Zipping Along

Please allow me to again take to the typewriter to replace this column’s usual author.  She is once again away for the weekend with her sisters.  It now appears to me that the number of sisters she has is more than I recall.  And I do remember their names. But they now seem to be coming out of the proverbial woodwork! Sweet Lord of the Dance just how many sisters does she have? I thought she only has two but she gallivants around the state of Ohio on, what appears to me now, to be at somewhat regular intervals.

When she informed me that she was going to some distant place in the wilderness of Ohio to “Zip Line,” she immediately told me to “zip your big mouth shut” before I could even get my usual snide comments out of my mouth. But as she is not here to stop me, I can at least confide in you, the ever-loyal reader.  The only things that I am aware of that have a “Zip” in them are clothing, food storage bags and codes.

I am reliably informed by My Lovely Bride that people pay good, hard earned cash to slide down a “Zip Line” in the wilderness. She referred to it as “an adventure.” Not me, Brother.  I like my relaxation to be non-life threatening!

When we parted yesterday morning, I advised her not to be the first down said “Zip Line.” She looked at me with a weird look in her eyes.  I said that this may be part of some elaborate murder plot.  It may be that, long ago she may have broken or scratched one of her sister’s records.  This may be some long overdue revenge.

I just noticed that odd look in your eyes and the way you just shook your head.

Perhaps, you do not know what a “Record” is?  Dear Reader, this is your lucky day!  I remember “Records.”  I still have more than a few.  And a lot of cassette tapes, CD’s and even an 8-Track.  A “Record” was a very slim disc with tiny grooves made of Vinyl.  It was designed to play on a “Record Player.”  When one placed a “Record” on a “Record Player” and placed the “Needle” (because it looked like a needle) on the “Record," music came out of the “Record Player.”

Moving on…

But My Lovely Bride does not trust me.  This time, I was demoted!  She left Maggie, our cat in charge!  She also left me “A lot of food.”  But none of them from the four basic and approved food groups.  No potato chips.  No chocolate.  No Vanilla Coca-Cola.  But she did leave two single-serve sized packs of Oreo cookies.  A total of four cookies.  Four!  Thank the Good Lord I found a Pepsi in the back of the refrigerator!  But she did not lie; she left a lot of “Food.”  A container of Cole Slaw and a container of Tuna Pasta Salad.  And a lot of fruit: oranges, lemons, grapes and watermelon.  Now how can a man stay alive for two whole, American days?  It could go either way…

Fruit.  Fruit.  I have been to the grocery store with My Lovely Bride in the past.  I have observed people shop for provisions.  They always look at the fruit.  And they want to buy some of it.  But…  It’s a lot more fun to buy and eat that Hot Dog.  Or that juicy, delicious steak.

I ask you, gentle reader have you ever attended what we call “A party?”  I think you have done such a thing as this.  I have, in the past.  Think back, did you partake of some refreshments of a non-liquid variety?  I know you have.  I have.  Be honest here, what did you eat first?  Did you have yourself a nice big bowl of potato chips?  Or maybe the pretzels?  Or the home-made chocolate chip cookies?  Raise your hand if you ate from the fruit plate first.  I don’t see any raised hands.  Mine isn’t.  I contend that you only eat from the fruit plate first if you are trying to convince your significant other you are being good.  But the moment her back is turned, get out of the way…those potato chips have an appointment in my tummy!  Or if said goodies are all gone and you have to eat anything.  Then the red peppers and the celery are just fine.  But that is why there is only one fruit plate and many, many bags of potato chips and pretzels at the party!  The last party I attended, some angel brought Maple-Glazed Bacon. But in some stupid, insane attempt at “being a good boy,” I had some of the fruit plate first.  When I went back, I was broken-hearted to find the Bacon was all gone…

Never again!

To one and all of the dear readers out there in the world, have a wonderful weekend…

To My Lovely Bride, have a great time with your sisters, however many of them there are.  Come back to me safe and sound…I have a feeling I may be feeling just a bit peckish…

Love the One You're With

We should have known, when we saw that the traffic light was out, something was amiss.

It all became clear when we entered our neighborhood go-to establishment last night, and, being the observant creatures we are, noticed all the power was out.

No lights. No TV. No-can-do for dinner.

Although they were making plans to shut the place down because they couldn't predict when power would return,  the bartender took pity on us, and before shooing us out, let me have my Tanqueray and tonic.

The effect of drink-with-no-food had the predictable effect, and I trundled homeward in a pleasant haze. Rather than seek another place to eat, and knowing I was in no condition to go home and prepare a meal, Mr. Ginley suggested we stop at Walgreen's and grab some snacks. No argument from "Drunky McWifey," as he fondly refers to me when I'm in this state. I followed him through the aisles as we picked up chips, more chips and a rather large package of M 'n Ms. Our strategy was to eat our way through the essential junk food groups as we watched a couple episodes of the Great British Baking Show (Season 5).

All went according to plan, and there was peace (and later, indigestion) throughout the land.

But, you know, the whole episode gave me pause.

You don't know what you've got until it's gone. I mean, what would we have done if there was no power at our house when we'd returned? We couldn't have watched our show. It being the end of the day, our phones and our electronic devices would have quickly petered out. What would we do? With whom would we converse?

So, I'm suggesting it right here and now. Stop what you're doing. Go over and give your TV a hug. Kiss your cell phone. Tell your I-Pad how much it means to you. These are the things we love, after all, and they deserve to know how special they are.

And, although they can't return the affection, you'll feel the love the next time you log in and check your Facebook page.  All those little thumbs up and smiling emojis will supply the warm and fuzzies.

As for me, although you can't see it, I'm giving my laptop a great big hug right now.

After all, it's aiding and abetting my smart-ass nature. What more could you expect from a bff?

It Takes Balls

As often happens, my brain takes one story and goes in a completely different direction. And, somewhere along the line, I learn something.

And I share it with you.

This was the case as I read a story in my local rag (picked up from Reuters) about a knife attack in Paris. What surprised me most is that I hadn't read anything about it anywhere else.

The story went that seven people were stabbed by a knife-wielding nutjob. Said nutjob was felled by a group of French folks playing a game called "boule" (pronounced "bul" and meaning "ball"). One of the players hit the perp in the head with one of the heavy metal balls used in the game. His fellow game-players joined in, and they were able to subdue the man until police arrived. As the crowd grew ugly, one man insisted that, no, they were not going to kill the guy, they were going to make sure he faced justice.

I was quite intrigued by this story about locals taking down a bad guy. Most of all, perhaps, because of the weapon of opportunity.

"Boule," I learned, thanks to Wikipedia and a British website called TradeGames.org, probably evolved from an ancient game played by the Egyptians using stone balls. Later, the balls became wooden, and at one point the game was outlawed by Henry VIII because the hoi polloi were playing with their balls when they should have been making things. 

The game was so popular that Sir Francis Drake insisted on finishing his game before heading out to knock off the Spanish Armada on July 8, 1588.

Eventually, the game became known as "lawn bowling," and if you're thinking you'd be playing "bocce" if you were in Italy, you would be correct.

The object is to throw or roll the ball and get it as close as you can to a smaller target ball.

Being a word nerd, I just love the names involved with the game.

For example:

"Boccia" means ball. "Bocce" is plural.

"Bollas Criolas" is played in Venezuela.

"Ula Maika" is enjoyed by Polynesians.

"Pentaque" is a version that evolved for people who were unable to use their legs. (Although able-bodied folks like it, too.)

The small target ball is called a "cochonnet" or "le but" (French for piglet and target, respectively), "pallino" (Italian for little ball) and "jack" (English, no real consensus why, except it may mean a smaller version, like a "jack-rabbit" is a smaller bunny).

Admittedly, I've never played any version of this sport, but I am intrigued by its history.

Not to mention the capacity of its balls to take down evil-doers.

A Place of My Own

(lousy) artist's rendering

Trolling FB the other day, I came across a photo of a pair of baby deer. They were posed on the sidewalk near a busy intersection, looking sad and confused.

Comments, as one would expect, ran the gamut from those who felt sorry for the animals because their habitat was shrinking and they had nowhere to go, to those who said the trespassers were overrunning our properties and needed to be culled.

Ah, how fascinating the human "mine."

It's said that the original settlers of this continent didn't believe land could be owned. They thought those wacky Europeans were nutty for offering them stuff for their patch of earth. How can you own something sacred, something that was here long before you and will be long after?

The notion of land ownership is so deeply ingrained in non-native psyche, it's hard to fathom living in a world where patches of land aren't parceled out by owner.

We continue to plow over whatever wild areas are left to make way for new living spaces. Then we label them with cutesy names reminiscent of former inhabitants. Like "The Oaks."

Then we get mad when wild animals show up at our doorstep.

Understand, I'm not exempting myself from this scenario. Although my house has been in place since 1926, living near a Metro Park means we get strays. And I don't want raccoons and ground hogs in my grill anymore than any other home owner. I just wish I could convince these varmints that the park is a far more desirable place for them to hang out.

For example, I stopped putting food scraps in my compost heap when I realized that somehow the critters were gaining access (stuff was "decomposing" way too rapidly). I have sprinkled expensive deterrents around my porch to keep them away from the house. And I don't plant a garden, 'cause I figure they would harvest it before I could.

But I do have a bird feeder, because the birds and squirrels stick to their own habitats.

In short, I try to co-exist with the wild things as peaceably as possible, provided they stay out of my house.

At the end of the day, all we really are is renters. A piece of paper with some numbers and a signature on it may mean we get to use our space for a time. But someday, some stranger will live in my house, cut the grass and chase the varmints.

And yes, I'm sure, the furry creatures will still be hanging around long after I'm gone.

Courting

Why is it that I can never hit the numbers for the lottery, but I manage to get called for jury duty every few years?

The Blue Angels flew by here. Honest.

Dutifully, I reported to the Justice Center, 4th floor, last Wednesday to serve as a juror.

I sat for two days, reading and working jigsaw puzzles, waiting to be called. And waiting. And waiting.

I did get called to the front desk. Once. But by the time I got there, our merry band of justice servers was told "the courtroom isn't ready after all," and back we went to sit some more. Hours later, we were told the defendant decided to cop a plea.

Although I wasn't called again, at the end of the two days, the Juror Meister informed us that we had served well because just knowing we were there was enough of an incentive for defendants to acknowledge their guilt. So nice to know I didn't actually waste two days of my life sitting in a room with 200 strangers, who also gave up their lives for two days.

I did feel lucky because it was a holiday weekend. Presumably, we would have had to come back on Friday during a normal week. I imagine the judges and lawyers weren't keen on starting a new trial before a three-day weekend.

I must admit, it was cool spending a couple of days downtown, where I worked many moons ago. On Wednesday, I took my son up on his offer to do lunch. Once he figured out where I was, he picked me up and whisked me off to the Harp, an Irish restaurant near the shores of Lake Erie. We arrived before the lunchtime rush, ensuring we were able to dine and get back to work in a reasonable amount of time. The weather was hot but clear, a condition that changed right around the time we were dismissed for the day. There was a cloudburst of epic proportions, and based on the weather radar, waiting it out wasn't a viable alternative.

Then came the text from my kid, offering to pick me up. My insisting I would wait it out. His insistence on coming to fetch me. My acquiescence. Still getting soaked dashing from the Justice Center to the curb, but far better than if I had to run to Public Square. An admonition to the driver about why it's NEVER  a good idea to make a U-turn in front of the "cop shop." (You can go around the block, why take a chance? That place is crawling with cops, you know.) And we were on our way to the Rapid station, where I'd left my car.

Thursday, the weather was perfect. Sunny all day and considerably cooler. During the lunch break, I ventured out to Heinen's for lunch. Coming out afterward, I heard jet noises, then remembered the air show being hosted over the weekend. Casting my eyes skyward, I saw, between the tall buildings, Blue Angels zoom zooming this way and that. I tried to take a photo, but by the time I got my camera phone set, all I got were vapor trails.

Shrugging, I headed to the old tymie candy store for provisions. Maltesers and Swedish Fish and treats for Mr. Ginley. Then back to finish off my afternoon of sitting. Before I returned, since I had a few minutes left, I lingered outside and looked over the court house across the street. I could hear the jets, but was still missing them. I finally gave up, took one last glance, and was rewarded with the sight of four jets, rising together above the courthouse, splitting in different directions. (I'm sure there's a name for this maneuver, but I don't know what it is, I'm sure Steph could tell me.)

Oh well. More vapor trails.

After our dismissal, certificate of service in hand, with the knowledge I wouldn't have to serve for at least another two years, I headed home. I gathered up Mr. Ginley, and we ventured out to drop stuff off at the library and pick up dinner at Swenson's, then proceeded to the Metro Park for an impromptu picnic and stroll.

Found time is the best time, after all.