"I know what that is," said Mr. Ginley. 

photo attribution below

He pointed to the television, where a YouTube slide show displayed a series of outdated knickknacks, widgets, and doodads. 

Essentially, it was a memory test for Baby Boomers.

He hit the pause button. I knew what it was, too: a 45 record adapter.

Back in the day when albums were king, record players had spindles that were designed for LPs (aka, long playing albums). LPs, as everyone knows, have a single small hole in the middle that holds the record on the player. 

However, single records (aka 45s) had a big hole in the middle that required an adapter. Hence, the photo he was pointing at, a yellow plastic disk with a small hole in the center that snaps into the big hole in the 45.

"We just had a black plastic piece that fit on the stereo, we didn't use these things," said Mr. Ginley.

"Well, you would have if you wanted to play multiple 45s," I said.

Back to the time machine. Stereos used to have a tall spindle that dropped one record at a time. You could put a whole stack on the spindle and let 'em play one after the other.

Of course, all of this technology is now obsolete, along with 45s (and 78s, which were a holdout from my parents' generation). 

Feel free to follow me for explanations of other outdated gewgaws and trivial nonsense. 

Photo attribution: User Dpbsmith on en.wikipedia, CC BY-SA 3.0 <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/>, via Wikimedia Commons

Coworker Appreciation Day

I'd just like to take this opportunity to give a shout-out to my steadfast coworker.

She reports for duty (most days) by tapping my leg and making noise until I lift her up to her seat. Which is next to my mouse pad. Does she get the pun of cat and mouse? 

Maybe. Maybe not. 

Admittedly, she does sleep on the job most of the time. From time to time, she stirs, makes acking noises, and convulses. Is she chasing prey in here dreams? 

Perhaps.

For the most part, her work habits are tolerable, but admittedly, she's a little too fastidious about her appearance. I'm not fond of her cleaning ritual, particularly when she starts tongue-washing her nether regions (at eye level). Ick.

Generally, she leaves my tchochkes alone. But I do find it necessary to scold her when she taps the tail on my kitty kat clock and stops it from swinging to and fro. 

I have my limits.

As the workday draws to a close, she becomes restless. She jumps down, paces and gets noisy, doinking my leg with her head. 

I remind her, gently at first, that it's nowhere near time to eat, and she needs to cool her jets.

Eventually, she gives up, stalks off, and makes noise in the hallway until I finish my work. Then she zooms downstairs and gets underfoot as I prepare our dinner.

"Don't feed her early, you'll be sorry," warns Mr. Ginley. 

But when I finally do set her food down, she leaves me in peace until treat time rolls around later in the evening.

I love my coworker. I just hope I never have to go to an office outside our home ever again.

Human coworkers are fine and all, but my feline compatriot, in spite of her annoying habits, is my favorite.

I mean, no one at the office ever purred when I scratched them behind the ears.

Then again, they probably would have just reported me to HR.

Are You Kidney Me?

I'm giving y'all a break from my navel-gazing and mindless twaddle to share a heartwarming story from the Washington Post. Although "heart"-warming may not be the right organ reference. Permit me to explain.

Attribution below

Our story begins with a guy who got dissed by his first choice for prom date and the last-minute stand-in who saved his life.

In 1988, a devastated Shawn Moyer was looking for a replacement date for the prom. He chose Elena Hershey, who was a year younger and thrilled to go.

They lost touch over the years, but one day Elena's former classmate told her of Moyer's plight. He was on dialysis and needed a kidney. When he was a teenager, Moyer had contracted an infection that resulted in his body rejecting his kidneys. He'd already had two kidney transplants – donor kidneys only last 8 to 20 years. (Fun fact: a kidney from a living donor lasts longer.) He needed a new one soon. He was on a waiting list for a cadaver's kidney. 

The wait time was 7-10 years. 

Meanwhile, in 2023, Elena, now a teacher in Boulder, CO, was approved as a kidney donor. She'd researched the process for two years before deciding she wanted to donate a kidney to someone. When she heard about Shawn, she decided that's who should get hers. 

Of course, the odds of her kidney being a match weren't good. But there is a workaround for this. You can donate a kidney to someone who is compatible and receive a voucher. The voucher is then activated in the system for a living donor. This meant instead of waiting for a decade, Shawn would be getting a kidney within a year. And because it was from a live donor, the transplant could potentially keep him alive for another 20 years.

Last month, Shawn met his match, got his new kidney, and is recovering nicely at his home in Glen Rock, PA, thank you very much.

Shawn was stunned and enormously grateful for Elena's sacrifice. The two met, shared a photo op, and plan to keep in touch. 

For her part, Elena is almost matter-of-fact about the experience. The recipient's insurance covers the expenses, so it cost her nothing in monetary terms. And after a couple of weeks of recovery, she was back to her healthy self, but with a renewed sense of fulfillment. 

"I would do it again if I had another extra kidney,” she quipped.

Photo attribution: Laboratoires Servier, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Emerging From Hibernation

Well, it's that time of year again, when the clocks spring ahead. 

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Y'all know the routine. You change your clock, lose an hour of sleep, and think, "But tomorrow the sun won't set until 7:28!"

Somewhere inside your brain, there's an awakening. Spring, which has become an abstract concept these last awful months, comes into focus. There will be flowers. And birds. And more daylight hours to do stuff. No need to huddle indoors and binge watch mystery crime series on BritBox. (Guilty, as charged.)

And yet...

I'm not quite ready to reenter the world. With all the nonsense going on in our government, will there be any rangers in my favorite parks to guide and instruct? Will I drive into a chuckhole that the city couldn't afford to fill, never to be seen again? Will I be able to afford to eat? And what's happening to all the butterflies (their numbers have dropped 22% since 2000).

Reading the final report about Gene Hackman and his wife, Betsy Arakawa, has got me thinking, too. Turns out, Ms. Arakawa died from a respiratory infection while Hackman, who had advanced Alzheimer's Disease, passed away a week later when his heart gave out.

The thing that got me is that it took two weeks for anyone to miss them. And it was a stranger – a maintenance worker – who raised the alarm.  

Hmm, thinks me. How long would it take for someone to miss Mr. Ginley and me if we kicked off? The only ones who are in daily contact with me (well, weekdays, anyhow) are my coworkers. If I didn't log in for several days, would they send the cavalry or assume I'd just done a runner?

Then I realized that if we both went toes up, we wouldn't care, anyhow. Although that leaves the cat, and I wouldn't want her to suffer.

I know, how morbid for a Saturday morning, eh?

Maybe all this will be cured by a dose of springtime. It's supposed to be in the 50s this week, so that should help a little. 

In the meantime, I think I'll tuck into a cup of hot chocolate and another episode of Vera.

Bye for now, luv.

Photo Attribution: Jorge Barrios, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

My 10-Step Exercise Regimen

We can all agree that getting old sucks, and when your body starts its litany of random aches and pains, even getting out of bed in the morning can be a major undertaking.

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And yet, we're all encouraged to keep exercising.

Having partaken of said exercises in the basement for several years, I've discovered a thing or two. First, I'm still overweight, so regular exercise has not helped there in recent years. (Yes, I know, I need to cut down on my portions, don't start.) Second, vigorous exercise is painful in a way that it didn't use to be. Joints creak and groan and fail to work properly.

Most recently, I've been diagnosed with rotator cuff tendinosis (a chronic condition that causes degeneration and pain in the tendons.) I asked my doctor what the difference was between tendinits and tendinosis, and she said what I have is a long term condition. And, according to the google, more difficult to resolve.

But I digress.

I've come to the conclusion that I need to come up with exercises I can incorporate into my daily routine. That way, I'm still stretching, at least, so things don't seize up altogether. 

Here's what I'm thinking:

1. Cheers 

Lean to the left. Lean to the right Stand up. Sit Down. Fight Fight Fight. (I've never liked cheerleaders, but this one gets the blood flowing.)

2. Sock it to 'Em

Grab your compressions socks. In a standing position, jam your toes into the sock and pull. Hop around if you have to to get your balance as you work the sock over your foot. Place your foot on the floor and yank the sock into position on your calf. Repeat with the other sock.

3. Reach for the Stars

It's time to open another bottle of multi-vitamins. They're on the top shelf of the cupboard. Grab a wooden spoon and reach up. Tap, tap, tap the side of the bottle with the spoon. Hold out your hand and catch the bottle as it falls. (Watch out for other items that are in the way and may come tumbling down uninvited.)

4. Grocery Shopping

There are plenty of opportunities here to get your exercise. Grab a cart, bend over and shove your reusable bags in the bottom of the cart, and push your way to a healthier you. You'll do plenty of reaching, bending, and twisting to acquire the necessary items. Not to mention hefting gallon jugs of milk into the cart. Bonus points if you also bag your groceries and park farther out so you have to schlep the cart a ways.

5. Cat Boxing

Cleaning out the cat's litter box is a good way to burn a few calories. You have your bending and scooping motion. You get even more credit if you purchase the gazillion-ton-sized barrel of cat litter that has to be dragged from the trunk of your car and upstairs/downstairs to where the box is located.

6. Hooking Up

Whoever invented the brassiere should be horsewhipped. Why did they think it was a good idea to put the hooks in the back? But, admittedly, it is a good stretching exercise – unless you have tendinosis and your arm won't cooperate. In which case, you can engage your partner in a bit of exercise. 

7. Shake a Leg

The cool thing about working from home is my coworkers can't see me (unless I'm on a video call). Given my attire most days, this is a good thing. It also helps when I get up and dance a little to a tune that tickles my fancy. Nothing crazy here, just a shimmy and shake here and there to get the blood flowing. All in the privacy of my own office. 

8. Stair Climbing

This one is a no-brainer, especially when one is forgetful. Here's how it works. You go upstairs to get something. Oh, wait, I forgot to brush my teeth and comb my hair. I should probably open the curtains in the bedroom. Mr. forgot to take his keys downstairs, I'd better bring them. And back downstairs you go. At the bottom of the steps, you remember what it was you were supposed to do. Back up you go. Repeat as necessary.

9. Garbage Day Cha-Cha

The garbage can is on the tree lawn (or devil strip, if that's what it's called in your neck of the woods). You hear a garbage truck go by. Stand up, walk to the window, peer out. Nope, it's for the other side of the street. Go back to work. You hear it again, it's for the recyclable cans on the other side of the street. Repeat until it actually is your turn. Retrieve the can from the street where the merry band of garbage collectors has left it before it becomes a traffic fatality.

10. Eye Rolls

Eyes need exercise, too, and we all have plenty of opportunities to roll our eyes throughout the workday and while watching the evening news. And when loved ones drive us bonkers. (Am I referring to Mr. Ginley? Of course not, I was talking about the cat. Who can't read this.)

Well, there you have it. As always, feel free to chime in with any other routines that keep you moving. 

As for me, I'm going to go engage in a little exercise commonly known as "channel surfing." 

Time to wave buh-bye!

Photo attribution: University of Texas at Arlington Photograph Collection, CC BY 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Celebrating the Quirky

We were watching an old episode of The Big Bang Theory the other night, when one of the characters said he preferred to think of Sheldon as "quirky."

Salvador Dali, another quirkster, attribution below

In this context, it meant he was trying to put a positive spin on someone whom most of us would thing was just weird. He could as easily have said Sheldon was unique. An odd duck. Or that he marched to the beat of a different drummer. Any one of these descriptions would have been just as accurate.

As for me, I've kind of taken to the word "quirky." It gives me license to engage in "unconventional" rituals. 

Yes, I say a Hail Mary before I get behind the wheel of the car, even though I'm no longer a practicing Catholic. (I perfected, then abandoned the religion of my youth some time ago.) 

I thank my car for starting up in the morning, and I thank it again for getting me home safely with words you would direct toward a pet. ("Who's a good car?")

I count the steps up and down every time I ascend or descend. There are 13 steps going upstairs (plus one extra at the top on the right) and 12 steps down to the basement. As I've gotten older, I've discovered this is actually practical because I can move about in the dark and not lose my footing.

Then there's this thing I have about socks. They're my favorite part of my wardrobe. This hasn't always been the case, it's definitely been since I started working from home. I have preferred socks as well, but I'm admittedly fickle. Currently, my footwear of choice are the Bombas. They're soft and comfy and they make my feet feel happy.

Some of my quirks are rooted firmly in the past. When I was growing up, my Mom would sometimes indulge us at the end of the week by making peanut butter and chocolate chip sandwiches for our lunch. It's something I still enjoy, although admittedly, not always on Fridays.

Also, I put ketchup on egg sandwiches. Please don't judge.

And yes, I have a subscription to the local newspaper, but I only read the weather, obits, and comics. I also partake of the advice columns, which are on the comics page. And I do a couple of the puzzles. But not all of them.

Now, I'm sure I have plenty of other quirks which are simply not coming to mind at the moment, but I think that's enough for today.

Feel free to chime in with any "unique" rituals you may have!

Photo attribution: Roger Higgins, World Telegram staff photographer, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

 

Eulogy Virtues

At the funeral service for my former boss, Harry, last weekend, the rabbi quoted something from a New York Times article by David Brooks.

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Called "The Moral Bucket List," Brooks talks about the two kinds of virtues: résumé virtues and eulogy virtues.

If you've ever read an obituary, you've likely seen both types of virtues lauded. Titans of business often have lengthy obits with a laundry list of all their professional accomplishments. I seldom look twice at these. 

But I often pause and read the ones that talk about the personal achievements of the deceased. I figure that if I come away after reading it and think, "I wish I'd known that person," it means they enjoyed a life worth living.

Of course, all of this has made me do a lot of soul-searching. I remember that in my 20s, I was telling my grandmother about my accomplishments at the office. I was quite pleased with myself, but she remained unimpressed. I was frustrated. Didn't she get how cool my job was? I mean, family is great and all, but women have professions these days, and they're important.

Now, I look back and grimace. I've spent way too much time caring about my job, worrying over this project or that, ruminating about coworkers or clients on weekends when I should have been thinking about other things.

These days, I'm a little better. And I forgive myself to some degree. After all, we spend a lot of time at work, so it's understandable that it takes up so much of our bandwidth.

But I also know that's not a get-out-of-jail-free card. There's no reason I can't smile at the guy who packs my groceries and say "thank you." Or tip my server a little more generously. Hold the door for the person behind me. Or even share a little something on social media to brighten someone's day.

I've accepted the fact that I'm not going to set the world on fire. I won't have nearly the presence at my funeral that Harry did, he who truly did embrace the eulogy virtues.

But I can do better. Just don't expect me to lose the snark all at once. 

I'm only human, after all.

P.S. Here's a link to that David Brooks NYT article. It's well worth the read.

Photo attribution: Kimberly Vardeman, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons.

The Perils of Apathy

 "Do you want to go see a movie?" Mr. Ginley asked yesterday.

I had a day off from work and had finished with my doctor appointment.

I thought about it, albeit briefly, and replied in the negative. The thought of sitting in a darkened theater with inconsiderate fellow theatergoers is just not my idea of a good time. 

Sure, the kids were in school, but movie-going asshats are not only from the younger set. We've sat through films with plenty of old folks who comment loudly on the movie, presumably because they're hard of hearing or their companion is. 

Then I opened my New York Times newsletter this morning, and the lede was about people who laugh at inappropriate times in suspenseful movies, like violent scenes that weren't meant to be funny. 

Just to clarify, I'm not talking about satirical movies that are trying to make a point but actual dramas that were made to be taken seriously.

The writer of that NYT piece concluded that you shouldn't be judgy about people's reaction to what's happening on the screen. That's just part of the experience of going out to see a movie rather than staying home and watching it on the telly.

But I saw something more disturbing in that. The shift in our society that is daily becoming less civil, more self-centered, and lacking almost entirely of empathy. 

Too many folks can laugh when someone else is getting stabbed. But why? Because they can't relate to the character on the screen? Or is it a relief because it's occurring to someone else.

I don't pretend to be a psychologist (I don't even play one on TV), but this mentality bugs me. I have a vision of myself, lying on the pavement bleeding, and passersby laughing and saying, "Sucks to be you."

Maybe this lack of community caring is why I don't feel the need to go out much anymore and co-mingle with fellow citizens. It's a frightful place out there. 

Another picture pops into my head. The Romans cheering as folks (Christians and others not favored by the government) were slaughtered in the Colosseum. 

If this notion seems irrelevant to modern times, take a look at who's running our particular circus – and consider that more than half the voters in our country voted for him and his menacing band of miscreants. 

Scary stuff, indeed.

Photo attribution: Pollice Verso (Thumbs Down), 1874, by Jean-Léon Gérôme

Flower, Rain

For twenty-one years, Harry Shapiro was my boss. When I heard this week that he'd passed away, I was shattered.

Harry in his (then) natural habitat.

I mean, sure we had our ups and downs. I was often too passionate about my job. Harry was forever telling me not to fall on my sword. And trying to rein in my clever plays on words. (Well, I thought they were clever.)

But honestly, when I thought back on my time with Mr. Shapiro (Sir), what came to mind were funny, happy times.

Like his first day at Sterling Jewelers. He hadn't arrived yet, but his prized BMW had. I had the honor of driving it – uber carefully, I might add – and parking it in his spot.

When he did show up, I was eager to impress the new guy. He was moving from Dallas, Texas to Akron, Ohio, and I knew he wouldn't know his way around. I told him I was going to Target and asked if he needed anything. I was thinking maybe he'd need cleaning supplies or some canned goods or something.

"I could use some deodorant," he said. Well, sure, I could do that. And I did.

Harry and I got on well from the start. I did my best to be indispensable, which must have worked, because he told me later that he was told he could fire me if he wanted to. 

That was the first time Harry saved my bacon.

Harry was the first and only person to ever call me Babs. I don't remember how that started, but it stuck. 

Our merry band of designers and me (later there would be more than one copywriter) would spend hours "brainstorming" in Harry's office. We would talk business, toss around copy and designs, and Harry would scribble headlines on napkins, a habit he picked up in his early copywriting days. Eventually, he'd share tales of his life in New York (when he had a full head of hair – he had pictures), his move to Dallas where he bonded with his inner cowboy, and working for JC Penney. 

There was the summer when he met Carly Simon. His encounter  in a restaurant in New York when he was caught staring at Woody Allen, and Mr. Allen returned the favor. And, of course, that time when Cindy Crawford mopped his brow when she saw he was schvitzing. 

That's something else I picked up from Harry. Where else would a shiksa from Parma, Ohio learn Yiddish? Imagine our mutual delight when we realized we both loved Alan Sherman and Tom Lehrer. Fun fact: He could sing all the verses to "Vatican Rag."

There's so much I owed to Harry. My promotion to Copy Manager. The Achievement of Excellence Award he insisted on nominating me for (several years in a row), until he wore down the powers that be and I won. And, of course, Harry made me a better writer. 

Not to mention, he let me be the trailblazer when the internet came along. (Granted, no one else wanted to deal with the new technology.) So there we were one Friday evening, hashing out how the pre-E-commerce site would function. Where you'd go when you clicked here, then there. 

Of course, Harry really came into his own when Ilene came along. When the two of them got together, it was clearly meant to be. Mr. Ginley and I were honored to witness their nuptials, along with so many of their friends and family. It was a night for the ages.

All this week, I've been remembering things that make me smile and tear up at the same time. Like when he unknowingly walked through wet cement at the entrance to our office building. His pricey kicks were immortalized, if not forever, then for the next 15 years or so, in the decorative concrete. 

But the one memory that really got me was Harry calling me into his office to perform some task and offhandedly remarking,"I need you," and me replying (from the song by America), "Like the flower needs the rain." From that day forward, he'd just point at himself, then me, and say, "flower, rain." And that was my cue.

And now there's only rain.

Rest well, my friend. We'll miss you.

Shrinking

The older you get, the smaller you become.

Day by day, this is more obvious to me. A grain of sand. Dust in the wind. Call it what you will, it's a smallness I feel in every bone in my body.

My world exists mostly within these four walls. I live, eat, and work here. Mr. Ginley is my constant companion. And Maggie, of course. She sleeps most of the time but makes it a habit to do so next to my work computer, so her presence is welcome.

I look back with a combination of fondness and chagrin on my former self. Like a chrysalis, I've shed my ambitions, any dreams I had of the future, but I don't feel much like a butterfly. Except that I realize how brief life really is. It's become a day-at-a-time affair, no pretense that there will be a tomorrow.

So I take up amusements like puzzles, binge watching, and books. I scroll a bit on FB, but not too much, because the outside world is a fearsome place. I enjoy my homemade hot chocolate and having weird conversations with Mr. Ginley about our shared past, music, and just about anything else you could imagine (or couldn't).

We here have become like the man in the boat in Thomas Cole's Voyage of Life. Unlike the earlier depiction of the man's life, when he's in full control of the craft and his future lies in the calm of the river ahead, at this stage, the river is churning and the boat is taking him wherever it will go. There's no controlling it. 

We haven't reached the final panel yet, when the heavens open up and the angel comes for the old guy. I imagine that's when you reach the stage of acceptance. You know you can't control anything, the ride is coming to an end, and you give yourself over to it.

I suppose that's the real secret to aging with grace. The letting go. 

The Voyage of Life, By Thomas Cole - National Gallery of Art, Washington, D. C., online collection, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=182995

Battling the Blues

Did pioneer women get the blues?

I was musing about this the other day as I sipped my tea, read a book, and tried to dispel the ennui that's settled in over the past few weeks. 

Rather than dwell on my own emotional state, I began to think about those intrepid women who crossed the country in search of a better life. Huddled around a fire with their family in a drafty cabin. She had to feed everybody, be they human or livestock, tend to sick children, stitch up holey clothes, and no doubt put her own needs in last place.

Because that's been the role of women through the ages. Not that I'd want to be the one who had to grab a gun and start shooting stuff for dinner, although I'm sure plenty of women took on that task, too.

So, did pioneer women suffer from seasonal depression? Or did they find beauty in snowscapes and telling tales around a blazing fireplace? Did they look to the heavens with gratitude when the food was plentiful and everyone was healthy? 

All of this makes me realize how paltry my complaints are. Maybe I should just be thankful that at this moment, life is good. I'm in a warm house. I don't have to go anywhere today. I have plenty of food, water, toilet paper, and chocolate.

I just looked out the window and saw a little sparrow, who's probably freezing his tail feathers off. He looked me in the eye as if to say, "You think you've got it bad, sister?" Then he flew at the window and away.

Now seems like a good time to make some hot tea, grab a few animal crackers, and curl up on the couch.

And maybe count my blessings while I'm at it.

Photo attribution: Internet Archive Book Images, No restrictions, via Wikimedia Commons

Beam Me Down, Scotty

When I was hired, I was asked to fill out a short survey asking the usual things like did I have pets, what was my favorite food, and what my favorite saying was.

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The one thing it asked that I didn't think much about at the time was, if you could have a superpower, what would it be?

I flippantly replied it would be time travel, so I could go back and get today's winning lottery numbers. Which would, of course, mean I wouldn't have to work ever again. 

Some people picked invisibility. A coworker once commented that you should never trust anyone who chose this, because they would likely use their superpower for evil. 

Upon further reflection, I think I'd choose teleportation. I'd love to turn up in Paris in springtime or London just about anytime. Ireland has been added to my list. And parts of Italy, particularly the countryside, appeal to me. 

I mean, wouldn't it be nice to escape the dreary, snowy, finger-numbing cold and pop over to Hawaii? Hang out on the beach, read a book, soak up the rays for a weekend here and there. 

Sure, I can travel along with Rick Steves on PBS, but you only get to see places, you don't get to experience them.  I want to taste that local delicacy, sip a brew in that cozy cafe, chat with the locals, and marvel at ancient wonders in person. 

Ah, well, not likely to happen anytime soon.

I'll just have to play the lottery the old-fashioned way, hope for the best, lose, and head back to my writing desk.

And remind myself that there are only sixty-nine days until the first day of spring.

Photo attribution: Jin Zan, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Meanderings

"That's called a portmanteau," Mr. Ginley said. You know what that is, right?

photo attribution below

I rolled my eyes. Who's the head word nerd in this house?

"Yes, it's a combination of two words, like spoon+fork=spork."

"It always makes me think of the song, Kathmandu. It was one of the first songs I liked." 

Really? That song by Bob Seger was released in 1975, and it's one of the first songs you liked? I let that go, but I did call him out on the pronunciation. "Okay, but "portmanteau" doesn't rhyme with "Kathmandu," which ends in "due" not "oh."

Mr. Ginley's musings headed in another direction. "Kathmandu is in Nepal, did you know that? Didn't the Beatles go there?"

"The Beatles went to India," I corrected.

"That's where they saw the Yogi guy," he continued.

"Maharishi Mahesh Yogi," I clarified.

"My favorite Yogi is Berra," he went on.

"Was Yogi Bear named for him?" I said, picking up the thread.

"There was a lawsuit over it. Yogi Berra lost. Yogi Bear got to go on pilfering picnic baskets in Jellystone Park."

"Yogi Bear wasn't exactly a likable character," I mused. "He stole a lot of picnic baskets."

"Ya, but there's probably some sort of bear union rule, it was his job. It's what bears do, they get into food people leave sitting around. But he didn't win 10 World Series rings like Yogi Berra. Of course, neither did the Maharishi."

"Well, Yogi Bear probably didn't care because he has paws. He couldn't wear a ring anyhow," I countered. But I acknowledged the possibility that the Maharishi could have harbored a little jealousy over Berra's bling.

"Yogi Berra picked up three more World Series rings as a coach," Mr. continued. Just to keep the record straight. "So Maharishi and the Bear went 0 for 13."

As it turns out, nine of Berra's World Series rings were stolen and melted down. 

You don't suppose the Bear had anything to do with it?

Photo attribution: Algorhythms, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons