Heard That Honking Cry

Heard that honking cry this morning, but felt no sadness.  Looked up and saw this majesty: 

Dear blogging buddies in colder climes, the geese are on their way. They’re bringing the joy of Spring to you.  I send them to you every year. No need to thank me.  I like doing it.  I stand and point.  “Go North, young geese,” I say.  Now, I’m taking the day off, putting the Beach Boys on my CD player, packing away the winter clothes and breaking out the Bermuda shorts and the tire-tread flip-flops.  All joy today dear friends.  Even if you live in the North–Spring is just a bud away.  HF

How could a man not?

I slept that night in the room above the parlor where my Great-Grandfather was lying in repose. I was just nine, but I knew that the house that he and I now rested in was built by his own hands. I fell asleep that night and for the next three nights to the overpowering smell of flowers that drifted through my floor from the room below.

My Great-Grandfather had survived the Spanish-American War and the malaria he contracted while fighting it in Cuba. He had marched away to fight that war leaving behind his 17-year-old bride who was making preparation for the birth of their first child. She wrote him when my grandmother arrived in this world and asked what he wanted to name her. He replied in a letter that whatever she decided was fine with him, but he added a P.S.  He wrote: “And kiss Mabel Grace for me.”  Mabel Grace she was named although his young bride, not a fan of the name Mabel and not sure why he had picked it, would call her May. 

He survived World War One and the Spanish Flu he contracted in the trenches of France.  But the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away and his sweet wife caught the disease from returning veterans she helped feed as a Red Cross aid. The Spanish Flu took her in three days. She died in the bed and the room in which I was sleeping.

A stern Presbyterian, he was untouched by the frivolity of Roaring Twenties.  He worked hard, long days during the Twenties and moved up the ladder of the business world until he owned the business.  When the Great Depression came in the thirties, he ordered his second wife to feed anyone that came to the door in need of a meal.  She balked, but did it.  From all accounts, she was a hard woman with a hard disposition. The all accounts being from my grandmother, who was treated by that hard woman like a redheaded, step-child. 

He embraced Prohibition for he had seen through his church work what alcohol could do to a man and how it could destroy a family. When he saw the political corruption Prohibition brought, he ran for public office, was elected, and set about to clean up his little city from the corrupt politicians and policemen.  On two occasions, they shot at him.  On one occasion they attacked him with clubs and he beat them away with his fists.  Few appreciated his efforts or the risks he took.  He was not reelected. 

When World War Two arrived on our shores, he was one of the first to volunteer to go back to Europe and fight once again. They did not take him. He was 60-years-old.  Not one to be defeated, he sold his business and spent the war years as a volunteer on the home front.  He organized scrap drives and victory gardens and made sure those who sold ration cards on the black market were caught and punished.  When the War was over, he bought back his company and ran it until the day he died.

He died in 1965 in the bed and the room in which I was sleeping.  He was 85-years-old and, so it was said, as healthy as an ox.  He said “goodnight” to his third wife – his second, the hard woman, having been killed by a street car – went to bed, fell asleep, and woke up in his Presbyterian Heaven. 

My Great-Grandfather fought in two wars and lived through a third and a fourth and into a fifth.  He survived malaria and the Spanish Flu.  He lived through the moral decline of the Roaring Twenties and the financial decline of the Great Depression.  He buried two wives and two sons.  He worked more hours than he rested.  He prayed and read his Bible every day.  He believed in Predestination, but that belief never stopped him from helping those in need.

I think of my Great-Grandfather every time some talking head or politician tells me that we are living in the worst of times. That no time in history have things been as bad as they are now. Utter nonsense. Life was hard. Life is hard. Life will be hard. For every mountain there is a valley. Life is not for the weak of spirit or the faint of heart. Life is a challenge. It is a challenge that we must accept at the beginning of each day as our feet hit the floor. What are we going to make of this day? 

That first night as I lied in the room above the parlor where my Great-Grandfather was lying in repose, I could not fall asleep. So, I snuck downstairs to where my Great-Grandfather was. The lid to his casket was now closed, but I managed to raise it enough to place my free hand on top of his hands. His hands were huge and hard and scarred and I had marveled at them when he was alive. How could a man have hands like that?  Now, as I have crossed the mid-century mark in my own life, I ask myself the question, how could a man not?

Keep Your Hands Off My Testosterone!

So I’m watching House last night and I’m somewhat entertained as an entertainment show should do when they send a message out to the world about male testosterone and that message makes me so mad, I burned my nachos and spilled my beer.

Okay, a quick recap: the sick guy is a motivational speaker who wants men to get in touch with their feminine side.  He thinks men are dinosaurs.  Previously, he was a corporate speaker that expressed a more ruthless message.  Previously to what, you might ask.  Previously to his “boys, guys, dangling things,” being beaten by some bad guys in a fight.  It turns out that since then, he has had a low testosterone level.  The docs start pumping him back up to the proper level and he returns to his more “male” self.  His wife does not like this, nor, as it turns out, does he.  So, at the end of the show he asks the docs not to give him the dose of testosterone he needs, but to give him just a little bit.  He states, and I quote, “I’m a better MAN without it.”

Holy Cow, Batman!  (Batman, incidentally, has all his testosterone.)  Why not just neuter all men! After we provide what is needed for babies, off they come!  Why not make us all eunuchs?  Better, yet, lobotomize us, too!  If I don’t have my “boys,” do I really need a prefrontal cortex? We’ll be like kittens only obedient ones.

In addition, the medical issues of replacement testosterone were presented incorrectly.  Here are the facts: “Contrary to what has been postulated in outdated studies . . .  aggressive behavior is not typically seen in hypogonadal men who have their testosterone replaced adequately to the eugonadal/normal range.” How about that you people that write the House scripts?  And may I add, “In fact, aggressive behavior has been associated with hypogonadism and low testosterone levels.”

I’m sick and tired of being molded and shaped by pop psychology and the need by some people to emasculate men. Testosterone gives me strength to lift the new TV into the house.  Testosterone keeps my bones from breaking when I slip and fall.  Testosterone helped my heart and lungs grow to the size needed to support my body. Testosterone keeps me attracted to the opposite sex and the opposite sex appreciates that.

I know, I know, it was just a TV show: however, it seems to be a trend to paint masculine men as neanderthals and strongly hint that someday we will evolve away from the need for testosterone. Bull hockey!  I’m not buying into this unisex crap, friends.  I don’t know what a metrosexual is, but I don’t think I’m buying into that crap, either.

Women, I know some of you have suffered at the hands of men who have too much testosterone.  Just like low levels, some men can have levels way too high.  That’s a medical issue that can be addressed and should be.  But feminizing all men to solve that problem is not the way to go. 

I really don’t need some Dr. Phil wannabe telling me that I need to get in touch with my feelings, either.  I feel. I might not be as expressive with my feelings as a female, but I still have them.  I don’t need to cry to let you know I’m hurting. And really, women, do you want a man wandering around the house in tears and moaning how tough his life is?  

I’m a huge supporter of equality for women in all things.  Don’t for one minute think I’m not.  I am saddened that women’s organizations in this country are not speaking up and out about the tragedy that is the veil that many women are forced to wear and the brutality of the men who interpret a religion to make women less than men–indeed less than human.

I am for the freedom of all people to reach their fullest potential and then to help others do the same.  But you do not elevate one group by diminishing another. We are all in the same boat and we all can rise by the incoming tide. 

More than a few people see the masculinity of men as threatening and further believe if masculinity was curtailed, the world would be a better place. This is dangerous thinking and a dangerous way to bring up our sons. *

  
*This rant was ranted by a male with a full tank of testosterone and mighty glad of it.

Fumbling Friday, Maybe?

I think I’ll toss some spaghetti against the wall this Friday morning and see what sticks.

I like blog sites that name the days of the week like Terrible Tuesday, Wonderful Wednesday and Fat Thighs Thursday. (I may have made that last one up.) I’d like to name the days on my blog, but it seems constricting.  If it’s Terrible Tuesday, must my blog be terrible?  I’m just not sure of the rules.

I need a nickname for my wife.  So many of you have cool nicknames for your spouses.  My wife calls me Mr. Big. I won’t go into why, but it has nothing to do with the show Sex in the City.  (Actually she doesn’t call me that. I just wish she would. I probably should have blogged that on Truthful Tuesday.)  I wanted to call her Big Red because of her hair color, but she’s not big–5ft, 100 lbs.  In addition, she thought is sounded like the name of a dog. “Here Big Red. Come on, girl. Get the ball.” 

If it were left up to men, a home would never be redecorated. We believe in fixing it or replacing it, if it’s broken. We don’t believe in changing it because we are tired of it. We have been redecorating, remodeling our kitchen for two years. I have a nightmare where we finally get it done and my wife says it’s time to start over. Part of the problem is the people we hire. They have no concept of time.  When they say they will be there on Thursday, it might mean this Thursday or next Thursday or Thursday next month or Friday at 6:00 P.M. I know they have to squeeze in jobs and do work-a-rounds, so, I’m not real critical, but it can be frustrating.  For one job, I decided to look on Angie’s List to see who had the best references.  But as usual, I got it wrong and looked on Craigslist.  You do not want to hire a man from Craigslist that advertising himself as “a real handyman that can do his thing in every room of the house.”  Well, maybe some of you do, but I won’t go there.

Why is it my brilliant doctor daughter can’t hang a picture?  Yes, this woman that uses all kind of  medical instruments on your body to do all kinds of procedures cannot master the hammer and nail procedure.  The next time you’re seeing a female nuclear radiologist, you might want to ask her if she can drive a nail straight. If she says, no, say hello to my daughter.

My entire Blogroll is replete with seriously good writers, but let me single out two. (Can you single out two?) Friends, you’ve got to start giving Boots LeBaron some love.  He was a newspaper writer in LA during some of its most scandalous days and the stories he tells are marvelous.  But beyond the content, he tells them like the old pro he is. Go to his site and read his recent blog about how he got the name Boots. Do that and I guarantee you’ll be hooked. The other site, The Kitchen Garden, is getting a lot of well-deserved attention. Cecilia, the author of the site does not need me to promote her, but she is such a good writer, I can’t resist. I’ll tell you how good she is, she writes about a lot of things, mainly cooking, that I really don’t care about, but she does it so darn well, I just have to read it!  She makes me want to cook and I can’t even find our kitchen. (Well, that’s a lie since we’ve been remodeling it for two years, but I loved the sentence so I wrote it anyway.)  Anyway, read The Kitchen Garden and learn about Cecilia’s farmy.  (Maybe if I put a -y on the end of my words, I get more readers.)

Thaty isy ally fory nowy.  Muchy lovey.  HyFy

This is not another Blog Award thank you

Okay, I lied.  It is.  But don’t turn the channel, yet, there may be a nugget of gold to be found.  It’s possible!

Please read my Thank You page (shown above).  These are the good folks that have nominated me for awards and I am truly appreciative. To find the people I would nominate, just scroll down my Blogroll. As to fulfilling any other requirements of these awards, I am taking a different route. Surprised, right?  I am going to list some random thoughts that have been buzzing around my head. (You’re in for it now!) Again, no animals were harmed in the thinking of these thoughts although I have thought about gutting a person or two.  Did I say that out loud?  If I did, disregard.  If I didn’t, well, disregard that, too.  Okay, here we go:

1. I was not at Woodstock.

2. I was at age five while riding a bike hit by a car.  The doctor said I might have some slight brain damage.  Coincidentally, it was at that moment that I knew I wanted to be a writer.

3. My favorite rappers are Sir Mix-A-Lot and Vanilla Ice.

4. After high school, I had major league baseball team tryouts with the St. Louis Cardinals and the Montreal Expos.  To this day when the phone rings, I still hope it might be a call saying I made a team!  (This is even more pathetic since the Expos ceased to exist in 2004.)

5. If I could spend the night in bed with one celebrity of my choosing, I would choose Lassie.

6. I imagine I answer every question asked by Airport Check In personnel exactly the same as a terrorist would answer them and, yet, I’m passed right on through.  (Think about it.)

7. I think the nation’s Capitol should be in Lebanon, Kansas, the geographical center of our great country.  I think DC should be absorbed by Virginia and Maryland. 

8. I am neither a Republican nor a Democrat.  I am a Whig.  So far we have had two candidates elected president, William Henry Harrison and Zachary Taylor.  Unfortunately, both died in office before they could implement great Whig changes. The only thing I dislike about my party is that our policies are known as Whiggery which sounds sort of lame.

9. I like musicals and I am very neat.

10. My favorite musicals are Les Miserables, The Phantom of the Opera and You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown.

11. I like women.

12. I have seen both Sly and the Family Stone and Reba McEntire in concert.  I did not see them during the same decade.

13. I live in Huntsville, Alabama which has more NASA employees than Houston, Texas.  Not funny or really that interesting, but dammit, you should know that! 

14. Texas also has a Huntsville, but instead of NASA, they have a big prison.

15. While I sympathize with the vegetarian cause, I do not like vegetables. I eat meat out of necessity. The necessity to stay alive. (My wife just reminded me that I do like some vegetables if they’re covered in cheese.)

16. On my driver’s license it says I am 6’2″, have brown hair, and weight 185 pounds.  None of those things are true.

17. I am in my second marriage.  My first marriage ended with a bonfire of my clothes and personal items in the backyard of a home I once owned.  My ex-wife said she was getting rid of the clutter which I believe included me.

18. I attend church religiously. (I may or may not actually do that, but I love that word play!)  

19. My wife is a natural redhead. She is now in the bathroom over the sink making sure it stays natural.

20. I have to apologize to my wife a great deal.

That’s enough of that for now.  Again, thank you for all the blog awards.  Strangely, I claim not to care about them, but if you are a blogging friend and you give an award and I’m not listed, it hurts, people, it hurts.

Script for TV show, House

New Doctor:  Dr. House, we can’t figure out what is wrong with this patient.

House: What are his symptoms?

New Doctor: Nausea; constipation; gas; vomiting; heartburn; bad taste in his mouth; increased and decreased appetite; trouble falling asleep; trouble staying asleep; unusual dreams and nightmares; headaches; swelling of his face, throat, tongue, lips, gums, eyes, neck, hands, arms, feet, ankles, and lower legs; difficulty swallowing; difficulty breathing; rash; swollen, red, peeling and blistering skin; blisters in his mouth; pain, squeezing and pressure in his chest; pain and discomfort in both arms, back, neck, jaw and stomach; difficulty in moving his arms and legs; sweating; lightheadedness; and slow and difficult speech.

House: Go smell him.

New Doctor: Smell him?

House: Smell him!  You know what smell him means, don’t you?

New Doctor leaves, is gone a couple of minutes, and then returns.

New Doctor: He smells faintly like tobacco.

House: Of course he does. He’s trying to quit smoking and he’s taking Chantix. He’s lucky he’s not dead.

-End-

Get the “Z’s” finished in February

I was able to use the word flummery in a meeting this morning and I’m quite proud of it. The guy presenting was a class A suck up and was piling it on to chin-level depth when I was able to say, “Enough with the flummery, give us the facts.”  I don’t usually pull out the big guns because it smacks of arrogance and neediness, but sometimes the situation is too perfect to let pass.

One guy, with whom I am often stuck in meetings, loves to throw out a word he’s sure no one knows. He then pauses as if waiting for applause or a pat on the back. I swear he does. I’m not a nice guy so I often challenge him by saying, I don’t think you used that word correctly. He has, of course, because he looked it up before he came to the meeting.  After the meeting, I count the minutes until he is at my desk with his dictionary showing me that indeed he did use the word correctly. I always respond, “I don’t think you’ll find that in an unabridged dictionary.” It drives him crazy.

We use too few words and as the saying goes, if you don’t use them, you’ll lose them.

My desk dictionary has four pages of words that start with “Z.”  Let me challenge you to use every “Z” starting word in conversation during the month of February.  You can do it!  The very first “Z” word to use is zabaglione. If you’re Italian or  more than a casual cook, you probably already know that zabaglione is a dessert consisting of egg yolks, sugar, and wine beaten until thick and served hot or cold. This one is so easy.  You can use it now. Go to the break room, get yourself a cup of coffee, hold it in hand until another person enters the room and then say, “This coffee is good, but it would be better with some zabaglione.” (Applause, applause.)

Your next “z” word will be a bit tougher. It’s zaffer. Zaffer is an impure oxide of cobalt, used to produce a blue color in enamel and in the making of smalt. Before you use zaffer, you might have to look up smalt.

Let’s skip zaffer for a moment and go to the next word that promises to be more fun. The word is zaftig.  This is Yiddish so you Jewish folks might have a leg up on the rest of us. Zaftig means full-bosomed; having a comfortably ample figure. You might be more familiar with it’s alternate zoftig. Zoftig is listed on these four pages, too, so when you use Zaftig, you kill two “Z” birds with one stone!  How about we use zaftig in a discussion about Dolly Parton?  Stay in the break room one more minute and add the creamer to your coffee. As you do that, hum your favorite Dolly Parton song.  If you don’t know one, hum anything.  When a person walks in, tell them you can’t get that Dolly Parton song out of your head.  If it’s a man, he’ll respond with “I’m not a fan of her singing, but . . .” and then he’ll make a gesture with his hands indicating big boobs.  At that point you say, “Yes, she is quite zaftig.”  If a woman walks in, she’ll say, “I wonder how many surgeries she’s had?” Then you make the big boob gesture and say, “She didn’t get that zaftig on her own.”

You’re doing great!  Now, as you leave the break room, turn around and say, “Yeah, I like Dolly, but I think the zenith of her career has passed.”

Get the “Z’s” finished in February and we’ll tackle the “Y’s” in March!

It better be a live bear

I have skated by without getting my wife a Valentine’s Day gift for many years. I was fortunate to marry her on February 21.  So, every year on Valentine’s Day I have told her that since our wedding anniversary is next week, I’ll just get her a present then to cover both days. Then, of course, when our anniversary arrives, I say, “Gosh, hon, we just had Valentine’s Day so I didn’t get you anything.” It worked for years!  However, the glory days are gone.  Yesterday, my wife said, “Someone is getting me a Valentine’s present this year.  Do you want it to be you?”  I thought a minute (which was the wrong thing to do) and then decided I would get my sweetheart a Valentine’s present this year. Of course, like most guys, I have no clue what to get.

I’ll tell you what I’m not getting her and that’s a stuffed bear. We have laughed at the stuffed bear commercials for several years. They are on TV every year so someone must be buying them for their sweetheart, but it ain’t happening in my house. This morning the commercial advertised a bear for a $100!  I kid you not! If I spend $100 on a bear, it better be a live one that does circus tricks.

Although as we all know, my wife has the body for sexy lingerie, all the people in the know say that’s really getting a gift for me and not for her, so I guess that’s out.  That rules candy out, too, because we both want her to keep that great body. I would like to just give her cash, but she thinks that’s a copout and I need to shop for her. I’m not sure why, though, because she takes everything back that I buy her. In more than twenty years of marriage, I have never once gotten the size right on anything I’ve bought her. You’d think that in all these years the odds are in my favorite that I would have gotten lucky at least once, but no, no I haven’t.

She needs a new electric toothbrush, but that doesn’t really speak of love, does it?  Although, I guess, a case could be made for white teeth making kissing more enjoyable.  But, I don’t think I want to try and make that case.  There’s a lady that blogs (and for the life of me, I can’t find her site this morning) and she loves tools. She has blogged about her husband buying her tools on every special occasion and how much that means to her. Gosh, what a perfect wife!  Guys, can you imagine being married to a woman that likes tools and loves using them around the house?  (No jokes about me being a big tool, please.)

My wife works out of our house and she is always in need of office supplies. I wonder if they have note paper with hearts?  Several times in the last few months my wife has mentioned we need new dishes.  Red plates might be just the thing. Someone suggested to me to get her a mani, but since I have no idea what a mani is and since it sounds like something she might like better than me, I’m not getting her one. 

Oh, no, I just had an awful thought.  You don’t think she’ll want an anniversary present this year, too?

Every piece of mail you send me goes straight to the trash

There is ageism in our country and I’m really starting to resent it. If not daily, certainly weekly, I get a solicitation in the mail from AARP and, frankly, it makes me mad.  So, I have written them a letter that I will be sending today.  I thought I would share it with you:  

Dear AARP,

Every piece of mail you send me goes straight to the trash. Is this the wisest use of your resources? If I wanted to join, don’t you think that I might have responded to one of your first 100 enquiries?  Please be aware that no feedback, is feedback. Understand that if I have not responded, then chances are good I am telling you I do not want to join your organization.

Now, it may be true that you have programs that down the road when I am actually retired and a real senior citizen, not a pre-senior citizen, I may want to take advantage, but if that happens, I will get in touch with you!  I know how!  If all else fails, I can type AARP on Google and, I’m guessing, a website or two will pop up and instruct me on how to join.

Yes, I understand the principle of advertising.  But do you understand the principle of rejection? 

As angry as you have made me, you have really pissed off my wife.  When something from you comes to her in the mail, sparks fly from her eyes and mercury spouts from the top of her head.  No, AARP, she is not a “happy camper.”  I can assure you that she will never, ever, ever, never join your organization.  You are dead to her!   Do you not realize that with every piece of mail, you are telling a woman that she is old?  Yes, you are!  Do you really think that is a wise thing to do?  Does no one in the leadership of your organization have a wife or mother upon whose knowledge they can draw?  

Here’s a thought–and I’m just spitballing here–but why not send out a prepaid post card asking the people on your mailing list if they want to receive more information from you?  If the card is returned, fill up their mailbox with your junk, but if not, stick the mail you would have sent up your rosy, red hiney.

Forgive me for being so harsh, but I resent every nickle and dime you spend sending out junk that so many people don’t want. I resent it, because I know the money could be used to help real seniors with real needs. Is that not why you are in existence? Or could it be that you are in existence to make your organization rich and powerful?  I wonder about that when I read of your attempts to tell senior citizens how to vote. Have you decided that all seniors are senile and can no longer think for themselves?  Do seniors need to have their news filtered through you in order to understand it?  I don’t think so.  In Woody Allen’s classic movie, Love and Death, he illustrates how a battle looks from the view of the generals.  That view reveals to the generals, not soldiers, but sheep.  I wonder if perhaps from your tower that is the way you see seniors and seniors to be.  AARP, are seniors sheep to you and are you the great shepherd? 

What started as a simple rant has become a political polemic and that was not my intent, AARP.  I just want you to stop sending me mail.  How can I end this barrage?  Calling your organization has not helped.  You had the nerve to tell me that your mailing list was out of your control.  You implied that my age triggered the mailings.  Has HAL taken over?  Are their no humans in charge?  Will it take the Terminator to come back in time to end this madness?  (Will I reference more old movies thus showing I am of AARP age?)  All these questions need answers!

Sincerely,

Harper Faulkner (not any where close to being a senior)

Once again, I answer readers’ questions

Q: Are you a real writer?

A: No. I’m an unreal writer. 

Q: Are you old?

A. Old is a relative term.  To my Aunt, I’m old.

Q: Is your real name Harper Faulkner?

A: Harper Faulkner is a pen name.  My real name is William Lee.

Q: What is the first thing you wrote that got public attention.

A: “Those who write on outhouse walls, roll their . . . in little balls”

Q: What advice would you give a beginning writer?

A: The middle and the ending are important, too.

Q: Is you wife beautiful?

A: She has been since she found my blog address.

Q: Are you a big man?

A: You’ll have to be more specific.

Q: What size shoe to do you wear?

A: 16

Q: Have you ever lied in a blog?

A: Once

Q: You said in a blog you were arrested. Why?

A: I ended a sentence with a proposition.