"The Puck Crisis"

A recent commenter, Zaraya by name, made mention of “The Puck Crisis”, a nine-minute mockumentary I wrote for a CBC (Canadian National Television) special that Lorne Michaels produced, in partnership with my brother, on what was called The Hart and Lorne Terrific Hour. Zaraya seemed to think that “The Puck Crisis” was pretty good. I liked it quite a bit myself.

As Zaraya noted, “The Puck Crisis” in not available on YouTube, or anywhere else. This is not my only disappointment concerning the CBC’s undervaluing of broadcast material. There was a Public Affairs program called Of All People that, hearing that I had failed twice before, sent a camera crew to film my upcoming Driver’s Test for network television. I passed.

I would have liked to have a record of both things. Unfortunately, the CBC is notoriously frugal. They probably taped over my efforts with coverage of the annual Governor General’s “Speech From the Throne”, or whatever. Either that, or the producers cut the videotape into little strips they could slip under their spinning tires during snowstorms.

Most people know that, other than Anne Murray the “Canadian Songbird”, Canada’s primary claim to international fame is hockey. Canadians take the game extremely seriously. I don’t know about now, but when I lived there, Canada’s Number One-rated television show was Hockey Night In Canada. The second highest rated program was Wednesday Night Hockey.

I had once seen a mock documentary called “The Spaghetti Harvest”, where, with a totally straight face, a short documentary-style film was presented, featuring happy, Italian peasants, harvesting their spaghetti crop. The film showed them cheerfully severing long, thickly growing strands of spaghetti hanging earthward from well-tended groves of “spaghetti trees.”

I took the same format and I adapted it to hockey.

It started with a two-minute commentary I concocted for a show I was doing regularly on CBC radio. I later showed it to Lorne, certain the idea might work even better on television. Lorne agreed, and off we went.

Time has relieved me of some of the specifics, but I believe it went something like this.

We opened at a news desk, where a seriously looking anchor announced the catastrophe to the nation:

The puck crop is desperately imperiled, endangering the imminent future of hockey in Canada, specifically the upcoming NHL season.

“Stock footage” showed Canadian puck farmers, in happier times, gathering their crops, ala “the Spaghetti Harvest.” The crops were flourishing. Healthy. Fecund. And gloriously abundant.

And then, tragedy struck.

Its name:

“Dutch Puck Disease.”

The virus had been inadvertently imported to Canada on the sticks of a touring Dutch hockey team. The lethal germs infected all the crops in their path, bringing the Canadian puck farming industry to its knees.

The formerly burgeoning puck farms are now revisited. But this time, the once vigorous pucks, droop limply from the trees, no longer their vibrant black color, but sickeningly gray, decayng and desiccated. Think: leprosy, but with hockey pucks.

We then cut to the Canadian equivalent of the National Institutes of Health, where expert scientists weighed in on the situation. Using microscopic blowups, Canadians were told that, as the Dutch hockey teamed barnstormed the country, the “pucktacocci” spores from their sticks took to the air, ultimately penetrating the fundament of the deteriorating pucks. There is, as yet, no way to reverse the infestation, no protocol for keeping the virulence in check.

Actual hockey players were then interviewed, all of them understandably concerned. Without pucks, the game that they love is in terminal jeopardy. One player reminisced,

“When we were kids, we used to play hockey without a puck. But at the end of the game, we never knew who won.”

Also included were a series of unscripted “Person-In-The-Street” interviews. A camera was set up on the corner of a busy Toronto intersection, and random passersby were asked how they felt about the endangerment of our national game. One teary-eyed hockey fan could only say,

“It’s terrible.”

It appeared he might need to be sedated.

A beleaguered puck farmer is then shown, wondering where his future livelihood lay. He tried to diversify, planting a crop of lacrosse rackets, but his heart, he explained, just wasn’t in it.

Finally, the news anchor turned to the camera and made an appeal, soliciting donations to help find a cure for “Dutch Puck Disease.” In the end, the “Dean of Hockey Broadcasting”, the iconic “Voice” of the Toronto Maple Leafs, Foster Hewitt, sitting behind a large, oak desk in his office, injected his own heartfelt plea:

“Send a buck, and save a puck.”

And that, more or less, was that.

Words cannot do justice to the presentation. I wish you could see it. But even if you could, its impact would be considerably watered down unless you were able to think like a Canadian.

And I’m not sure if that’s even possible.

"Old Business"

I received this comment on August the 26^th, but other stuff intervened, and I was unable to respond as quickly as I wanted to. Now, finally, I have time. So here it is.

I wrote a post called “Inflationary Hearing” (August 26). In it, I talked about people on both ends of the political spectrum who, when they hear the opposition promoting a minimally threatening idea – I used examples involving gun and abortion rights concerns – their brains instantly inflate that proposal to its most imperiling extreme. Commenter Ger Apeldoorn accurately, I think, described it as “a tendency to interpret anything that is said to them as an attack.”

My point was that “inflationary hearing” is a troubling obstacle to any effort to reach, not solutions, these issues will always be contentious, but reasonable compromises that people of good will can live with.

A commenter, monikered Lord Lillis commented:

“These are what I call your “Crotchety Alter-Cocker” pieces. Adding, “Personally, I don’t care for them.” The Lord then adds, “But I wonder: should you do more of them so you get better (at the risk of losing readers like myself) or do less (because they aren’t your forte and they don’t kill like you camping pieces.”

Okay. One thing at a time.

What’s a “Crotchety Alter-Cocker”? (I know. But you may not.)

“Alter-Cocker” is Yiddish for “old fart.” “Crotchety” is English, so no translation is necessary.

Next.

In my view “Inflationary Hearing” is not one of my “Crotchety Alter-Cocker” pieces.

This is.

But that isn’t.

To me, a “Crotchety Alter-Cocker” piece involves a writer, nostalgic for his past, offering “things were better then” comparisons like,

“In my day movies were a quarter and popcorn was a dime.”

“Inflationary Hearing” had nothing to do with nostalgia. It had to do with my oft-mentioned concern that people have stopped hearing what their ideological opponents are saying to them, and instead hear only red flags and fire alarms.

“Inflationary Hearing” has resulted in a polarized environment the likes of which this country has never seen before. Yes, I know about the Civil War. It’s in all the history books. But even in the Civil War era, though each side deeply believed that the other side was wrong – “Slavery is wrong!” “Overruling ‘States’ Rights’ is wrong!” – they did not, as they do today, believe the other side is crazy. Or, from the Right’s perspective, “going straight to hell.”

“Inflationary Hearing” was what I hoped was a thoughtful offering, whose inclusion in a blog entitled Just Thinking seems, to me, entirely “title appropriate.”

Lord Lillis wonders if I should do more “Crotchety Alter-Cocker” pieces, in his words, “so you get better.” At first, this stung.

“I need to get better?”

Ouch! And then whoh! How could I have so erroneously overestimated my performance? At the time, I felt that “Inflationary Hearing” successfully delivered on my intentions.

But now, I have to admit I was wrong.

Although criticism has never been my favorite form of acknowledgement, it is difficult to deny that, had I written “Inflationary Hearing” better, Lord Lillis – though he might still have found it not to his liking – he would at least not have miscategorized his complaint under “Crotchety Alter-Cocker” pieces.

Instead, Lord Lillis would have focused on the flaws in my argument, or that the argument was indifferently delineated. He might also have gotten what I was going for, but respectfully disagreed. The nature of his criticism, however, is not along those lines. Though it possibly might be, were I to more carefully read between them.

I believed that Lord Lillis had played the “Alter Cocker” card inappropriately. It was only when, around the same time as the criticism, some fortuitous reading matter came my way, that I started to re-think my position, and wonder if Lord Lillis might actually be correct after all.

The Round Robin is a “Psychologists-Psychoanalyst Practitioners” newsletter. I am not a subscriber myself, but it comes to Dr. M, and when she spots an article she thinks I’d appreciate, she passes it along to me.

Which is how I got to read, “Notes on an Application of Psychoanalytic Thought” by Richard Grose, Ph.D., LP. (Don’t ask me what LP is. To me, it’s a long-playing record.)

Examining a seminal moment in our history, Dr. Grose argues that, without knowing it, the Founding Fathers had drawn on psychoanalytic principles, while engaging in the excruciating process of hammering out the articles of what would ultimately become the United States Constitution.

Case In Point:

James Madison adamantly opposed the proposal that all the states should be represented equally in Congress, finding such a distribution of power inconsistent with the importance and prosperity of the larger states.

The smaller states, however, fearing marginalization, announced that, that without equal representation, they would refuse to ratify the Constitution, the result being, no United States of America.

This is a really big deal, right? Something needed to be done, or a nation that had just been established would have their name taken off the globe.

A compromise was suggested – which will sound familiar, because it’s what we’ve got today – called “divided sovereignty”, wherein the number of representatives per state in the House would be determined on the basis of population, but in the Senate, the states, no matter their size, would each be allotted the same number of senators, that number being two.

Madison also hated this compromise, fighting tooth and nail – and apparently not always respectfully – against it. However, realizing he lacked the votes to defeat it, and also realizing that the country would go “bye-bye” without some form of accommodation, Madison ultimately surrendered to the position of the majority.

Now, get this. Quoting Dr. Grose:

“Later, after the Convention finally finished its work, while arguing for the Constitution in the Federalist Papers, Madison wrote eloquently in praise of the concept of divided sovereignty – which he had done so much to try to forestall.”

He fought. He lost. He thought it over. And he changed his mind.

Awright, Madison!

On the re-think, ala Madison, I have come to believe that Lord Lillis was accurate. “Inflationary Hearing” was a “Crotchety Alter-Cocker” piece. But I am not the trumpeting the “things were better then” of my youth.

I am nostalgic for the Eighteen Century!

Thank you Lord Lillis for drawing that to my attention. I am really going to have to watch myself.

I swear to you.

I had no idea I was doing it.

"A Farewell To Summer"

It happens this time every year

And now it’s happening once more

The day I say a sad “Goodbye”

To summer slipping out the door

I ache inside to see it go

While writing this I almost cried

You ask me why it means so much

The answer: simply look outside

Magnificence from wall to wall

The warming sun the sky bright blue

The air is sweet the breeze is light

The strollers smile the birds sing too

The kids can play outside till late

The days are long as long can be

Illusions of extended life

Imagined immortality

Inevitably fall arrives

The leaves turn gold that once were green

It’s hard to fault a time of year

That dresses up like Halloween

The energizing primal pace

The bracing nip autumnal smells

It’s not the season I dislike

It’s everything that fall foretells.

The Arctic gusts the chill that burns

The ink-black skies the locks that froze

The icy stairs endangering hips

The loss of feeling in my toes

Beyond the seasonal distress

For me the wintertime’s the worst

On December the Thirtieth my father died

My Mom, on January First.

It’s crazy stupid wrong it’s dumb

It makes no sense bypasses reason

But putting elements aside

I hate that unforgiving season

It’s true a season’s in between

It’s premature to feel dismay

But signs will surely soon arrive

Their message: Winter’s on its way

Though gratitude’s the proper stance

For summer’s recent splendid show

Where “Thank you” is the thing to say

A wrenching voice intones.

“Don’t go.”

"It Takes All Kinds"

Here’s an unusual thing for a writer to reveal:

I am almost entirely lacking in imagination.

It’s not like I wouldn’t like to have the ability to craft soaring scenarios entirely out of the air. It’s just not what I do. It’s only a slight exaggeration to say, I cannot make anything up.

I look back on the toast I gave at Anna and Colby’s wedding (posted September 6), which went on, to positive effect, for close to ten minutes. Yet, virtually none of it was the product of a rich and fertile imagination. The toast’s contents, instead, derived almost entirely from observation and perspective, and the selection of specific incidents and descriptives.

Imagination had nothing to do with it.

Let’s deconstruct the toast, and see how much of it is simply the facts.

My first comment concerned the wedding preparations: “I played my part in sprucing up the festivities. I bought a new net for the basketball hoop in the driveway.”

That’s exactly what I did. And the only thing I did.

I then “umbrellaed” my “Anna Stories” under the structural headline: “Bonding Moments”, chronicling three reminiscences, all of them true.

Did they hand newborn Anna to me directly after she was born?

They did.

Did I dump her, I mean, drop her off at the “newborn room”?

As quickly as I could.

Did newborn Anna cry so loud, she was almost immediately handed back to me?

The girl was barely out of my arms.

(Did the other newborns take a vote and throw her out of the room? No. Newborns can’t vote. But it was apparent that the hospital nurses, channeling the newborns’ wishes, had voted on their behalf.)

Did Anna tumble off the toilet during “potty training” and land on her head?

She did.

Were we subsequently called to a conference with Anna’s Kindergarten teacher, who reported Anna’s alarming deficiency in her ability to use a scissors?

We were.

(The connection I made between the fall and her condition, asserting that “the fall had irreparably damaged the ‘Scissors Function’ in her brain” is admittedly speculative, but hardly beyond the realm of possibility.)

Did I require Anna and myself to cross the freeway on foot, to get to the carousel on the Santa Monica Pier?

I did. And as I said, “It’s a great ‘Bonding Moment’…if you make it.”

Am I concerned that this insanity might evolve into a family “rite of passage” – “My father dragged me across this freeway; now it’s your turn”?

I am hopeful it won’t, but she is her father’s daughter.

I then bridged to my “Colby Stories” through the idea of “big transitions” using, again, an actual experience, in which, on the day we were leaving Freshman Anna behind at college, I did, indeed, step on an expensive pair of sunglasses, and brush my teeth with Ben-Gay.

Was my first encounter with Colby announced by a last minute “heads up”?

It was.

Did my “vigorous vetting process” of Colby abruptly end when I realized that “he listened and he laughed”?

That’s all I needed to know.

Was I once mesmerized, watching Colby, folding a sweater with infinite care and “engineering precision”, thus learning two more things about Colby – “He’s responsible and he’s neat”?

The guy was amazing. The only feat I’ve seen rivaling that tour de force was waiter in a fancy restaurant in Florence masterfully “boning” a fish. Both performances were wonders to behold.

Is Colby, at six-foot four, “a welcome addition to the Pomerantz gene pool”?

Duh.

Which was followed by my one joke:

“Six-foot four is a Pomerantz standing on a chair.”

I went back and forth on that one, but it was too good to exclude.

A ten-minute oration. Entirely lacking in magnificent flights of fancy brilliantly conjured by the finest imaginations, which, for better or worse, does not include mine.

I simply don’t have those skills.

Or, going slightly deeper, maybe I do have them, but feel uncomfortably using them.

I once wrote a comedy piece for a Lily Tomlin Special in which a politician is strapped to a “Lie Detector” device, and every time he utters statements that are less than truthful, a buzzer goes off, repeatedly, until the lying weasel finally comes clean.

I strongly identify with that situation. Somewhere inside me, I believe that, if what I say – or write – is not entirely factually accurate, an intrusive buzzer will go “Ehhh!!!” exposing me as a prevaricator and a fraud.

So I stick exclusively to the truth.

Does it limit me creatively?

Absolutely.

But it’s the kind of writer I am.

"Getaway - Epilog(ue)"

When you visit Michiana* after Labor Day…

* For more recent readers, our cabin is located on the corner of Chickadee Trail and Michiana Drive. The area is called Michiana, because it’s right on the border. Our cabin is situated in Indiana (which is on Central Time) and directly across the street from us is Michigan (which is on Eastern Time.) When our Michigan neighbors are yawning because it’s ten P.M., we Indianans are still going strong because it’s only nine. They also wake up an hour earlier, but they’re very good about not making a racket, so we can sleep in as late as they did. It’s the neighborly thing to do.

Labor Day is the traditional “end of summer” cut-off point. After that, it’s close up the cabin, and back to school. Due to Anna and Colby’s wedding and its myriad arrangements, we were unable to get to Michiana before Labor Day. Rather than not going at all, we decided to go after.

The experience was different.

Per exemplo…

Redamak’s, a packed to the gills Michigan hamburger joint during the summer season where it’s the norm to wait a half hour or more for a table, was, after Labor day, virtually empty. It was like the neighboring area had been hit by plague, and ninety per cent of the population had been decimated.

Either that, or Redamak’s had recently botulized a few customers with tainted hamburger meat and the word had gotten out, just not to us.

In either case, it was weird to be seated immediately. I was tempted to ask, “Could we just wait on these benches a while? It seems wrong to go right in.” But I didn’t. We went right in. Our order arrived in five minutes. It would have been faster, but they had to wake up the chef.

One of our favorite places to shop in nearby New Buffalo, Michigan, is called Michigan Thyme (get it? – it’s a play on words). Along with an adjoining diner, the Michigan Thyme emporium offers knickknacks, men’s and women’s summer wear, and a variety of frozen soups, which are homemade and delicious.

When we opened the freezer compartment to check out the selections, we were confronted by a substantial “Post Labor Day” reduction in options. Instead of a dozen choices, there were only, like, four. It was as if, when summer officially “left the building”, it had departed with soup.

Then there’s Michigan City’s outlet mall, the Lighthouse, an obligatory tourist destination on every visit. Understandably, by after Labor Day, the merchandise in every outlet had been scrupulously picked over, leaving remaining size options suitable for only football players and Little People, and items of clothing that, when you looked at them, you knew immediately why they were still there.

Indianans, and nearby Illinoisans and Michiganders, desperate for bargains during the worst economy since the Depression, had still said “No way” to these fashion failures, even at rock bottom prices, and I’m talking “Twenty Per Cent Off”, after fifty per cent had already been taken off. My math skills being what they are, I have no idea what that made the final price. I just know I picked up a not entirely hideous sports shirt for thirteen dollars. In L.A., thirteen dollars is the buttons.

I may be unfairly maligning the local populace here, but I had a rather chilly exchange with an employee at the township business office, suggesting an, at least unconscious, irritation that, after Labor Day, some tourists were still around. The employee understood she had to tolerate them over the summer, but after Labor Day?

“Gimme a break!”

When I walked into her office, she was talking on the phone. It sounded like personal call, which she remained engrossed in, right up to the point where I might have complained about her behavior to her superiors. When she finally hung up, I immediately got down to business.

“Every year I come in here to ask if you have any “Michiana” t-shirts in adult sizes, which is what I’m doing right now. So do you?”

The woman’s response was noteworthily unfriendly, maybe because my arrival required to her to curtail her phone call, maybe because I had jumped in without a “Hello.” Or maybe because she was annoyed that all the tourists hadn’t already gone home, a sentiment I am not entirely immune to, having dealt with dawdling departing guests from the wedding.

Concerning my interest in adult-sized “Michiana” t-shirts, the woman brittlely replied,

“Somebody talked about getting some. But I don’t know if they did.”

“Is there any way of finding out?”

“There’s a council meeting tomorrow at three. I could ask then.”

“Great. I’ll come back around four.”

“We’ll be gone by four. Come back on Monday.”

“We’re leaving Sunday. Are you open on the weekend?”

“No.”

At that was that. Small town hospitality? It’s “iffy” in the off-season.

The trip was, as always, wonderful. I will mention one last story. When Dr. M entered our cabin after an excursion to the mailbox – mostly flyers and solicitations from local charities – the stack of mail also included a letter, personally addressed to me.

I tore open the envelope to find a note, handwritten in pencil, that read,

Dear Earl,

My family and I live in your area. We have been unable to speak with you personally, but I wanted to share a thought from the Bible with you.

The letter goes on to discuss concerns relating to my Immortal Soul, offers an accompanying “tract” from the Bible from which she hopes I will find encouragement, and is finally signed,

Sincerely, Allison Dobis.

Of all the joys of our recent visit to Michiana, unquestionably the greatest joy of all was being absent from the cabin the day Allison Dobis knocked on our door.

"Getaway - Part Two"

Sadly, arriving in Indiana on a Wednesday, we had missed the New Laporte’s Theater’s “Four Dollar Tuesday”, a night when all movie tickets were – duh! –four dollars. (A couple of years ago, at, what I guess was the old Laporte Theater, tickets used to be two-fifty. And not long before that, a buck and a half. We always wondered how the movie owners could stay in business. The answer, apparently, was, they couldn’t. Enter the New Laporte Theater, with their jacked up prices.)

Our movie tickets cost five-fifty. (As compared to thirteen dollars in L.A.) However, we lucked into “Free Popcorn Thursday”, where we each received, free of charge, a couple of bucks worth of popcorn, lowering our overall outlay to less than four dollars, assuming we had attended “Four Dollar Tuesday” and bought popcorn. Five-fifty minus two dollars – we were ahead!

It was all good, as they say, or maybe they don’t anymore, I am not one to stay current with the latest patois. It was all good, that is, except for the movie, which was

The Help.

Oh, my.

I know it’s a hit. But, as network executives never tired of saying about my scripts, I have “problems.”

Problem One: The Southern accents.

Maybe it’s just me, but even when real Southerners speak with Southern accents, I have the distinct feeling that they’re putting me on. And their accents are good. Actors imitating Southerners, to my ear, sounds like the mirth-inducing imitations in a High School Civil War pageant.

“Gen’l Lee, suh, Gen’l Beauregard regrets to infohme you that da Yankees have broken through awr lahn.”

So there’s that.

Then – I just took a deep breath, because this is unlikely to be popular. Oh, well – so be it.

Okay. Here’s how Wikipedia capsulizes The Help:

An aspiring author during the Civil Rights movement decides to write a book detailing the African American maids’ point of view on the white families they work for and the hardships they go through on a day to day basis.

That’s the story. Now.

Imagine a movie about a black reverend, who, following a committed strategy of passive resistance, spearheads a crusade against racial discrimination, leading marches, delivering galvanizing speeches, and ultimately being assassinated on the balcony of his hotel room. That, of course, is Martin Luther King’s story, and it’s compelling and important because it happened.

The Help’s story – the maids’ bonding together to help a spunky young writer fashion an eye-opening expose – though it is presented as if it had, did not.

And on top of that, this story that didn’t happen is being presented to us fifty years after the fact. This story that didn’t happen is hardly a recent story.

Personal outrages against black servants (presumably) no longer take place, at least not as blatantly and openly. What then does this leave us? It leaves us with a movie about a fabricated event, set in sixties Mississippi, watched by a “right thinking” white audience, absorbing these deplorable shenanigans, and collectively patting itself on the back.

Dr. M, who read the book and enjoyed it, believes it’s just not a very well made movie. If she’s right and the movie was better, perhaps my reaction to it would have been different.

The following evening, we took in a production at the Dunes Summer Theater – where a company of local amateurs mounted one of my all-time favorite musicals, A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum.

We have enjoyed many satisfying shows at the Dunes. I once had the experience of seeing The Pirates of Penzance there one night, and the very next night, seeing a Broadway musical in New York City. I honestly thought that the Dunes production was better.

This time, not so good. Forum’s comedic precision was a little too demanding for this energetic ensemble to handle.

Example:

Setting up the song “Everybody Ought To Have A Maid”, the actor playing the randy older character named “Senex”, leered suggestively towards the audience, and proclaimed,

“I like maids; they’re neat. Maids like me; I’m neat.”

The correct – and funny – version of the line is actually this:

“Maids like me; I’m neat. I like maids; they’re neat.”

You see the difference?

It was that kind of all evening.

Our third evening, we attended a concert of “Chamber Blues”, featuring what Corky Siegel, the creator of this synthesis called blues “opuses”, blending Siegel’s piano and harmonica riffings with chamber music instrumentation. Sometimes, the fusion of the two genres was irresistible. Other times, it was champagne and Pepsi.

Our favorite form of Indiana entertainment by far?

Nature.

We saw seven deer. Well, Dr. M saw seven deer. I actually saw two. But I trust her on the seven. To my knowledge, she has never padded a “deer count.” She tried hard on the other five. “You see them? Over there, between those two trees.” I just saw the two trees. Though I did spot the two deer, gamboling on the runway of a local airport. I am grateful for the sighting. As well as the opportunity to use the word “gamboling” before I die.

The trees offered early glimpses of autumnification. Random leaves fluttered towards the ground. Others were etched with yellow, headed towards gold and, for the future “knockouts”, red.

Birds of various species could be heard, and, on occasion, spotted. Blue Jays, cardinals, whippoorwills, woodpeckers. We saw migrating Canada Geese heading for Florida, their birdbrains abuzz with the question,

“Why would anybody stay?”

Best of all, however, was the Indiana weather. Sunny days. Cloudy days. Rainy days. Blackening skies, portending a downpour. We reveled in the variety, so different from our experience in Santa Monica, which offers the meteorological consistency of an oil painting.

I like what we get. But the change is refreshing. Especially when I know I’ll be out of there before “sleet.”

I am strictly a Weather Tourist. It is pleasant to visit. But when real inclemency threatens, I will happily retreat to “seventy-two and sunny.”

I must be part Canada Goose. I too have wondered,

“Why would anybody stay?”

"Getaway"

All in all, from the time the first attendees arrived till the time the last ones left, our celebration lasted almost a week, an Indian wedding without the elephants. After the final “goodbyes”, Dr. M and I repaired to our cabin in Indiana for a few days of much needed R & R.

It went like this:

When we stepped out of O’Hare Airport, the sharp, autumnal chill in the air sent a clear and personal message:

“You have packed the wrong clothes.”

-----------------------------------------------

Before departing Chicago for our cabin, it had become our habit to make a pilgrimage to a locally famous food stand called Johnnie’s, to partake of their wonderful Italian beef sandwiches, which are so succulently juicy, they come with a discount coupon to a dry cleaners. Everyone drips the au jus on their pants, not just me. Though I may be slightly more flagrant. You can barely tell what color my pants used to be.

On our way over to Johnnies, I noticed these signs, prominently displayed outside places of business:

Goldy Locks

(“They’ll remember us. We’re the ‘funny locksmiths.’”)

A medical franchise (we saw numerous branches on the way to Johnnies) called, ominously, at least to my ears,

Resurrection Health Care

(“Do we have to pay for the days we were dead?”)

We passed an Italian restaurant called

Capones

(“My great Uncle Al set my grandfather up here with a loan. Only charged us sixty per cent. Not till we paid off the loan. Forever. I’m still payin’ his grandson. Oh, yeah. My grandfather also had to ‘whack’ a guy. But that was a long time ago. He’d probably be dead by now anyway.”)

We noted the curious incongruity of an office called the

Advanced Dermatology and Urology Center

(“For pimples, and pee problems.”)

And then there was

Fit 2B Tied Formal Wear

(“The ‘2B’ saved us two letters worth of sign paintage. The name makes no sense, but at least it’s shorter.”)

Just stuff you notice on the way over to Johnnies.

--------------------------------------------------

The trip started great right from the top. For the first time ever, we caught every green light on the street going to the airport. When we checked in, we discovered we could depart on an earlier flight, cutting our waiting time in half. We were also assigned the bulkhead seats, offering the extremely desirable – especially to folks of advancing years – extended legroom.

From previous commutes to our cabin, we were prepared for:

Severe traffic on the I-294.

There was no traffic at all.

We expected serious delays due to highway construction, a frustrating constant for the past twenty-five years.

There was no highway construction whatsoever.

Arriving at our cabin, we anticipated the possibility of being unable to get inside. (We once had to call an “‘All Night’ Locksmith” at midnight, because torrential summer rains had warped the doorjambs, causing our lock to become unaligned.)

This time, our lock worked impeccably.

As did the electricity, the hot water, the sewage pipes, the refrigerator, the stove, the shower, the fireplace, and the washer/dryer. Our new shed looked beautiful. (A falling tree had decimated a previous shed.) And there were not a single mosquito in sight. The cabin itself was virtually spotless, and relatively dust-free. Rather than taking two hours or more to make the place livable, it took twenty minutes. And the…

RED FLAG TO WRITERS AND PROSPECTIVE WRITERS:

If you encounter no problems in what you’re going through, your stories will be

BORING!!!

So, when the irritating, the annoying and the unexpected occur, remember:

“At least I’ve got something to write about.”

To make up for the foregoing – which was informative without being worthwhile – I will reward your forbearance with one of the funniest lines I have ever heard.

I read it in the memoir Yosarian Slept Here, written by Erica Heller, the daughter of the revered Catch-22 writer, Joseph Heller. Erica describes a family trip she experienced as a teenager to Paris and Rome, where they took in all the traditional places of interest. At the end of an exhausting day of sightseeing, Erica’s ten year-old brother, a Jewish youngster of minimal worldliness, inquired,

“Who was the guy on the ‘t’ in all the churches?”

Take a moment to savor the deliciousness.

And I’ll see you tomorrow.