hug-a-thons, but they are generally less enthusiastic. My Uncle Johnnie was an exception, and so was my dear friend, Ed. He came from an Italian family where they are all hug-freaks. The men in their family even hug each other a lot. But for the rest of us fellows, I think we enjoy the “bumpers” that women bring to the embrace, as much as we enjoy the affection.

Nobody ever talks about it very much, but it is a bit weird when you hug a mom or a sister and their boobs get in the middle of it all. You don’t particularly think of them in a sexual way, but you can’t help but notice that your body is being nudged in odd places. The tall girls bump you in the chest, and the shorter ones poke you just below the rib cage. And then there are the short grandmas who have fallen victim to the long-term effects of gravity,…but, lets not even go there.

I can’t help but wonder how women secretly handle this boob-matter when they hug each other. I would expect that they try not to notice such things, but who do they think they are kidding? Women notice the smallest details about each other, right down to wedding rings, minor hair cuts and various facial expressions. They are masters at gathering information. No tidbit of information is too trivial to ignore. If they are that obsessed with the subtle and simple day-to-day things, it is hard to believe they don’t observe the mass of femininity that competes for the space in between hugs. Do the small breasted ones feel a sense of envy? Do the bigger ones kinda push each other around, like sumo wrestlers? I think I am gonna start watching their faces for telltale signals when I catch two women in the act of hugging.

There are certain situations that really lend themselves to hugging, especially among the feminine gender. Have you ever noticed the hug-fest that bonds them together at funerals and weddings, or when one of them has a baby? These are the types of events that draw out the best of their heart-felt hugs. The signals are clear. The affection flows by the bucketful. In those special moments, a simple genuine hug communicates more effectively than any words or anything else.

And then there are hug pats. Sometimes when people want to lend emphasis to their hugs, they pat the other person on the back. Other times the hug-patting sends a not-so-delicate signal that the patter is ready to terminate the hug. If you want to have fun with people like that hold your hugs an extra 10 seconds or so and watch how aggressive their patting becomes, then tell them what you are doing and tell them I put you up to it, You will both enjoy the moment.

So hugs are an important part of the American spirit. They say a lot, even though no words are spoken. Many of us start out our days with hugs and sneak a few in as the day moves along. They make us feel better. There is never a wrong time for a hug and some situations are custom-made for them…like when we say “Goodbye”.

More on that in the next article. Until then, keep hugging.

UPDATE: Our family has been blessed because one of my sisters had "another daughter" who has fallen out of the sky for us all to enjoy. Many, many years ago, Carol was forced to put Julie up for adoption, but we have been recently reunited. Guess what she told me today: "I give good hugs." It figures!

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Political Winds September

Have you seen the political poll numbers lately? The President’s numbers are poor at best and things look worse for congress. Most of the incumbents from both parties are keeping their fingers crossed. However, the Democrats in congress are doing much worse. At one time they claimed that 2010 would bring the Summer of Recovery, but the opposite has happened. On top of everything else, this week the unemployment numbers took another step backwards.

So in spite of the Democrats expectations, things just keep getting worse. Pollster has charts showing the average of all polls, and they indicated the downward trends are still gaining steam. RedState is gloating about the numbers and anxious to promote them. They are especially gleeful in their review of the voters over age 55, which is an enormous block.

The seniors have “rejected every key element of the Obama Administration’s programs” and usually by more than a 2-1 ratio. The one category that stuck out to me has to do with the President’s claims that his program will bring the deficit down. The old folks reject that argument by nearly TEN to ONE! Since they have all been around longer that Mr. Obama, you would think he would listen to them, but sometimes “there are none so deaf as those who refuse to hear”.

It seems to me that the President and his Democratic Congress have blown an incredible opportunity. All along, he has claimed that a big portion of his health care plan would be covered by eliminating waste in Medicare and Medicaid. Since runaway spending has always been the knock on their party, they had a chance to hit a homerun and probably secure the Whitehouse and Congress for another decade, or even longer.

All they had to do was put some teeth in the meat. If they had spent the first year of his Presidency finding the areas in those two bloated programs that they could actually fix (which should not be very difficult) and employ their reliable ally, the media, to brag about their progress, they would have built up priceless credibility. Since they control both houses and all of the committees, nobody could have stopped them.

Then, once they had the trust of the voters they should have submitted a bill that is not 2,400 pages and open it up for legitimate debate. By keeping everything above board they could have reversed all of the distrust the people had built up under the Bush Administration.

So, Obama and the Democratic congress could have separated themselves from Bush by being forthright and actually cutting spending, but instead they decided to differentiate themselves from Bush by making him look like a cheapskate. Can you say trillions?

A lot of citizens still like the President so he needs to use his political clout in a different way. For one thing he should do what he said before he was elected. He was a great orator who showed the ability to bridge political and racial divides, but he has not lived up to his claims. All he has to do is call a major press conference and announce he has had a change of heart. Then govern in a manner similar to how he campaigned.

If he does that he might even have a realistic chance at getting reelected in 2012, but if he remains steadfast, he may just hand the Republicans the Whitehouse for another 12-year run similar to the Reagan/Bush years. As it stands now, the Dems are poised to lose their majority in the House of Representatives plus enough seats in the Senate to render them impotent for the remainder of the President’ first term. Even Harry Reid, the Senate leader is trailing in his state’s polls. If they don’t reverse themselves quickly, I am afraid they have sealed their fate.

Email Etiquette

Email can be a lot of fun or a big pain in the you-know-what! Would you like to get more out of your email time? Any email you receive fits into one of the following 5 categories. Here is a good way to deal with them.


CUTE OR THOUGHT-PROVOKING –Many of us look forward to these.

When someone sends you a cute or thought-provoking email, it is tempting to forward it to all of your friends to show them you like to be connected to them, but do not be hasty.

As we will discuss in a later section, nobody likes “junk” email. If you send too many emails, none of them are “special.” Be selective about which items you forward. This way, your own interests become evident and your emails are something the recipient actually looks forward to.

It is not necessary to respond to all of these emails but if someone forwarded an email to you that you especially liked, be sure to tell them so. That gives you one more opportunity to “connect” with your real friends and it illustrates your tastes, thereby encouraging them to send you other similar items as they get them.

It is better to cut and paste the relevant part of the incoming email which you intend to forward, rather than forward the exact one you received. The person(s) before you probably don’t want you to send their email addresses all over the place, and their computers might have viruses which your recipient does not want.


PERSONAL – These are the very best emails. They are easy to recognize because they have special notes, unusual attachments or unique observations that are particularly relevant to you.

People who go the extra mile to send you a personal email consider you to be a lot more important than just “one of the gang.” They think you are somebody special.

In most cases, these are the emails which deserve the most of your time. We all invest large blocks of our time trying to be liked and finding new friends, but any adult knows there is no friend like an old friend. The best way to attract lots of old friends is to treat new friends well. Responding to each personal email is one great way to do that.

Have you ever had a family member who you also considered to be a friend? These are among the best relationships you will ever have. You should cherish their emails, just like you would a birthday present or a heart-felt hug. Be certain you respond to their emails in a timely manner, usually within 48 hours.

Some of our greatest pleasures in life come from personal emails that we exchange with Veterans, elderly relatives and pen pals. Be sure to include them in your email time.

Don’t send email which contains naughty articles or pictures of anybody. If your email gets forwarded into the wrong hands, you can be charged with lewd conduct or pornography-type crimes. If convicted of those crimes you may be forced to register as a sex offender for all the rest of your life. No short-term giggle is worth that.

JUNK EMAIL – We all get too many of these. Somehow we get on mailing lists which we don’t like.

Do not give out personal information to these people; especially your Social Security numbers, checking account or credit card information, birth date, home addresses, phone numbers etc. If the email “appears” to be from somebody you know about such as eBay or the Walt Disney Company, they do not ask for personal information this way. Instead log onto their web site and provide the information through there.

When you get this type of email, you should deal with it immediately. It is not enough to delete these items because many of them will continue to pester you. HOWEVER, REPONDING TO THEM CARRIES ITS OWN RISK.

Whenever you respond to email, the other party knows that the email address which they have for you is a correct one; and, bad people can then add your name to other lists. So, do not respond to these unless they are from somebody you know to be legitimate.

If the email is from somebody you know to be legitimate, they should provide an opportunity for you to “opt out” or “unsubscribe” from their mailing list. DO SO RIGHT AWAY! Otherwise, over time, your in-basket becomes so crowded with incoming mail it requires even more effort to wade through the mess. Once again, if their “Opt out” form requires you to provide your email address, caution should be exercised.

As sad as it is, you did not win a bazillion dollars or inherit a fortune from someone in an out-of-the-way country. If you really were entitled to such funds an attorney would send you a certified letter and you would have your own attorney respond. Other topics may be equally unwelcomed. Before you delete these emails, be sure to “block” the senders. Then you won’t have to look at their garbage again.

USEFUL – This includes exchanges you have with businesses, churches, schools, groups, officials and individuals with whom you have some sort of professional or established relationship.

There are numerous interpretations to the Golden Rule, but the basic precept applies very well: Always treat other people the way you would like to be treated.

Respond quickly. Use good manners (Please, thank you, you’re welcome).

Remain courteous, even if the other party has done something wrong. This is especially important if you are communicating with someone who is not the wrong-doer. For example, if you were billed for something you did not buy, the person on the other end of your email probably did not cause the problem. They are not the enemy. He/she is trying to help you. If you are nice to them they will want to help you.

If there is some sort of conflict, keep copies of invoices, order numbers and other pertinent communication until the transaction is completed to your satisfaction.

NOT SURE YET – Sometimes we get email that seems intriguing but we don’t immediately know what we want to do with it.

If you have been invited to an event or discover a product you find interesting, but you just aren’t sure what you want to do, mark your email as “unread” so that you will check it again soon. By then you may have a clearer picture of what you want to do.

If you are still undecided after a few days, this is probably one of those things that you find somewhat interesting but the timing is not right for you (otherwise you would have been more inclined to act on the matter.) It is usually better to purge this item or move it into a folder called “not now.” Check back occasionally and see if the matter is any clearer.


Email can be a lot of fun or an unnecessary burden. By implementing these rules you ought to be able to attend priorites, build relationships, avoid problems and use your time efficiently. Oh Yeah, there is one more thing….

PASS THIS ON; preferably, with a personal comment!

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Cinnamon Pancakes

When I was a kid there was a tasty munchy called cinnamon toothpicks. They were made from the oil of cinnamon bark. They were cool because they were so hot.

This week I decided I wanted to make some cinnamon pancakes using that same hot cinnamon oil. I could just use cinnamon extract or cinnamon syrup but that only addresses the basic flavor, not the spicy-hot accent that I want to capture. I also intend to add red food color to the pancake mix to add an eye-catching appearance that is consistent with the flavor. I may even add a few of those candy red-hots that we see on Valentine’s Day.

To get started, I headed down to the local grocery store and nearly fell over when I discovered that they wanted $38 for a bottle with 2 ounces of cinnamon oil. I turned them down and regrouped. Later in the day I found out that Walmart would order a one -ounce bottle for $7.50. That is still a bit pricey but I am gonna give it a try.

My friend, Bob, suggested I just mix some of the hot oil with Cinnamon syrup and that may end up being the best plan. Besides, if the pancakes themselves are so cinnamony, then what do I use for syrup? Perhaps whip-cream or honey.

Would cinnamon syrup on cinnamon pancakes be too much cinnamon? Don’t know, but I may be able to update this article after breakfast tomorrow.

Here is my Family Finances blog

One Man's Marriage

Not long ago, one of My Facebook buddies posted a touching story that was like a poorly wrapped Christmas present: The inside was pretty cool, but you had to overlook the packaging. There was a good story but the author lacked the skill-set to tell it in such a way that it fulfilled its potential.

I decided that it would be an interesting challenge to rewrite it. I required myself to capture exactly what the original writer wanted to say without adding or taking anything out of the story. All I wanted to do was inject punctuation, improve grammar, broaden the vocabulary, insert some adjectives and lend it some much needed structure. So this article is my first attempt at ghost writing, but in this case, I was self-appointed. See what you think.

ONE MAN’S MARRIAGE

When my wife served dinner, I gently stated, “I've got something to tell you.” She sat down and ate quietly.

I didn't know how to begin, but I had to let her know I wanted a divorce.

I raised the topic calmly and I observed the hurt in her eyes. Then, she softly asked me, “Why?”

I struggled to tell her I didn’t love her any more: that she had lost my heart to Jane, but I did the best I could. Naturally, she was saddened. She dropped her fork and left the room.

Later that night and with a deep sense of guilt, I wrote up a preliminary divorce agreement. I offered her our house, our car, and a 30% stake of my company. The next morning she read it and broke down and cried as she tore it into pieces.

I actually pitied her. The woman who had spent ten years of her life with me had become a stranger. I felt sorry for her wasted time, resources and energy, but I could not take back what I had said or felt. Besides, I loved Jane so dearly, there was no doubt in my mind. The idea of divorce, which had obsessed me for several months, seemed to be firmer and clearer than ever before.

The next day, I came back home very late, after an eventful day with Jane. My wife was writing something at the table, but I didn’t want to talk with her so I went straight to bed.

When I woke up, she was still sitting there at the table.

Then, she presented some of her own divorce conditions: She didn't want anything from me, but she did have two requirements:

First) She wanted to wait a full month before any official divorce proceedings would begin. During that month we were to both live as normal a life as possible. Her reason was simple: Our son had exams in a month's time and she didn't want to disrupt him with our broken marriage.
Second) She asked me to recall how I had carried her over the threshold on our wedding day. Then, she requested that every morning for the month's duration I carry her out of our bedroom to the front door in that same way.

I thought she was going crazy, but just to make our last days together bearable I accepted her odd request.

Later that day, I told Jane about my wife's divorce conditions. We both laughed loudly and thought it was absurd.

The next morning, when I woke up, I realized my wife and I hadn't had any body contact for several months. When I carried her to the door as agreed, we both felt awkward, but our son followed us and clapped his hands. “Daddy is holding mommy in his arms”, he cheered. His words brought me a sense of pain. My wife closed her eyes and said softly, “Please don't tell him about the divorce.” I nodded and put her down outside the door. Then I drove to the office.

The second day was easier. She leaned on my chest. I could smell the fragrance of her blouse. I realized that I hadn't looked at her carefully for a long time. I let myself glance at her and noticed that our marriage had taken its toll on her. There were a few fine wrinkles on her face, and her hair was graying just a bit. For a minute, I wondered what I had done to her. Once again, our son followed us, with enthusiasm.

On the fourth day, when I lifted her up, any resentment I harbored had vanished. I waited for our son to follow us to the door.

On the fifth and sixth day, I realized that our sense of intimacy was growing again and I wasn’t sure if I was going to tell Jane about my observations.

As the month slipped by, it became easier and easier to carry her. She seemed to be getting lighter, or perhaps I was getting stronger.

One morning, she tried on quite a few dresses but could not find a suitable one. Then she sighed, “All my dresses have grown bigger.”

I looked closer and realized that she had become rather thin and that was the reason why I could carry her more easily. Apparently the entire ordeal was wearing her down. Her much lighter weight made me sad. Subconsciously I reached out and touched her head.

Our son came in at the moment and said, “Daddy, it's time to carry mommy to the door.” To him, seeing his father carrying his mother had become an essential part of his morning. My wife gestured to our son to come closer and hugged him tightly.

I turned my face away because I was ashamed of what I was doing to two such fine people. I then picked up my wife and held her closely. Her fragile arms surrounded my neck softly and naturally. I held her body tight; it was just like our wedding day.

There was no doubt: I changed my mind.

On the last day, I drove past my office and went strait to Jane’s house. When she opened the door, I said to her, “I’m sorry, Jane, but I do not want the divorce anymore.”

She looked at me, astonished, and then touched my forehead. “Do you have a fever?” She said.

I brushed her hand off my head.

I went on “I’m Sorry, Jane, I was all wrong. My marriage was boring because I didn't value the details of our lives, not because we didn't love each other anymore.”

Jane seemed to suddenly wake up. She gave me a loud slap and burst into tears, and then slammed the door.

On my way home, I stopped at the floral shop and ordered a bouquet of flowers for my wife. The salesgirl asked me what to write on the card. I smiled and told her to say, “I want to carry you out every morning, until death do us part.”

As I was driving home, I was full of enthusiasm. Both my heart and my face were smiling. I grabbed the flowers and ran upstairs, only to discover that my wife….. had died in our bed.

As it turned out, she had been fighting CANCER for months and I was too busy with Jane to even notice. All along she knew that she was dying, but all that mattered to her was that we stayed together as a family for as long as possible. In the end, she made me appear to be a better man, in my son’s eyes, than I had ever done on my own.

And, I sincerely wish…there was some way…I could thank her.

The moral to this story is, “The small details of our lives are what really matter in any relationship. So take the time to do the little things that matter to others and appreciate the little things that others do for you.

“The rest will just fall into place."

Okay, that's the revised version. I thought it was a heart-felt story with an intereseting and conflicting message. The man loved his wife, but he was a scoundrel. Do you think he went back to Jane?

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