Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas

So, the calendar says its Christmas again and time for a blog even though we aren’t yet ready for all the Ho, Ho, Ho business except for the part about wishing you a Merry Christmas.

     The best news of the year for us is that our family continues to be blessed with good health. I have come to believe that the aches and pains of getting older is not so bad and may be a simple reminder of what could go wrong if things turned sour. So far, we have been spared major problems and we are thankful. One of the things Marjorie & I have taken on this year is a more serious approach to exercise. Although going to the gym takes a lot of time and energy, and some believe that grunting while looking silly in short pants is a little too much, after doing it for several months I’m used to it and I think it is good for us.

We are still talking about our big trip this year to South Africa that we enjoyed immensely (tell us if you want to see a few thousand pictures). Beyond that, we spent a lot of time camping and dancing. Our dancing took us to many venues, the most distant being our summertime trip to Oklahoma City for the National Square Dance Convention. It was a hoot. We also danced locally, and it continues to be a fun hobby that provokes friendships with those who are as silly as we are about do-se-do.

We are now into our 12^th year of retirement and living in our new house in the North Woods. Except the house isn’t new anymore. In fact, this year became the year for repair, replacement, and refurbishing with replacement of a water heater and a refurbishing our water system with a new water softener. We also decided to buy a new GM truck. It’s a humdinger – when the diesel engine runs it hums, and when I back too close to something, it goes ding, ding, ding. What won’t they think of next?

Here’s hoping that you and yours will enjoy the magic of the holiday season and find time to say hello to old friends. We’ll be thinking of you…..

Saving you money….

        You have to admire the chutzpah of some sellers. Especially during this period when the holidays are close at hand and retailers willing to stretch the truth in their efforts to separate you from your money are everywhere. A case in point is one of my favorite furniture stores. They advertise heavily on local TV - their tagline is always the same: “Savin’ you money at Curries.” Of course, what they really want is just the opposite and their tagline should be: Takin’ your money at Curries.”

I had forgotten this lesson when a personal letter to me arrived from my local automotive dealership. I bought a new truck this fall so my wallet is thinner than normal. Given that state of affairs, I was especially alert to the opportunity to avoid spending a few greenbacks. Accordingly, I was elated when I opened a letter from the dealer and out fell a booklet of coupons with facsimile U. S. currency: several 20’s, a couple 50’s and a single 100-dollar bill.

“Halellujah!” I blurted, reasoning that the dealer had selected me for such largess since I had made a major purchase there.

Standing with the letter in hand was such a Roscommon moment that I instantly decided to order that repair on my old car. It had something to do with the engine according to the lighted image on the instrument panel. Given my vast automotive experience, I knew the engine picture was not a good thing, but what with the wad of $20’s, $50’s and the $100 in my fist, who cared about the cost for repair at the dealership?

I should have been forewarned when the Service Manager explained about charges.

“You know, we get $89 dollars for an analysis of the problem causing the engine picture,” he said. I nodded with a knowing shrug, as I fingered the big book of coupons in my pocket.

“I’ll be in the waiting room while you fix the problem.” I ambled off toward the waiting room filled with overstuffed leather chairs, a television, internet ports, and a cute little popcorn station next to the free candy bars. I had no sooner finished my second candy bar when the Service Manager came to see me.

“We’re all finished. I have your bill.”

He pushed a five-page receipt toward me that seemed like a small book with several thousand entries. I wondered how they could create so many pages for a bill in a mere 20 minutes. I jumped to the bottom line, last page - $286. I pulled out my book of coupons, assuming the 20’s, 50’s and the single $100 would cover the entire cost.

“Ohhh,” he practically chortled. “You have the coupons.” His voice sounded ominous. “I’ll recalculate your costs and show you your savings.”

It was not a pretty picture. The Service Manager explained about percentages and adding and carrying the one, and the fine print in the coupon book. It turned out that my 20’s, 50’s and the single 100, weren’t really money and that the fine print in the coupon book said that only one bill could be used at any dealership visit and that the coupon could cover no more than 20% of the total bill. Whew! After tapping out a new bill with my coupon book in hand, the Service Manager said my new total was $240, after taxes, of course. He smiled as he handed me the bill.

Actually, the dealership repair bill was small potatoes compared to a more recent experience with my camping store. I own a 5^th wheel. This summer the wind blew harder than my awning could withstand causing a nasty tear in the corner, prompting the need for repair which the camping store said would require a total awning replacement. Such was the case when I again opened the mail to find a catalogue and letter informing of a nationwide sale on camping gear at certain camping stores including my very own, formerly favorite camping store. I practically tore the catalogue in pieces as I searched the pages for awnings. I found the awning we needed. On sale. An awning normally priced over $400 for a mere $269. And, here is the best part, INSTALLATION IS ONLY $29.

“Praise the Lord!” I said. I nearly stumbled in my haste to phone the camping store for my new awning.

“Just stop by to give us your credit card so we can order the awning,” she said.

“I have to pay first?”

“Yes, the cost for the awning is non-refundable and we need you to pay the total bill before we order the parts.”

“Including labor?”

“Including labor,” she said, as she went on to explain in the same voice I used to hear when I was three years old.

I didn’t like it, but I wanted to save money, so I stopped at the camping store with credit card in hand to pay for something that I wouldn’t get until a clerk somewhere decided to punch a few keys on his computer instead of looking at dirty pictures on the internet. The camping store Service Manager spent several minutes tapping keys on her computer. Finally, the printer began to whir and pages started tumbling out as if she was authoring a short story while I waited to pay my bill. After she had collected a dozen pages, she said she needed my credit card as she turned the last page toward me showing the bottom line - $439.

I was ready. I pulled out my catalog and opened it to the awning page.

“I have this catalog showing the sale, and…..” She interrupted as if she was calling the three year-old class to attention.

“I included all that. The ad doesn’t include all the costs. Here.”

It was a command to look at the beginning of the dozen pages detailing all the charges. I looked at where her finger pointed. The first line was the beginning of a downhill cascade that took my money faster than a snow sled on a bobsled run.

“Shipping is $95. The ad doesn’t include shipping. Unless you have some of way of getting the awning from Indiana.”

I nodded off into a trance that occurs whenever someone begins robbing me. She took my bobbing head as an affirmation of her skills in teaching children about high finance.

“Then you have a $44 labor cost for removal of the old awning – you want it removed so we can install the new one, don’t you?” My head began shaking uncontrollably.

She rambled on for several minutes about shop supplies, state taxes, and other fees required for shop work and setting up an appointment. I had to admit - this woman had cochonnes: she wrapped up her pitch and then had the audacity to tell me that I had saved $100.

 

Next week the store will install my new awning.

 

The camping store and their marketing made General Motors and my local dealership seem like neophytes in the business of bringing gullible customers like me to their store. Once there, we three year-olds are no match for accomplished Service Managers who make chicanery seem honest, an experience, it seems to me, that is strangely similar to my one-time visit in watching cows ambling forward, head-to-tail, as they slowly entered the slaughter house.

Cool Clear Water

The lyrics of that old cowboy song came to mind today as I finished paying the plumber who installed our new water heater. It was the second major expenditure involving water treatment for my household in the last two weeks. The first was even more costly, the installation of a water softener to remove the rocks and rust from our well water. The combined cost of the two treatment systems totaled about the same amount as did the entire plumbing system installed in our then-new house nearly 11 years ago. My, how times have changed.

                   

I don’t want to be seen as complaining about our water even though I am. I am fortunate to live in an area where the water table is only a few feet deep, 12 to be exact, according to the well driller who installed our well. Sadly, he didn’t stop drilling at that depth. He mumbled something about water quality and Health Department regulations and happily continued drilling for another three days until he had passed through two layers of clay and reached the deepest part of my wallet. I well remember that day when he proudly announced that my well was complete and folded up his drilling rig as I shook out the few remaining bills in my wallet.

 

I have since learned that deep wells like mine that pull water from the bedrock under our sandy soil are more likely to contain dissolved rocks and soluble iron than shallow wells. “Hard water,” the man who tested our water said before he showed me the actual test data. The chart showed he was wrong, it was actually listed as ‘extremely hard’. I soon came to learn that the difference between hard and extremely hard was several hundred dollars in treatment costs. As I contemplated the unexpected thrust into my budget, I looked longingly at my pond and swamp that contains only soft water, flowing in great quantities into my soil and into the river for the enjoyment of fish, muskrats, beaver, and, of course, those several million bugs. Why is it that the Health Dept. says the bugs get better water than me?

 

The Health Dept. had told me earlier that I was required to plug my old shallow well that had furnished water for my cottage before the new well. “Its for safety,” they said, as they handed over the list of regulations that forbade a shallow well and the required plugging of same. I learned the rest of the story sometime later when I attended a conference that included a presentation by a water quality expert. She explained that the regulation about plugging old wells stems from the important requirement that our local aquifers remain clean and free of pollutants. Of course, I thought. Then she told the rest of the story; over time, officals have learned that many homeowners use abandoned well holes as their private disposal site for any oils or chemicals they no longer want around their homes, thus potenially polluting underground water sources for miles around the offender. Yikes! No wonder we need regulations.

 

Now I have softened water and a smoothly functioning water heater that doesn’t go HURRRMPPP in the night, as it complains about build-up of lime on its walls and threatens to explode. Now I have cool, clear water that is gently warmed by our new heater that may work at least as long as the last one without going bump in the night.

 

Of course, not everything is rosy. The new softened water doesn’t taste as good as my old well water, nor do cooked foods seem the same. Even our morning coffee seems rather blasé compared to the old. Taking a shower is a more of a challenge as everything seems slippery. These differences are all temporary according to the softener salesman who said all these things will pass over time and we’ll end up liking water without rocks in it better than the old stuff. Besides, it seems to me it is the right of every God-fearing American to have a cocktail in the evening without ‘floaties’ swimming in the drink like we used to get from our well water ice cubes.

 

I hope he is right. He was a good salesman and a fine American. In fact, as he left our house with our check in hand  I heard him singing:

 

“Keep a-movin' Dan,
don't you listen to him Dan,
He's a devil not a man
and he spreads the burning sand with water,
Dan can you see that big, green tree
where the water's running free
and it's waiting there for you and me,
water, cool, clear, water”

A Public Service Blog

This blog is offered as a public service for men who are not skilled in the kitchen. You need to read this if you are one of those men who, like me, don’t know the difference between ‘sauté’ and ‘watch out, I think it’s gonna blow.” I believe I am qualified to offer this advice since I just survived three days of “batching it” with no one to cook and serve my meals EXCEPT ME. The cause of my deprivation was that the Mrs. spent three days away from home, provoking my enforced servitude in fending for myself. Fortunately, she had left a fridge full of leftovers and fixin’s for sandwiches so that the first two days went by in a flash and I was neither hungry nor desperate enough to actually cook something. By day three, the supply of left-overs had become dangerously diminished. At dinner-time, it was clear that if I was to survive one more day I would need to cook something.

I began my kitchen adventure in the only logical fashion for a man of my caliber in the kitchen: I poured myself a drink. Things went downhill from there. As the effects of the drink began to wear off, I donned an apron and began my search for something edible in our kitchen. After consulting the pantry unsuccessfully, I rummaged around in our freezer and, wonder of wonders, found dinner. As I gingerly fondled the bright orange package, a dim recollection of instructions passed thru my mind: “and there is a frozen dinner in the freezer that you can heat for your dinner” seemed to ring a bell. I greedily took out the package and looked at the backside of the gaily-decorated ‘Gourmet Blend’ of frozen food. It should have been a warning sign.

My experience had been that instructions on the back of a package are a warning of bad things to come. And now, here is the pivotal advice to men: Don’t believe what is written on the back of frozen food packages.

I’ll illustrate this with the continuation of my story. Unlike my normal practice, I decided to read the instructions on my gourmet chicken dinner package in their entirety, including the bold type at the end, READY TO EAT IN 11 MINUTES.

“Ah-ha, a gourmet chicken and rice dinner ready in eleven minutes. And it has vegetables in the rice with a gourmet sauce. What could be better.”

I was so pleased with my good fortune in finding the frozen dinner that I decided to have another glass of wine. Thus emboldened, I began to cook by following the instructions. The first step was easy enough, “Thaw contents in hot water. Do not microwave.”

I put hot water in a bowl and placed the individual frozen food packages containing the chicken, the rice and sauce into the hot water. The small and pliable package containing the chicken floated in the water but the big package of rice went “plop” into the bowl like a giant ice cube. The package containing the brown sauce was also hard enough to be mistaken for a frozen turd. Undeterred, I tossed it into the bowl of water and went on to step two, “Saute chicken from pouch in a preheated skillet with one tablespoon oil on med-high heat.”

Ever mindful of the written instructions and the “READY TO EAT IN ELEVEN MINUTES,” I decided to begin my saute (ing?). I cut open the chicken package and dumped the contents into the hot pan. Whoosh! The hot skillet with its big tablespoon of oil just beginning to sizzle didn’t seem to appreciate the sudden infusion of cold water that was included in the bag of chicken. As the chicken fell into the pan, the hot oil and boiling water came jumping out, providing a continuous mist of hot oil on the surface of the stove and the floor. Whoa, this wasn’t quite what I had bargained on. I almost spilled my wine as I rushed to lift the pan from the stove hoping to prevent my chicken from hopping out of the pan along with the popping oil. For my efforts, I was rewarded with an oil-coated shirtsleeve and little drops of oil floating in my wine.

After the pan cooled, I decided that someone had made a small error with the instructions. I turned the heat down until the violence of the popping oil subsided enough so that the oil only had enough energy to jump to the stove, but not to reach the floor or my shirtsleeve. Now, I reasoned, I’ll probably fail to have dinner READY IN ELEVEN MINUTES, but better to be safe in the matter of hot oil.

I considered step three, “add the rice and vegetables to the pan and cover.” I lifted the rice package from the water. Through the clear plastic I could see it was still a large lump of frozen rice with an occasional green bean sticking out like a stick in a snowball. “Ummmm. This requires more drastic action than floating in a bowl of water drawn from the tap. I filled the tea kettle and put it on to boil. In eleven minutes the tea kettle was shesssssshing with steam. I poured the boiling water on the frozen ball of rice and the brown turd forgetting for a moment the hazardous nature of molten plastic in one’s diet. There. The turd seemed to move in the plastic bag. All the boiling water was gone so I refilled the tea kettle and set it back on the stove to boil more water.

It occurred to me that my chicken had been simmering for more than 20 minutes what with the hot oil clean-up and tea kettle business so I decided to complete step two even though the rice was now a small snowball with bits of green and yellow chunks moving about freely in the bag. I dumped the whole mess in the pan, covered it with a lid that I had found earlier and concentrated on melting the turd.   

After another eleven minutes, the turd melted. With great ceremony, I cut the bag and added the brown mass to the skittle. The chicken had dried to a little white strings bobbing about in the overwhelming glob of white rice dotted with green beans, pale orange carrots and little yellow chunks that I later learned were supposed to be egg bits.

Step 4, “ cook on medium low for 5-7 minutes and stir.”  I stirred and then tasted. The rice was still frozen. The last line of the instructions had an ominous note, “Product must be cooked to an internal temperature of 165°F, determined by using a food thermometer.” I quickly decided that at this stage of my life I wasn’t going to stoop to the use of a ‘food thermometer’ when I had a particularly serviceable tongue. Besides, I didn’t know if we owned such a device nor where one might be located in our kitchen that is full of mysterious tools. I replaced the cover and turned up the heat, hoping to someday melt all the rice.

Some hours later I sat down to my very own rice and chicken dinner. It wasn’t too bad, and the preparation was OK, although I thought the cooking instructions needed work, especially the part about READY TO EAT IN ELEVEN MINUTES.

 

So men, here is the advice that should be posted somewhere in your man-cave: if you find yourself ‘batching it’ and eating becomes essential, I suggest going to the nearest fast-food restaurant and never, ever believe what is written on the backside of food packages.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Keep the Home Fires Burning

 

I like burning wood. It seems there is nothing better than sitting in front of a roaring fire on a cold winter’s evening, cocktail in hand, warm apple pie in the oven and a good book nearby. (You know I’m dreaming, right?) The reality is more about lugging in firewood, shoveling out ashes, cleaning the chimney, and grumbling when a stove full of firewood won’t ignite even after burning a weeks’ supply of kindling.

None of that is new to me since I’ve had two wood-burning stoves and one fireplace in the three homes that I have owned. My latest wood-burner is the best as it is most attractive, least polluting, and yields lots of heat at a reasonable cost for firewood. It was the idea of reducing heating costs that convinced me to make our current house design accomodate a centrally located, freestanding wood burner. I never considered that cutting, spitting, stacking and carrying firewood to the burner would be a dirty job and a lot of work. I only thought about the savings in expensive propane.

Propane, you may know, is the fuel of choice for those of us who live in areas that are remote from natural gas facilities or natural gas pipelines. Despite its relatively high cost, it offers the convenience of providing clean energy that can easily be piped to the basement, kitchen, or wherever a small pipe can be routed to a burner. Since using a fair share of the gas, I have learned more about why it is so expensive; it is because a greedy group of speculators determine propane price by regularly wagering on how much they can get away with charging for future supplies. That’s not the answer you’ll get if you ask an official in the industry, however. They blame propane price increases on the price of other fuels, assuming that you’ll believe energy users will readily switch from one fuel to another whenever the price becomes attractive. Ha – would that it were so easy!

Anyway, that brings me to this summer when I looked over my woodpile and determined that my supply of firewood would be inadequate for the expected cold.

“Time for another load,” I said as I dialed the local purveyor who augments his income from the Road Commission by delivering firewood in a huge truck that has someone else’s name on it.

“Sure,” he said, “although there has been a small increase in price caused by the rising cost of propane.”

I was unable to answer for a moment until I finally mumbled something about just bringing me my (%&--/+*ed) load of firewood.

So, here I am, in front of my load of firewood, faced with the task of cutting, splitting and then stacking 10 cords of oak before it dries out so thoroughly that splitting it becomes more of a nightmare than it already is. It would have been much easier to split if I had ordered the wood just before winter and allowed the below-freezing temperatures to freeze and expand the moisture in the wood making it much easier to split. But no, I had to wait until my wood supply was so low that more firewood was needed for THIS WINTER, making certain that hot weather splitting is required, a more daunting task.

I began working on my firewood a couple weeks ago. After the first time, I had a sore back, dirty clothes and sawdust in my boots that somehow ended up on my bathroom floor. After several days to recover, I took a second lick at the woodpile that seemed exactly the same size as before my first encounter with the dastardly load. The second work period lasted only about an hour before I conceded defeat and went inside. This time, having learned about the sawdust in the boots, I stood in front of the air compressor to blow off dust before going inside to shower. It helped. There was so little sawdust in the bathroom this time that I was able to hide most under the rug.

I am now on the fourth work session and the woodpile has seemed to grow in size instead of diminish. Since I have been spending all that time bent over a chain saw and lifting a splitting maul, I have had more time to think about important things. For one thing, I have calculated that burning firewood really does save lots of money if you are willing to work for somewhere around 17¢ per hour. I have also learned that it is impossible to avoid bringing sawdust into the house, that a sore back is inevitable, and that you really do get warm twice when using firewood. Ain’t it grand!

 

*By the way, Keep the Home Fires Burning, was a patriotic song written in Great Britain on the eve of World War I to encourage young men to join the war effort. I understand that most men responded to the ditty and enlisted for the war in order to avoid the work of getting their woodpiles cut and split for winter. 

The Race

People in the north woods where I live seem to do silly things more often than other folks. Our celebrated annual canoe race comes to mind since it just occurred and I am a big fan. Each year on the last weekend in July, a bunch of endurance athletes with weak minds gather in Grayling, Michigan at 9:00 PM and plop their canoes in the main branch of the Au Sable River for a nighttime race that lasts more than 15 hours for most competitors.

 

    ‘Plop’ is probably the wrong word. The first hint that our canoe racers have weak minds is demonstrated at the beginning of the race. At 900 PM, just as the sun is fading in the west, some fool shoots off a cannon and 150 paddlers pick up their canoes and begin running toward the river, a block or two distant. As the surging mass of paddlers with shouldered boats reach the river, pandemonium erupts when 75 canoes are thrown into a small stream and 150 racers, each determined to be first, try to climb into their slender crafts that are being carried forward on the current. Of course, some don’t make it on the first try and half a dozen boats will upset with the unlucky ones taking an early bath. It doesn’t faze them. They turn their boats upright, drain the water, and again try climbing in while those who were lucky enough to avoid the plunge take the lead in the beginning of the long race.

 

 Start of the 2013 Au Sable River Marathon

 

    The race is dubbed a marathon because it is so long. The paddlers squeeze themselves into their slender boats and begin paddling a route that takes them from Grayling, Michigan in the center of the state to Oscoda on the east coast where the river empties into Lake Huron. They say the race is 120 miles long, although no one knows for sure since there is no way to accurately measure the distance of a river that contains five large ponds and winds around scores of islands, not to mention the several hundred bends that the river takes on its generally easterly flow. The racers paddle 15 to 20 hours to reach the finish line with the fastest boats arriving around noon on Sunday morning. The race ends at 4:00 PM on Sunday when everyone is forced to stop wherever they happen to be on the race course when race officials pick up the sick and hurt who remain somewhere on the backwaters, dutifully paddling toward the finish line.

 

    Persistence, determination and a wanton disregard for pain are hallmarks for paddlers who compete and finish this race. (Most first-time racers are unable to finish). In my view, it takes an extraordinary mindset to spend a year of hard training, thousands of dollars for a racing canoe, (one that is so unstable that normal people refuse to ride in one), in order to spend a long, cold night in the dark paddling 60 stokes a minute. The paddlers in the winning boat receive the first place prize of $5,000 and the total of all prizes is $50,000 for the 150 racers making this race the richest canoe race in North America. But, the draw is not the money. The allure of this race, like others in Canada and the U.S. is the challenge of long distance paddling, a sport that began during the times when canoes were the principal means of transportation for Native Americans in the North Woods.

Carbon Fiber Racing Canoe with Headlight

 

      As the race proceeds, boats begin to space out along the course. The result is that many paddling teams spend most of the race alone, not seeing who is ahead nor who is behind. The solitude, darkness and required relentless pace take their toll on the racers but add mystique to the race for spectators. Spectators stand on a bridge in the dark with a spotlight focusing its garish beam on rippling river while thousands of dark-colored insects intersect the light’s beam. Suddenly, there is a flash of color as a dark canoe with two sweating bodies appears from the mist, each person paddling as if chased by wild Indians. They are gone in an instant and you wait for the next to appear in another flash so you can cheer them on and encourage their forbearance. It is an experience not soon forgotten.

     The kind of effort needed for this race requires shore support: paddlers eat and drink many times during the race, being handed food and drink by their ‘feeders’ who stand in knee deep water to hand supplies to them as they pass by. The best paddlers don’t stop paddling to eat or drink; they paddle with one hand while inhaling a sandwich and energy drink. Most drink gallons of liquid during the race and none stop to expel any. Losing a dozen pounds or more during the race is common and the first aid tent at the end of the race is always busy treating cases of dehydration and exhaustion.

Paddlers are Introduced During Pre-race Ceremony

 

The race is also hard on spectators. Marjorie and I arrive at the start several hours in advance to claim a seat on the riverbank. After the two-minute pandemonium of a start, the racers disappear around the first bend of the river. Spectators who wish to follow the race must now run to their vehicles and endure a traffic jam as they travel to the first of several bridges that cross the river. Since the race takes all night, spectators must travel from bridge to bridge for a fleeting glimpse of the boats as they pass under the concrete structure of a bridge and then disappear into the night. The boats don’t reappear in daylight until the following morning on the first of the five large ponds where the rising sun illuminates the sparkling perspiration on the paddler’s faces. They reach the first of five portages. Rules forbid any help from their support team; paddlers lift their boats from the water and force their cramped muscles to climb over the dam to the outflowing river, resetting the boats to begin paddling again. Those who can go no farther generally quit at one of the portages and recess to the waiting support team members.

 

     The race is a cruel event: exhilarating for the winners but exhausting for all and crushing for those who fail to complete the course in the required time. Yet the race goes on year after year. Being weak-minded helps participants forget the hardships of the race and so most racers sign up year after year for the competition. It is a hard event for the spectators as well with long periods of nighttime cold interrupted by short periods of excitement with depressingly brief glimpses of racers as they pass in the night - sort of like life, a bust for a some but a real treat for those of us simple-minded folk who forget the hard parts.

     

For more photos and video, see the web page http://www.ausablecanoemarathon.org/

 





 

 

A National Convention for Square Dancing?

 

We just spent a long weekend (Wednesday thru Sunday) on a trip to Oklahoma City for the 2013 National Square Dance Convention. The trip was an adventure: one flight three hours late, one flight missed and another cancelled provoked an unexpected overnight stay in Chicago. Arriving a day late, the adventure continued when we stepped off the airplane in Oklahoma City and sucked in 102 °F air. We put our Michigan sweaters away and bought another tube of deodorant.

Even after that adventuresome beginning, we found both Oklahoma City and the 2013 Convention a hoot. The Square Dance Convention was held in the city’s Cox Convention Center which is adjacent to Bricktown – an updated old warehouse district that had gone to ruin. The old warehouses have been converted into trendy nightspots with an array of eating and drinking establishments including the only quadricycle bar I’ve ever seen. The wheeled bar sat outside its parent tavern, apparently for those who got thirsty just thinking about leaving the downtown scene.

The quadricycle bar was a wheeled contraption with two opposing bars and the bartender in between. Patrons sat on bicycle saddles with their feet resting on pedals. After assuring that all had their drinks, the bartender suddenly announced, READY?... PEDAL. The drinkers began madly pedaling away while the bartender manned a steering wheel. The ungainly behemoth of a bar on wheels began slowing moving from the curb as the bartender steered it into a gap in oncoming traffic. It was a noisy undertaking, with the sounds of traffic muted by the hoots  and hollering from the woozy, wobbling drinkers. I was surprised at how long it took us to get to the dance from the tavern.

The dancing was a treat. Imagine an arena, a half dozen large halls and scores of smaller rooms full of gaily dressed dancers. No suits or ties here; boots and bolos, flashy shirts and skirts are the rule with only a few dressed in Sunday-go-to-meetin’ cowboy attire without something shiny. The rooms were awash in moving colors as the dancers constantly sashayed to mostly country music that escaped each room and mingled in the hallways.

Throughout the convention, dancing began each day at 10:00 AM and continued to midnight. The rooms were full of weaving, bobbing bodies as the women whirled and the men bucked to the beat, hats askew, shirtsleeves rolled up and perspiration flowing. Most of the rooms were devoted to square dancing although an impressive number of large rooms housed ballroom dancers, better known in the square dance world as round dancers. Their clothing reflected their dance style, from Latin to formal. One couple performing an elaborate waltz were formally dressed with the gent in tails and white gloves. A few rooms were devoted to contra dancing; that old formal dance where men and women line up to face each other recalling the practice of John Wayne in a cowboy movie dancing in a military uniform.

The arena housed the largest number of square dancers directed by the best callers and headed by a five piece band, The Ghost Riders. Dancing here was conducted in approximate five minute intervals; after each song the caller would retire and they would run in a new one to see if he could do any better. Some of the callers were really good singers. I especially liked the two or three who interrupted their singing with brief outbreaks of yodeling, a literal hoot. Among the most interesting callers were those Japanese who traveled from across the world to perform. An American country song sung with a Japanese accent by a slender Asian wearing a cowboy hat and jeans is something to behold. We enjoyed all the callers and live music and we spent some time watching the several hundred dancers surrounded by those of us watchers forced to the edge of the floor by exhaustion.

Even the chartered bus rides to and from the convention center were amusing. After three days the twice daily trip became so familiar that we concocted names for the bumps and dips in the road. By day three, the entire busload was in unison when flying over a bump. “Wheee,” we called out. We simple-minded folk know how to make a bus ride entertaining.

The dancing, singing, drinking and eating (did I mention bicycling) over three days did take a toll on some of us. I suspect there was a significant national upsurge in sales of Aleve and Pepto Bismal during the event. Although I taped my ankles each morning before the bus ride, I suspect it will be several days before I’m able to venture onto a dance floor again. Yahoooo!

Buzzards in Roscommon

 
At the very edge of our little village, on a slight rise, sits the village water tower. It overlooks a large field, the road, and then a grove of trees on the far side of the road. As befitting today’s technology, the top of the tower is adorned with any number of contrivances said to enable wireless communications. The top of the tower would look ugly and cluttered were it not for the regular visits of our town’s most striking avian guests, a venue of buzzards. [Venue – group of buzzards, as in a herd of cows]. The venue takes full advantage of the top of the tower as they rest on the assorted antenna and no doubt contribute their droppings to the array of electronic signals that are managed by the tower hardware. If you happen to receive an e-mail that seems full of it, my buzzards may be the reason.
 

    The buzzards are more properly known as Turkey Vultures – the most common vulture in North America but not the most beautiful bird you’ve ever seen if you come upon one as he feasts on rotting flesh. Even a close-up doesn’t improve his appearance as you can see,

although his red head (not shown in color here) may add a bit of drama for some bird lovers.

  

    But don’t judge the bird’s appearance up close, reserve judgment until you identify them on the wing. They are among the most beautiful of all birds as they soar overhead. Their graceful flight is almost effortless after they extend their wings and float on rising thermals. You can easily identify a turkey vulture by his graceful swirls in the air and his penchant for frequently tipping his wings in a seemingly drunken fashion to catch more air. Suddenly, sunlight catches his grey underside, turning it silver, and he becomes a flashing beauty, a majestic creature that can defy gravity.

 

 

     For me, the arrival of Turkey Vultures in spring heralds a pleasant escape from the rigors of winter. They appear to grace our countryside alongside the earliest arriving birds – about the same time as red-winged blackbirds and robins make their appearance, generally in mid-April. I’m always so pleased when they arrive I have a small celebration: one that centers on retrieving and then storing my assortment of snow shovels and moving the snowblower to the darkest, most distant corner of the barn in hopes that I won’t notice it for another six months. Of course, my celebration is nothing like that of Cleveland, Ohio where the entire town is invited to Hinckley Metroparks on March 15 to witness the arrival of the first vultures.

 

    The Hinckley Naturalist, a man by the name of Bob Hinkle, is the official buzzard spotter and he sounds the alarm when the first arrivals come to poop from their roosts on the edge of Hinckley Ridge. No one knows for sure why the vultures come to Hinckley, some old timers say they first arrived to feed on a dead Indian squaw who was left hanging on the ridge after being executed for witchcraft. Apparently she was tasty and so the birds kept coming back in hopes of finding more. That sounds fishy to me, although I did read somewhere that dead fish are the favorite foods for vultures.

 
     A typical adult turkey vulture is a big bird, averaging 30 inches in length, with a six-foot wingspread. But here is the kicker – an adult weighs in at only 2.2 pounds. 2.2 pounds! I did a quick calculation; even considering my superior brain mass, if I had the same physiology as a buzzard I should weigh no more than 17 pounds. Whoa! Back to the gym for me.
 
     We have about a dozen vultures that come yearly to the water tower. They leave our village every morning looking for food. They generally soar over open areas, watching for dead animals or other scavengers at work. I have seen them all around the county, several miles from the water tower. Unlike most other birds, in addition to eyesight, Turkey Vultures use their sense of smell to locate dead things. When they are in range of something dead, they fly low to the ground to pick up the scent of mercaptan, a gas produced by the beginnings of decay. As result of their superior ability in smelling, they can find dead animals below a forest canopy.
 
    But here is the best part; our buzzards return to the antennas on the top of water tower every evening to roost and talk over the day’s events. I like to think they are having cocktails before bedtime while they regale each other with stories about the big dead fish they found or the worst smelling skunk they managed to eat along the roadside. As the sun begins to set and shadows grow long, one by one, each of the big birds gently lifts himself from the tower with wings extended and circles a time or two to gain altitude showing off his beautiful underside. He then floats over the field, over the road and on toward the distant trees to disappear into the night without a single flap of his wings. A pretty good living, I think.

Wine Tasting

The Mrs. and I spent last weekend on Michigan’s Mission Peninsula. For those of you uncertain of northern Michigan geography trivia, the peninsula is the center (land) arm of a large W while the two wings of the W are the waters of Lake Michigan. A mile or so wide, this peninsula offers panoramic views of two unsalted blue oceans that can be seen simultaneously at some elevated spots. The region enjoys milder weather than most 45-degree latitude places in the world and has long been known as the center of Michigan’s cherry-growing region.

                The reason for our visit was a chance to mooch off friends who happen to own a lovely home situated on the northern tip of the peninsula. The specific occasion was the region’s annual Blossom Day (more about this later). The Blossom Day, we learned later, is on Saturday while on Sunday, local clerics head up an event known as The Blessing of the Blossoms.

                Blossom Day is a big deal that requires months of planning and coordination by a number of businesses on the peninsula. This year they hit it just right. On Saturday, the blossoms reached their peak and we were awed by the thousands (maybe millions) of cherry trees in full bloom as they sparkled in full sun on a day of perfect weather. The sea of pinkish-white cherry blossoms shimmered against a backdrop of blue while adjacent apple blossoms offered a slight concession to chlorophyll as their adjacent green leaves had just begun to form. It was a treat to drink in the view.

                Drinking is the second treat of Blossom Days. We learned that cherry-growing on the peninsula has a growing competitor; growing of grapes in the many vineyards has also become big business. Our activity on the weekend included wine tasting at several of the vineyards as they all celebrate Blossom Day. (I wanted to tell how many wine tastings I gulped down, but I lost track after the first seven or eight.)

All the wine was wonderful and I learned several things about winemaking from the head vintners who poured for us as some of the establishments. For example, did you know that the best wines are aged in white oak casks made from oak trees grown in France? Apparently, oak trees in the US are partial to whiskey [whiskey makers use US white oak] while exclusive wineries favor French forests. Further, wine barrels are toasted before use while whiskey barrels are charred and both are used only two or three times before they become bar stools in darkened pubs.

The most important thing I learned is that, contrary to my former belief, good wine doesn’t taste like grape pop. Rather, fine wines can have flavors like “a hint of pears and apples followed by a crisp finish with notes of bananas.” I never tasted the bananas. Perhaps it is because I have drunk too much dandelion wine that tastes like dandelions and rhubarb wine that tastes like rhubarb. Or maybe it is because the Mrs. ages her wine in used glass bottles instead of French casks, I don’t know. But, I did learn one thing; I will plan on more wine tasting even without waiting for Blossom Days.

               

Spring Break

For some foolish reason that I don’t remember, Marjorie and I invited our granddaughters to spend the first week of April with us. “Spring Break,” I believe it is called, a weeklong vacation for exhausted teachers who need to resurrect their sanity that expired in the interval after Xmas. I used to wonder about that, but no longer now that I have experienced and barely survived a week-long “vacation” with our two grandchildren.

 

                        Kylie (almost 8)          Shana (almost 6)

To be perfectly fair, I should say upfront that the two girls, aged almost eight and almost six, are well-behaved tykes without any particular phobias or issues that would render them ungovernable. On the contrary, they seem exceedingly pleasant and destined to do well in spite of their share of chromosomes that stem from my side of the family tree. It is just that the two of them seem to have unreasonable expectations - things like eating several times a day, avoiding naps and bedtime at all costs, and requiring Gramma and Granpa to be their competitors in the dozen or so games that were required each day.

 

It was exhausting. Most days I was too busy to indulge in my regular naps. That, and the vigors of the day-long activities just about did me in. In fact, during the days the little darlings were here, I had to extend my cocktail hour considerably to maintain my balance that is tenuous at best.

 

The week began with the obligatory egg preparation and follow-up Easter egg hunt. We decorated about a thousand eggs and then planned a menu of egg salad sandwiches for the next month or so. After that all-morning diversion, my job was to hide the colored eggs around the yard for the afternoon hunt. The task was problematic since snow covered about half the normal search area in what will become a lawn someday if the temperature ever gets above freezing. Nevertheless, I was determined to make the experience of finding eggs last most of the afternoon so I could tire them out enough for an early bedtime for them and a leisurely evening for me. To make the egg finding a little more difficult, I began putting eggs in the woods along the lawn. At first, I ventured just a few feet into the shaded area to deposit my eggs. Then, after I had a mere dozen eggs remaining and I had run out of good hiding places, I trekked deeper into the gloom, laughing fiendishly as I secreted the remaining globes among the pines. I was hoping for a devilishly long and memorable hunt for the little beggars.

 

It took me about 40 minutes to secret the eggs under leaves, behind trees and balanced on tree branches in the deep woods. When I finished, we gathered at the porch with the two little ones straining at my pant legs till I blew the whistle to begin. Off they went, chattering as they ran. I headed indoors for a hot coffee to warm my innards. Before I had finished my first cup, I heard the girls on the porch. They had finished the egg search. It took them ten minutes to find all my eggs. Ten minutes. Every egg. Apparently, my grandkids are the kind who can search out eggs by smell or some sort of X-ray vision as they hunger for the glory of the conquest and the sugar high from the chocolates in the plastic eggs. I looked at my watch. Another eight hours till bedtime. Marjorie suggested that we play a game. We played our first game of the day while munching on chocolate bunnies.

 

The next day was similar to the first with a trip to the swimming pool instead of an egg search. Except in this case, the reverse occurred as I finished swimming in about ten minutes while the girls were just getting warmed up. No one except me wanted to leave so soon. We compromised; the girls swam and cavorted in the big and deep pool while I lounged in the warmer kiddy pool, whining about having to stay so long. After the swim everyone was hungry so we headed to the nearest restaurant. Then it was back home for another kid’s game.

 

The games were a both a blessing and curse. Here is an example. By the fourth day of their visit, Wednesday evening, I was a little groggy since I was again too busy for my afternoon nap. Hence, I was less than enthusiastic when it was determined that we would play a rousing game of Cadoo! We decided on partners, the eight-year old and me, Marjorie and the six-year old (since the two of them speak the same language). Despite my groggy brain, my partner and I pressed our age and experience advantage to take a quick lead in the game that became spirited as the evening progressed. My grogginess disappeared as I scored point after point with cleverly drawn figures that allowed my perceptive partner to guess their meaning. Then the unthinkable happened - our opponents began to gain on us. The tension in the air became palpable as our lead began to evaporate, point after point. My team suspected the opponents were using unfair techniques. (Since the five-year-old was unable to read the game cards, Marjorie whispered the instructions from each card to her). It was OK as long as my partner and I were winning but when the tide began to turn, we suspected the whispering included forbidden hints about the answers. Surely, my loyal wife of 40-odd years wouldn’t stoop to such nefarious tactics!

 

Then it happened. The tenth point of the game brought us to a tie. After my partner and I had worked long and hard in making figures from clay and correctly acting out words, the opposing sneaks had managed to tie the score. The final and determining point of the game was at hand, their turn to act out a word, our requirement to guess the meaning. If we guessed the word, they would win.(This game is kind of backwards to normal scoring) The five year old and 65 year-old whispered intently while we waited nervously as the sand began to spill from the hour-glass timer. Suddenly, the little one stood as still as a statue while Marjorie began slathering her from head to toe with a make-believe something. Done with the slathering, she then made preparations to eat the little girl, her very own little granddaughter! We watched in silence, utterly confounded. Neither of us had a clue.

 

The last granules of sand dropped from the hourglass. It dawned on me that since neither of us had the  foggiest idea about the meaning of the charade, WE HAD WON! YES! I did a quick high five with the almost-eight-year-old while the almost-five-year-old looked on sadly. Our team, the almost-eight -year old and me, made a quick circle around the table for another high five, while we celebrated our win bowing to the make-believe stadium full of cheering admirers.

 

It took another half hour of discussing the game before we were able to convince the girls that it was bedtime. The almost-six-year old demanded a replay but I begged off with the ‘need our rest’ excuse.
By the way, the losing word the opponents were required to act out: corn-on-the-cob. Sometimes, the heavens smile on me, I murmured as I drifted off to sleep.

 

The rest of the vacation included climbing sand dunes, hiking in the woods and lots of restaurant time plus several get-even games involving rolling dice and figures on game boards. I drew the line at “Pretty Pretty Princess” although I think Marjorie and the girls were involved in that endeavor several times. The week sped by. I hope the girls have nice memories of their spring vacation. I hope to rest up before we invite them for our annual, ‘little girl’ camping trip. (We are brutes for punishment).

So You Think You've Got Problems

Marjorie and I just returned home from a vacation tour of South Africa and we learned that things are pretty good in the ol’ USA, despite my views of our Congress and its ineptitude. South Africa, on the other hand, has problems that make ours look like child’s play. Our 25-day tour, Highlights of South Africa, took us to their biggest cities as well as the requisite visits to several game preserves for photographic safaris. We came home enlightened and with a ton of pictures.

Our bus, boat, and airplane travels throughout the African countryside revealed a fascinating kaleidoscope of nature’s varied ecosystems. Deserts, savannahs, forests, mountains, and farmlands dot the country. It seems a big land. Most of the scenery away from the cities is of vast open spaces undefiled by ugly blots of man-made habitations since most people in South Africa live in a few large cities. One of the largest cities, Cape Town, is a beautiful place as it is flanked by Table Mountain and edged by the Atlantic Ocean. Most of their cities are like most modern cities anywhere with tall buildings of shiny glass and highways, cars, bridges and roads. Attractive, modern houses surround central downtowns in close-fitting arcs convenient to city parks and sports facilities.

But then we learned that most people don’t live in these convenient cityscapes. Instead, upwards of 70% of the people live in townships, those far-distant housing centers where blacks, Colored, and Indians live and commute daily to their jobs in the city where they cater to the needs of whites who live and work in the central areas. Townships were created during apartheid when all non-whites were forcibly moved from their former homes and sent to remote areas to live according to a government card assigned to each that defined their race: black, Colored, or Asian/Indian. Even though apartheid ended 19 years ago with the release of Nelson Mandela from prison, many former practices of subjugation continue. Nine percent of the people in South Africa (whites), largely control the remaining 91 % (black, Colored and Asian/Indian) through a variety of practices that are very slowly being eroded. An example, some in South Africa’s wine industry recently disputed the claim that they underpaid (black) workers in the vineyards. They paid full wages they claimed, even though 2/3 of the wages paid were in the form of wine for their workers.

Despite their disadvantaged position in life, all of the blacks that we met; hotel workers, drivers, maids, guards, waiters and waitresses, cooks, tour guides and those we talked with in the townships, all seemed pleasant, cheerful and optimistic that things are improving. The statistics don’t support their optimism. Time magazine reports that since the end of apartheid in 1994, whites have seen an increase in wages of 40.5% while blacks have suffered a loss of 1.7 %. The corollary is that less than 1 % of whites are in poverty while 40% of blacks are. South Africa has the world’s highest discrepancy in income with whites being very rich and blacks being very poor. So, what is the result of this domination of one race by another? One of the undoubted results is crime. The perception is that South Africa suffers from extraordinary levels of crime with theft, household burglary, and homicide being in the forefront with gun homicides 4 times higher than those in the US, which is saying something since we rank among the highest in the world. Like us, South Africa has a’gun culture’ with a high percentage of residents owning guns.

We saw the consequences of these statistics everywhere we visited. Virtually all property owners felt compelled to bound their property with tall fences or walls, many topped with razor wire. Those without walls used iron fences with each post tipped with sharpened lances. We had dinner at one home and the owner had to first collar his two German Shepherd guard dogs before we could enter the property. Each of the hotels we stayed in had guards at the entrances. Our tour guide cautioned us against traveling alone and using the money machines unless we did so in a group. A strange way to live, it seems to me.

South Africa’s other problems are equally disturbing. Their unemployment rate is 25% (of course, the highest unemployment is suffered by blacks) and their health care is woeful with AIDS being particularly virulent. One incredible statistic is that 20% of South African blacks suffer AIDS. We visited an orphanage and supplied fruit to children that were orphaned largely as result of the AIDS epidemic. Like little children everywhere, they were a treat.

We wondered why Mandelo and his ANC (largely black) political party hasn’t made more progress with these problems. The answer is that the problems are hard and the government is weak. The ANC has been wracked with corruption with several ministers having been found guilty of theft. Further, the competence of many of the leading officals is questionable, one has only a third grade education and another is a witch doctor. Really. Witch doctors are still in vogue among some of the indigenous tribes. It will be some while before politicians of their caliber are able to resolve their problems.

The plant and animal world of South Africa is the exact opposite of the human world as it is stupendous. We visited the best botanical garden I have ever seen, the most engaging jungle along a mountaintop overlooking the Indian Ocean, and oodles and oodles of creatures in the bush both big and small. One particular treat was the evening the elephants decided to visit our cottages and devour everything in the manicured garden area. That was after the local hippo had decided to use the swimming pool one night. Those big creatures have a way of doing whatever they want.

So, we had a good time on our vacation. Call if you want to come and look at a few thousand of our best pictures.

 

 

Old Dogs are like Old Men

Even though I have been a dog fancier most of my life, I am still learning and my dog Marshall is the current teacher. Marshall is an old dog, 13 years old as of last November, and he seems to be running out of patience in teaching me, especially when it comes to something that he wants that I don’t understand. In those cases, he stands directly in front of me and stares with his soft brown eyes holding mine in a steady glare. I always break. After a while, I get up and give him a cookie since that is his most frequent demand and, even if it isn’t what he wants, he accepts it as a substitute most of the time.

One of the things that Marshall has taught me recently is that old dogs are a lot like old men. For one thing, Marshall doesn’t suffer fools easily. If a puppy happens by, Marshall sniffs him a few times and then walks away as if to say ‘you aren’t worth my time’. And he won’t allow a puppy or a strange dog to give him a thorough sniffing either. After the obligatory sniffs at each end, Marshall demands that the stranger desist and he gives a warning bark to show he means business even though that is definitely impolite in dog-language. It is kinda like me hanging up the phone on a pesky salesman.

Marshall’s age is beginning to show. He likes spending most of his time on his bed and in the morning, he has a harder time getting up to start the day. I’m like that too. Some days, the bed just feels better than the cold floor. When Marshall finally completes all his yawns and stretches and decides to move off his bed, it is apparent that he has stiff joints. He moves gingerly at first, one step at a time, and then slowly gets his motor going to full speed which is only slightly above idle.

After Marshall finally gets going, I take him for a morning walk to the neighbor’s house where I drink coffee with other old dudes. Marshall is welcome at the coffee-drinking club and my buddies all take turns in handing out pieces of crumbled dog cookies to the little beggar. He had a high time begging cookies for several months until the vet noticed he had put on several pounds. “No more cookies,” the vet demanded. I tried explaining about the cookies to Marshall but he wouldn’t have any of it.

The vet suggested replacing cookies with carrots. It sounded like me trying to enjoy broccoli instead of a hamburger but I decided to try it anyway. And, just as wonders never cease, Marshall liked the carrots. He would gobble them down like hungry relatives at a wedding feast. I got in the habit of carrying a pocket full of carrots every day on our morning visit to the coffee klatch. The carrot ruse worked for several days until I learned that old dogs don’t seem to digest carrots so well when I found a generous pool of them along with green bile and other nasty -looking substances that Marshall had thrown up on his bed. After that, I put Marshall on a strict carrot rationing system.

One of the most telling symptoms of Marshall’s aging is his gradual loss of decorum in the matter of eliminating body waste. His ‘bathroom habits,’ as we would call them, have definitely changed. Marshall always used to have a delicate nature and he showed as much by being discrete in his manner of heeding the call of nature. Almost never did I have the distasteful job of cleaning up his poo as Marshall generally went to the woods at the edge of our lawn to do his business. Day after day he would find a different, but secluded spot to make his deposit. If nature called while we were on our morning walk and he was on the leash, he would walk to the edge of the road as the signal for me to give him more lead. Thus warned, I would loosen the leash and he would wander to the woods to find a suitable place for a deposit. I always looked away discretely and Marshall returned the favor by attempting to cover his deposit by kicking dirt over the soft brown mound before walking away.

As Marshall got older he spent less time in searching for the perfect place in the woods or alongside the road to make a deposit. Instead, he would head for the nearest patch of weeds, squat, make a few perfunctory kicks and walk away. Sometimes, he would even look me in the eye as he performed his routine, apparently unembarrassed by his performance in full view of onlookers.

This winter, Marshall’s age seems to have provoked him into to moving one notch lower in doggy world of ‘I don’t care who sees me poop.’ On many mornings during our walk, he stops me abruptly with a pull on the leash to squat. And then he poops. In the middle of the road. Fortunately, his lack of decorum matches my devil-may-care attitude and we both continue on our morning walk after he relieves himself, neither of us with a care in the world. Fortunately, it snows most days so that we don’t have to look at the prior day’s deposits.

Despite the title of this piece, I don’t have a direct parallel with Marshall’s poop habits although the wife would argue that my habits in choosing clothes to wear each day would qualify for an award in “least amount of care” category. She thinks my purple gloves are unseemly for a gentleman and my habit of wearing a baseball cap on most occasions is oftentimes a foul. I tell her that I am not playing that game any longer and I like my gloves and my priceless collection of baseball hats.

Marshall’s age and lower energy has made caring for him easier. His main focus is eating and sleeping and he excels at each. This focus is most noticeable in the evening during our television time. He lays on his bed in deep sleep until I get off my easy chair for a snack. My quiet movements seem to interrupt some sort of energy field he maintains; by the time I open the refrigerator door he is standing beside me. I don’t know how he manages to awaken from a deep sleep and move his aching bones so quickly, but he does. I generally stand looking at the open refrigerator and he stands looking at me. I always break and Marshall gets a snack along with me. He isn’t losing a lot of weight.

So the dog is changing as he gets older. Like me, he is not old, just older. Although he can’t run as fast nor jump as high as he once did and he is sort of prickly when things don’t go his way, he is still a loyal dog and I’ll miss him when he is gone. Just don’t make either him or me angry. We don't like being older in the first place, so it doesn't take much to make us angry.

Grandpa Bill