Nothing Vital. I was just thinking.

Here's how I remember it. If any of my siblings read this and have a different recollection, lemme know.

My mother was not a casserole maker. I remember one occasion when she made some kind of casserole and my dad complained or questioned what the "dish" (not his word probably) might be and maybe questioned her wisdom in making it. He was a meat and vegetables man. Soups were welcomed, even spaghetti and chili, but not casseroles. I mean, I only remember that one occasion when Mama put a casserole before us.

*     *     *

On the other hand, my mother-in-law was a casserole maker. And that fact explains why I had to make tuna casserole--my husband's favorite, if such a thing is possible--and Doritos casserole and tamale pie. My family liked those dishes, except for the tuna casserole. They still bring up the subject of tuna casserole from time to time. It's kind of a cross I have to bear.

My mother-in-law gave me the recipe for Doritos casserole and for tuna casserole, which I didn't make exactly as she did--the tuna casserole, I mean. Wayne noticed, but I don't think he complained exactly.

I found my own recipe for tamale pie, which he loved. Maybe that was his favorite; he once said he could eat tamale pie every week. I couldn't fix it every week, though. No, I couldn't, even though I liked it, too.

Shepherd's Pie, I don't know if she ever made it, but I did.

There.

It's good to know these things

Here's a little quiz for you.

Well, not exactly a quiz because I'll be telling the answers here. But anyway.

Let's say you have a box of graham crackers and you pull out one of the packets of crackers. How many graham crackers are in that packet? That's the quiz question.

Here's the answer. Nine.

Certainly you have noticed the box getting thinner as the years have gone by. I have.
Perhaps you don't count the graham crackers. I do. And I know there used to be 12 crackers in a packet. Just right for the Yum-yums recipe my mother-in-law passed along to me.

So I noticed when there were only 11. A couple of years later, 10. Now nine. This means that instead of getting 36 graham crackers in a box, we're getting 27, and don't be thinking the price has gone DOWN. No sirree. It keeps going up.

I suppose it's possible they could cut it down to eight. Heck, I know it's possible. And then what?

Here's what I don't know. Are the graham crackers themselves as big as they used to be? I hope so. I'm making Yum-yums today, and I want them to be at least okay.

A Little Surprise

I have a box of recipes. They're written on scraps of paper and, when I had them, 4x6 cards.  I have alphabetical dividers in there too.

That's the back story.

Today I was looking through the D section, looking for a dumpling recipe. Didn't find one. But I did find a card with a recipe for a dill dip. I don't make it any more, but apparently, one of my children was not fond of it when I did make it.

The top of the card shows the name of the recipe, of course.  This one reads Dill Dip  is gross.

Made me laugh. Laughing still.

Hmph!

I know very well that I speak for the minority here. Truly the minority. But I must speak because I really do object to what's going on at the local Winco. That's a grocery store.

A grocery store that is now being turned into a saloon. Our Winco, where I shop often, has, just as you come away from the cashier, a pizza and growler bar. I once thought, silly me, that a growler might be a sandwich. No. It's beer on tap.

You can bet I don't like that development. Pretty sure Fred Meyer up on the hill will do the same. I've seen the growler equipment there.

Do I want to walk around the store with my fellow shoppers while they're drinking beer? No.

But, you say, its location is near the exit. So do I want to drive with folks who have a beer in hand? No.

Yes, yes, I know. Mine is the minority position.

Addendum:
So maybe they just fill big bottles with beer. I don't know for sure. 

And . . .

speaking of overused,

What about our* old favorite, awesome?
No example needed.

*by "our" I don't mean "mine." I mean it's ubiquitous. You know it is. And overused.

Also overused

Perfect, as in when you're talking to the dr's scheduler to make an appointment. For instance,

Scheduler: Can you spell your last name for me?
Me: S c h i e s s
Scheduler: Perfect. And what's your birth date?
Me: 9 2 40
Scheduler: Perfect.

Really, I'm fine.

Okay. It's what I thought about when I couldn't sleep. Well, there were other things, too. But here's the one thing I chose to write today:

Night falls, but morning breaks.

Explain that to me.

Overused

Two words I'm sick of hearing:

1. virtually - which means not really, so that your insurance that covers "virtually" everything really doesn't
2. iconic - everything is iconic these days

Don't be thinking what you're thinking. I know what I'm talking about.

Here's the thing. When your hair is white, you are invisible. That's one thing. Here's another. Men, if they do see you, think they can say stupid little cutesie things to you, because you are old, and you will love it. You will be glad and grateful for the attention. And clearly they think old women are stupid, without functioning brains.

So yesterday, at Albertsons, people were giving out samples of food--sushi, shrimp, and sections of Clementines (mandarin oranges). The guy handing out the oranges was probably early 50s, if that old.

Here is what he said to me. "You behaving yourself?"

He could have said, "Here. Have a section of orange." Or the like. But I know very well he thought he could ask "You behaving yourself?" because I'm old, and he thought I'd be flattered by the attention and say something like, "Sure trying to."

I have told this incident to my sister, who says I am wrong about it. He may have been flirting--not exactly her word. But I say this: No. He is at least twenty years younger than I. No. I cannot see him saying such a thing to a young woman. That would establish a different context entirely. And No. I have had experiences like this before, people--that's people I don't know--calling me dear, hon, even sweetie, and adopting a certain tone of voice that underscores my age and their ignorance.

I don't like it.

So I did not reply like a sweet old lady. Instead I said, "Why would you ask that question?"

For a moment he looked crest-fallen (an expression only old people use), but he did recover, and he said, "Rumors."

I laughed, moved him up a notch or two in my estimation of his sense and smarts, and said, "Good answer." Then I walked away and ate my mandarin orange segment. I've tasted better.

Wilford Charles Brimley

If my dad were here and counting, he would be 123 years old today. My, my.

Born in 1891, he lived in the 19th and 20th Centuries. I don't know what he remembered of the late 1800s. He never talked to me about it.

He lived through the Great Depression, as did my mother, and I believe the Brimley family he grew up in never had a lot of anything. I remember hearing that one of the Brimley brothers got the family into debt--business failure?--and my dad's dad, rather than declare bankruptcy, paid it off. It took a long time to clear the debt.

This story is sketchy in my memory, but I think it's something like what I just wrote, and I didn't make it up.

Anyway, my dad was frugal, a bargain hunter (food and houses, and there are many stories about both or either house or food bargains) and a make do kind of man. I don't think he and my mom clashed much about that kind of thing, but, then, I wouldn't really know, would I.

I know they agreed on this point: Stay out of debt.

So my mother was no spendthrift, but, while she was careful, she liked her kids to have something nice, including music lessons, dance lessons, even oil painting lessons. Not to mention something nice to wear and a home they could bring their friends to--a presentable place to live. Daddy provided for that, and so did she. She taught piano for most of her life, single and married, and taught school, too.

One thing I took for granted, something not everyone can, my mom and dad loved each other, and they loved their family. We were safe with them.

Staying out of debt is one of the important lessons I learned from my dad.

He also taught me to love avocados, and my favorite way to eat them is the way I saw my dad eat them--a piece of whole wheat bread (I make my own, Daddy), avocado mashed on the bread, with plenty of pepper on top. I do use pepper but not in the amounts my dad did. And I might toast the bread.

Happy Birthday, my dear Daddy.

About a dog, or dogs

I walked to the bank yesterday afternoon. As I walked back home, two dogs barked at me. These are dogs on my very own street, mind you.

They sounded angry, one big and scary, one small and nasty. Glad I was that they couldn't get out. I don't know their names, but I know the names of Shuells' dog, Dash, next door. He never barks at me anymore, and Contas' dog, Bailey, across the street. He is an inside dog, and I never hear him unless I ring their doorbell.

But there are the others, and they either bark or get out and wander and make nuisances of themselves. And somebody's dog is barking right now, this morning, as I write.

I counted the dogs in my small neighborhood--eleven. Or ten dogs and one hound. The hound and his companions belong to the Clarks. Clarks were here when we built this house. I don't know which of their dogs have lived that long, but they have always had dogs.

However, all the other dogs, including the two right next door on the other side who bark their heads off--well, not really, though I kind of wish they would--if I step out of my house, came after. So I think I have the right to say, "Look, this is my place, so pipe down." As if that would do any good.

Here I must mention the adventure with the three small dogs at Andrew and Michelle's house Monday night, not in my neighborhood but memorable.

It was a party for Jacob's 21st birthday, but guess who had the real party. That's right, Wilbur (he's little but a big pain), Ready (the little dog whose insides are outside and who wears clothes because she is always cold and who chews her own feet a lot), and George and Betty's dog, Moochie or Smoochie (who is just a quiet sweet little dog at home, but not when he/she gets with others of her kind).

Here's the thing. I like dogs. I sometimes think of getting one. I also sometimes think of getting a new car, which I do not need.

I'll probably get a new car before I get a dog.

What a person can see right here in Boise

Yes, I saw the lunar eclipse. As I drove to the temple last Wednesday morning at 5 a.m. the moon was red and right in front of me the whole way. It was thrilling.

*     *     *

Yes, I saw two great blue herons yesterday as I walked. They did not seem to be together, although they both circled over the river, one right above my head, and landed in a tree--not the same tree--along the river. Such majestic birds, and they look very important as they fly.

Of Dogs and Poems, for Ann to Ponder

Elizabeth Barrett, before she married Robert Browning, wrote a long poem to and about her beloved dog, Flush.

Flush was a cocker spaniel, and, if you read her poem, you will see that he was beloved indeed. It was almost a spiritual relationship. She would offer prayers while resting her hand on his head, with its gold ringlets. And so on.

I have to confess the poem was a bit much for me. Kind of like the Sonnets to the Portuguese, but to a dog. I had to drink water after I read it.

Three times Elizabeth paid a ransom to dognappers who took Flush. That is not a poem or in the poem. That is simply the truth.

I don't know if it was the same guy, taking the dog three times, or three different dognappers. I do know, or I'm pretty sure, that the dognappers were men. But that, while an interesting idea for me to suggest, is not the point here.

The point is that I do understand loving a dog. I loved our dog, Sweetiepie. And I despise anyone who would take someone's beloved dog and hold it for money. I will not get into the subject of kidnapping because I can hardly think of such things without becoming ill. I'm serious.

There is something else I thought of. After she married Robert Browning, what of Flush? Of that I know nothing. Maybe with a husband, she didn't need a dog. What do you think?

It's an Idaho Tradition, I guess

Many years ago, when we lived in Caldwell, we would see houses toilet papered, even our own house on a few occasions. But never have I seen a more beautiful toilet papering than the one in my neighborhood, done Friday night. So much toilet paper in so many trees, and so high up.

I walked over and told Jeff, the dad in that house, it was the most beautiful toilet papering I had seen in many years, and I asked how they could get the toilet paper so high.

"They just pitch it," he said. Jeff is clearly an athlete, very trim and muscled, so pitching it seemed no big thing.

Well, I knew they pitched it. But it's really high.

It's in honor of his daughter, an athlete at Timberline High School and also the perpetrator--with her friends--of a toilet papering of some of the football team guys. So it's payback.

She was not at home, but I met Charles and Solomon, her brothers, who were helping their dad with the clean-up. Big job. Really big job. Too bad they can't use all that toilet paper. I mean for its intended purpose.

Jeff is the guy who shoveled my driveway a few winters ago. He is principal at Meridian High School, where Solomon intends to go. Solomon is about nine or maybe 10. I asked him, "Is that because your dad is the principal?"

Solomon said it's because, "I want to help out their sports."

Could be, you know. He and Charles are out there shooting baskets a lot.

Surely you know what I 'm talking about--toilet papering a house.

Watch what you say

In our family we love words. And the misuse of them. One of our all-time favorites is the one our kids brought home from seminary many years ago. Their teacher, a fine fellow, was talking about something hard to understand and said, "I just can't phantom that."

*     *     *

Sunday I heard a couple of good ones, both from Lola.

Jeff has gone back to school. He's in English 102, a freshmen writing class. They were to write an analysis of a particular Star Wars movie, which Jeff did. In their group discussion of the essays, Jeff read his paper and came to a part where he spoke of the Light Saber. As soon as he read it, another student in the group said, "What did you say?"

Jeff said, "What?"

"What did you call that thing?"

"Oh," said Jeff, "Light Saber."

"Light Saber? Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure. Light Saber."

"Oh man," said the other student, "all through my paper I'm calling it the Light Saver."

*     *     *

Overheard in a doctor's waiting room.

Two men talking.

First man: So what do you do for a living?

Second man: I used to drive a bus, but now I'm retired. Medically retired.

First man: Oh. Bummer.

Second man: No it's good, really. Now I don't have to put up with all that rigor mortis of driving the bus.

What do you think of this?

My grandson works at Fred Meyer, in the meat department. He used to work in the Deli.

At our family dinner Sunday he was telling us that the Fred Meyer Deli does not make its own bread/buns for the deli sandwiches. In fact, the in-store bakery doesn't really bake anything.

All breads, cookies, cakes, and donuts come already made and baked, he told us. The donuts come in a box. The cakes come in boxes. And so on. He did not know where they come from.

Yesterday I was at Walmart. A young woman was setting out baked goods, so I asked her if the bakery there bakes them.

No. The bakery there bakes nothing. Everything comes in boxes, already baked. The French bread, hoagie buns, cakes, donuts (I know, it's really doughnuts), cookies, everything baked comes already baked. Or as we say in today's culture, pre-baked.

They do warm up the donuts before setting them out for sale, she told me.

"Where does it all come from?" I asked.

"Arkansas," she said.

"That's pretty far away," I said.

"I know," she said.

And then I remembered that Walmart's headquarters are in Arkansas.

"Hmmm," I said.

"Only Krispie Kream is doing the fresh donut baking. It's disappointing, isn't it." She said it. I agreed.

Now that I think of it, I'm sure it's the same story at Albertsons and Winco.

And so I wonder about eating out. Where does that stuff come from? I mean, we already know that most salads restaurants serve come out of a bag and taste of the stuff they treat the bag with.

Maybe we should just stay home and make our own food, most of it, anyway. That's what we used to do.

Picking at words

I walked to the bank today. It's open until 2 o'clock on Saturday. As I waited for a teller, I looked at one of the windows--it's not really a window; I suppose at one time it might have been more of a window; these days it's just the place the teller stands behind to help the customer, who stands in front of the "window."

It was closed, but the small name plate said,               Jane
                                                                           Head Teller

If you didn't know what it meant, you might think Jane had something to do with heads, like feeling the bumps on them, heads, and foretelling a person's future. Or maybe like just telling people they have heads.

That's not what it means.

     *     *     *

In a recent poem I wrote this phrase: some high-minded idea we have come up with.

So today I got to wondering where we get that phrase, come up with. What exactly does it mean? Do you know?

Out There in My Wild Front Yard

Two snakes in my front yard this afternoon. One, perhaps, the mother of the other, out showing her son how to navigate the yard.

They were not exactly together. At least I did not see them at the same time, but each time nearly stepped on them. The first one, bigger, wanted to bite me, if that's what the quick and repeated thrusting of the tongue means. And I think it is. I began walking right close to it, chasing it, sort of, and telling it whose yard this really is.

No. I don't know what I would have done if I'd cornered him/her. She finally got away by slipping into a hole in the concrete under my front porch.

That was not comforting to me. I said, "Swell. How many of you are in there?" and headed toward my front door.

And that's when I nearly stepped on the smaller one. No tongue thrusting and, if I can be sure of this, the little snake was scared. I chased him to the chain link fence and finally into my neighbor's yard. He sought refuge from the big person--me--by hiding under some of their extensive ground cover. I figure as soon as I was in the house and the little snake felt safe, it joined the bigger one under my porch.

I don't like snakes. Really a lot I don't like them.

I especially don't like them on my property, although outside is much better than inside.

My neighbors, the ones whose yard is where the little snake escaped to, are the folks who say it's good to have these little snakes around because they eat mice.

Believe me, there is no way these snakes could get their mouths around a mouse. Grass hopper, maybe.

Peachy, Sort of

I worked at the cannery yesterday. On the line. Usually I work elsewhere, which I prefer. I prefer elsewhere. Like with the cans or whatever. But, no, not yesterday. No elsewhere for me. Right on the line, where the peaches come and come and keep on coming. I mean, in the four hours of our shift, they never stopped coming.

There is this about working on the line. You can get sick, as in dizzy, vertigo, which means you have to step back or look somewhere other than at the constantly moving whatever you call that belt. Or belts, as the case is.

Yes, a few times I had to step back so I wouldn't fall back. Or forward into the peaches, which would have been really bad.

One woman, probably my age or older, on the other side of the line never moved. She had a stool, and there she sat for all four hours, working on the peaches. I spoke to her about it afterward--which was maybe the high point of the morning. Not speaking to her, necessarily, but the afterward part. You know, it meant we were done.

I said, "You work hard. And I never saw you move." She did look at the clock once that I saw, but hey, I looked at the clock more than once.

She said, "I used to work on a production line. I like it." Which made people nearby say things like, "You like it?!" And so on.

All of this is not the main thing. The main thing is the peaches. They tumble down onto both sides of the belt where we, with our aprons, gloves, and hairnets--and beard nets where needed--await them. We pick up the ones to discard, and we work on the ones that have bits of skin on them or too much red where the seed was or even bits of seed. We don't have knives. We have little scoopy things. It's tedious. Okay?

Now, the peaches. I don't quite know how to speak of them. Let me just say--or begin by saying--I will not be buying any of them.

This does not mean that all of us on the line were less than careful and thorough, letting a few bad peaches slide by. No. It has do to with the quality of the peaches. We were instructed at the beginning to discard, put on the trash belt, peaches that were a) too green, as in green as a lime; b) peaches whose texture was mealy or mushy; c) peaches that just looked really bad. There were more than a few of each.

We were not allowed to eat any peach or any part of a peach. Not a problem. Trust me. If there is such  a thing as No. 1 peaches, these were not they. I'm sorry to say it.

Not to say all the peaches were bad. No. Not to say that.

And here's the deal. This reads like a complaint. Well, it isn't exactly, because I went, I worked, I helped, and I'm glad.

About My Dad

When my dad was 88, he did not take walks anymore. His cane stood idle by the front door. He mostly sat. My mother helped him into his chair and out of it, my mother, all 4'9" of her.

He'd call to her. "Lola." She'd come to pull and steady him, help him to the bathroom, help him to the kitchen, to the bedroom, help him into his clothes and out of them.

When I visited the last time before she died, I tried to get Daddy outside to walk. He said he couldn't. I said he needed the exercise.

He said the sidewalk was uneven; he couldn't see; he'd already fallen once on the front steps. It was all true.

I still see him buckling his belt that day, nearly weeping, shaking his head that he couldn't do it. I said sure he could. He was right, you know. He just couldn't do it. But I thought I could fix it, make him get outside and walk.

What did I know? I was trying to save my mother.

That is one moment I would like to have back. I would do it better.

The Truth At Last

Michael Sklarski smoked in fifth grade. I mean, by then he was a smoker, or so he insisted. I suppose it must have been true.

Michael consistently carried his pencil like a cigarette, and, unless Miss Meister was watching, frequently put the eraser end to his lips for an imaginary drag, then inhaled with a hiss and blew out the pretend smoke. Frequently.

He did these things so comfortable, so knowingly. And somebody said he had been seen somewhere away from school actually smoking.

Fifth grade is inhabited by 10-years-olds, as you know. I suspect that Michael, if he continued to smoke and is living, has lung or heart disease.

My diseases have not come from smoking. Or, I'll put it this way. My "diseases" did not come from smoking, although I did try it at around age 10. Maybe Michael's influence. Maybe not.

In the vacant lot across the street from our house, concealed by bushes, I smoked a Lucky Strike, or some of it. I know. It's shocking. But to continue the story . . .

Children are innocent, in my case ignorant, of many things, and I gathered a startling bit of knowledge from those few moments I spent in the hands of the L.S.M.F.T. people.

The smoke was hot in my mouth. I never expected that.

P.S. I have no idea how I came to possess a cigarette.

In Daddy's Office

I never knew anyone who could type faster than my dad. When he was gone, off selling life insurance, I'd sit at his little black L.C. Smith and let fly my fingers, typing as fast as I could, now and then hitting the space bar the way he did, and usually without paper, although I had been told not to type on the roller.

I always looked for paper on his desk but rarely found a piece that appeared unimportant. Everything my dad did seemed important.

Once I took a clean white letterhead (I should not have done that) and carbon paper and the yellow copy paper Daddy used. I stacked them together and typed out a letter. I could have typed a few real words by then, like cat and snow and soap and dog and Carol, and some others, but I was trying for speed, like my dad, for something important, like my dad, trying for the fast click clack sound my dad could make.

I couldn't do it. I could never do it.

The keys would jam together, and if I couldn't get them untangled, I'd have to sneak away, and hope Daddy didn't know who had been playing in his office.

Now I can type fast, but I use a computer, and the keys fairly fall down for me. Not like his old typewriter.

I wonder what my dad would think of that.

Back in 1945 Again

It isn't much of a story. I got lost at the beach. If I'd never been found, like the Lindbergh baby,* that would be a story. But I was found. Glad I am of it.

For my mother it was a story and, as far as she knew for that hour or so, this story might end as the more famous one had ended. Her little blond girl, a four-year-old, lost among the thousands of people celebrating the 4th of July that year, 1945, at the Santa Monica beach.

For me, I guess it was a matter of dress hems and pant legs and which to hold on to, a matter of walking along and feeling happy. That's what we were doing, and that's what I was feeling, happy. I do remember discovering that the pant legs I was holding on to were not my dad's. I don't know how that happened, but it did. Still, I don't remember feeling very frightened. Maybe I just knew they would find me.

For Mama, it was retracing steps, looking into the faces of people, asking strangers, sending Daddy running to the water's edge, more than once. This part I know from my older sister.

If I had been the mother, I would have argued against going to the beach that day. So many people. Hard enough to manage five children, one a four-year-old and one in a baby carriage, let alone keep track of another family. But my dad's brother Clyde had come from Utah, brought his wife, Fauntella, and their six kids. They would have coaxed to go to the beach, and the West Los Angeles Brimley kids, their cousins, wouldn't need much coaxing.

I'm guessing that Mama extracted promises from my older brothers and sister to look out for Carol. Maybe they forgot.

But here I am, so many years later, telling about it. See, I told you. Not much of a story.

* The kidnapping that shook the world and frightened parents. Even though it happened in 1932, it was still talked about and was still used by parents--like my mother--to warn and, yes, frighten their children. I was told many times not to talk to strangers, never to get into a car with someone I didn't know. I could be kidnapped. It did scare me, but not that day at the beach.

WWII History At Ayres Avenue

What day, exactly,  I began hearing the booming of big guns offshore I do not know. We lived on Ayres Avenue, 10600, in West Los Angeles, and I was a child of four, that I do know. This means it was 1945.

No one had to tell me what the guns were. They were the war, and I thought it had come to California.

Before that I knew only bits and could make little sense of them.

• Gasoline and sugar rationed--not sure I understood what that meant, although I remember seeing the ration books in our home, and I now know that my mother and father worried they didn't have enough gas to get to the hospital in Santa Monica so that Lucile could be born.
• FDR. The adults I knew had no use for him.
• Japan, Germany=enemy.
• Sailors wore bell bottom trousers and P-Coats.
• My brother Sterling wanted a P-Coat, which probably meant I wanted one, too. I loved him so much.
• Peeling the tin foil from gum wrappers, saving it for the war. Really?

The guns were loud and they made sense. They might shoot at our house. Should I stay inside? "No," my mother told me. "The guns belong to our Navy [so did the sailors I saw so often]. They're practicing."

One day, on my birthday, in fact, my mother and my Aunt Allie sat in the kitchen nook celebrating. I think Allie had a newspaper. The war was over, they told me.

The guns must have stopped then.

It's about my mother

After a walk along the green belt, I went to Winco. It's a market, as my mother would say. Other folks call such places grocery stores, but I'll stick with market . . . because of my mother and because it's one word, easier to say than grocery store.

And, speaking of my mother, the drive home was all about her because of the music playing on my radio. It was Chopin's Fantaisie Impromptu, played by Garrick Ohlsson, an American pianist, a piano competition prize winner, who is known for his Chopin performances.

And, by the way, in 1917, the song I'm Always Chasing Rainbows was published. The melody is adapted--or, as I say, stolen--from Chopin's Fantaisie. All of which is neither here nor there.

Because it's my mother who comes to mind when I hear the Fantaisie Impromptu because she played it. I don't know how many times I heard it in our house. Not enough, I say now. I can see her at the piano. She had many students, you know, and it wasn't often that she sat down just to play.

How I'd love to hear her play that lovely Chopin piece again.  I will never separate it from my mother.

Garbage can update

Dead squirrel, pickled.

That's what I have now, or, I mean, that's what the garbage can smells of.

Believe me. Words cannot convey anything close to what this smells like. And you can be glad, I think, that they don't.

Nick is the guy who said to pour vinegar in there. He almost guaranteed the vinegar would take care of the smell. Wrong.

Look. I went out and bought more vinegar after I ran out of what was in my pantry. So I didn't skimp on the vinegar part.

But, while you can--or, one can--smell the vinegar, and it's plenty strong, one cannot escape the dead squirrel smell. Will it ever be gone?

I'm pretty sure this is enough about that.

Events at my house

The sparrows are okay now. Painters are gone, and the new stain on the spindles of the deck where the birds live is no longer a curiosity to them. I'm pretty sure I could see confusion on their faces.

Can birds frown and look puzzled? A bit fearful? I think so, and I believe they can smell, and the stain did have an  odor, one they haven't known here before..

But they're back in their birdhouse, and tussling with other sparrows who want their place. All familiar and comfortable.

*     *     *

Did I mention the dead squirrel?

Daniel, who came to work/paint last Saturday, found it under my deck stairs. I saw it then. Clearly it was dead, not on its back, legs up, but splayed out flat on its stomach. Not dead for very long.

No idea what killed it.

But what to do with it was the real issue now. Daniel wrapped it in his paper and drop plastic and put it in my garbage can. It waited there until the following Thursday to be collected. I had to move the can halfway down the block because of the smell. When the painters came and parked their vehicles near it, they got a good breath full of dead squirrel.

Yes, they mentioned it. Sorry guys.

Since Thursday, when the squirrel got dumped into the big, big truck, I have worked to get the smell out of the can. I want a new can, by the way. But I have poured the vinegar in several times and left the thing open out in the sun. I will not get in and scrub. I know someone who did that with her garbage can and somehow the thing got shut on her. I say no way am I ever going to do that.

Did you want to know all this?

Harder than Killing Spiders

Sitting in my car, preparing to go in to Winco for some groceries, I heard something drop. It was my credit card, and it fell down between the seat and the center console. Fortunately, I could see it. Unfortunately, I could not get my hand down there, not from where I sat, not by reaching from the front under the seat. Raising, lowering, moving the seat back or forward did not help. I was able to grasp and retrieve a very old shopping list, not quite pertinent for the day's purpose. And no credit card.

By now I was sweating. I got out of the car, sent the seat all the way forward, and began to reach from the floor of the back seat.

I pulled out two pairs of dark glasses, and that made me laugh. I pulled out a dime. I can always use a little change. By the way, I know there's at least another quarter down there somewhere.

But no. I could not reach the credit card.

My hands were scratched and greasy now, but, as you might know, I had to keep trying. It's the credit card I use a lot. Blah, blah, blah. And, of course, you have guessed by now that I finally retrieved it. Yes, I reached around from another direction and got it, holding on tight so as not to drop it.

Here's the thing. It was no easy task.

All this to underscore what I have believed for a long time, like since my husband died: if you have to do something, you can do it, even if it seems impossible for you. And there have been things harder than reaching that credit card. Much harder.

A valuable lesson for me. If I have to do something, really have to, I can do it.

Painting

Do all workers. Oh come on, just say it. Do all men underestimate the time a job will take? Do they not see what will be required? That's pretty much my experience.

Don't get me wrong, unless you really want to. I am happy with their work. They're painting my house. It looks good. (I picked the colors.) They are thorough and, I hope, have good eyes.

The house was supposed to be power washed Friday, then they would come and paint Monday and Tuesday. Period.

The guy came to wash on Thursday, without hoses. But nevermind. Two guys came Friday, Ed and Daniel. ED was here at 6:20 and Daniel about a half hour later. They worked hard until around 3. Daniel called Saturday and asked if he could come and work. Of course, said I. He worked until he ran out of paint, around 1. He wanted to come Sunday, but I said no.

Monday Ed and Tim and Toby came. They said they'd finish up today, Tuesday. That's today, as I said. We shall see.

I say again. I'm happy with their work, just wish it were all done. It's that I have no privacy.

And that the next door neighbor's dog wouldn't bark, by the way.

Not much, but something

Just so you know, the beagle does bark in the daytime, like right now. His pals are barking with him.

*     *     *

The Orkin guy was just here, Tim. A plain guy, simple, and I like him. He sprayed under my sink and then went outside to "spray the heck out of it" back there where it's always wet in the summer. It's to kill those tiny black insects that come up in my sinks every summer. When I say tiny, think tinier than you're thinking.

If the spraying doesn't do it, I'll try Drano. Tim said that's what his boss, Jeff, says to try.

*     *     *

Wow. Talk about a name from the past.

I got a note from Carolyn Baum Buttorf. I'll have to write about it, and maybe about her, on my other blog. For now it is enough to say that my children had very much fun with her name. You can imagine.

A Couple of Things I Now Know

Am I the last one to figure this out? Why the Golden Corral is so named. It's because old people--in their so-called golden years--eat there.

I was coming out of REI last Saturday morning, next door to Boise's Golden Corral, and saw the old folks, mostly old guys, coming out the the Golden Corral. Breakfast a plenty, no doubt.

Yep, that's when I figured it out.

*     *     *

Hyundai and Kia are the same. 

Both Korean, built in the same factory. So says Richard.

Wikipedia says Hyundai owns 51% of Kia.

It's of interest to me. Maybe not to you.

A Little Night Music

Clarks live at the end of the street, where it turns. They're fine people. They have dogs. Every night the beagle howls. It's a bark, but it sounds like a howl. If you live near here, you have heard it.

How can a dog carry on for hours? I ask.  But I can't answer. Why not howl in the daytime? I ask, not that I would enjoy it then.

What I am saying is that the dog howls for hours on end every night, wee hours.

The other day my neighbor Ron said the beagle was sauntering (not his word and not something I can see a beagle doing, but . . . ) down the street at 3 a.m. and howling, too. Ron's sleep was disturbed, obviously, as mine was last night and has been before. (That is, when I can actually sleep. But that is another story.)

Ron said he didn't want to knock on the Clarks' door at that hour, and I thought he was very considerate of their sleep, but before I could finish the thought, he said, "I didn't want to get shot." Yes, Clarks also have guns.

Maybe I should change the names to protect . . . oh well.

This is a smart kid.

Last night at my house we had this little exchange. I think it's worth noting.

Jeff: What are you doing tomorrow?

Richard: Penelope has a playdate with Caroline.

Axel: What about me?

Richard: You'll have a playdate with me.

Axel: No, Dad. I want a playdate with kids.

Richard: I know, but we'll do something fun.

Axel: I want a playdate with a boy.

Richard: Peter can't. He has La Crosse.

Axel: What's that?

Richard: It's a sport.

Axel: I want a cross.

Grandma: It's La Crosse, Axel.

Axel: What is La Crosse?

Richard: It's a sport Peter plays.

Axel: How do you play it?

Grandma: I'm not really sure, but they run around on a field.

Richard: Carrying a basket on a stick.

And I can just imagine the picture Axel saw in his mind.

Axel: I want a sport.

I hope his dad takes him somewhere fun. That is what I really do hope.

Of the Heart

I'm supposed to go to the cardiologist this week because, to sort of quote my gp dr, "There was something on the ekg I didn't like. A little squeak." He also said, "Your heart is stable, no damage."

Is this a mixed message? I certainly do not know what that means, a little squeak. Either this: something irregular about my stable heart. Or this: something he just didn't understand. Whatever.

My "blood work" (a very medical-sounding term) was all good. Thyroid good, blood sugar very good, cholesterol good, and I have not had another heart attack. Which is also really good. These are the matters that occupy the minds of elder people.

The thing is, though, that Richard and his children are here this week. And I have to take my car in tomorrow and leave it all day and I just don't see how I'm going to get to the cardiologist. And . . . a bunch of other stuff.

My idea is to call that office, ask if a dr has seen the ekg, and ask if they think it warrants a visit. Hmmm. My guess is they would say it does.

I think I'll just wait a while.

P.S. I just brought my phone in, and because it has been in my car all afternoon, I missed the call from the cardiologist's office wanting to set up an appointment. Guess I'll call them tomorrow.

Wars and Rumors of Wars

The "separatists" in Ukraine, those who are pro-Russia and want to be part of Russia and who are being supplied weapons, including anti-aircraft missiles, by Russia, used one of those radar directed missiles to shoot down a Malaysian airliner yesterday. 

It was five miles up, flying from Amsterdam to Kuala Lumpur. It exploded in the air and fell, spreading its parts and body parts of passengers and crew over many miles on the ground. All  298 aboard killed. And what do we do about it? Nothing so far. I am against doing nothing, although I don't know what we ought to do.

I suppose there is still a tiny bit of doubt about whether or not they did it, used Russian-supplied missiles. From what I've heard and read, seems clear to me they did it.

Then there's Israel and the Gaza Strip conflict, which is a euphemism for war.

Not to mention Iraq and Afghanistan. Supposedly, the elections in Afghanistan indicate a stable government/country. Suicide bomber there yesterday killed 40.

As I said, wars and rumors of wars.

In My Neighborhood

They're digging a well down the street. The ugly house on the corner. Only ugly because the previous owner had it painted that eye-catching--not in a good way--turquoise.

Anyway, I am hearing the rhythmical pounding. A huge truck sits in the front yard, its wheels on planks so as to protect the lawn. Those guys--and they're not young--are working very hard. Very hard. One guy in front, one in the back chest deep in a hole. It looks very complicated.

I don't often see anyone there at that house, but why would I? I wave at the woman when I do see her. She was in the back yard as I drove home from Curves today, watering the lawn with the hose. And I see her little plot of flowers back there, brightening the place. It had been quite barren looking. Lawn, but not healthy.

It was Mrs Lindell's home, and I know her children came in and cleared a lot of stuff out after they moved her into a "place." I think they are responsible for the color choice, too, although the house was painted and re-roofed while she lived in it. I do not remember when she left.

Yikes! This whole thing is starting to make me feel sad. Better quit.

Pre Pre-mixed

Today I had a hot dog at Costco. I know, I know. It's not good for me. But the hot dog is not the point.

The point has to do with the lemonade, Minute Maid. You can have it. And Country Time, if that still exists, and Crystal Light, and even Paul Newman's, which has been rated the best pre-mixed lemonade.

Pre-mixed. Interesting word/concept.
How do you mix something before you mix it? (For that matter, what exactly is a pre-owned car?)

And do you really want something that has been pre-mixed? I mean, does it appeal to you in any way? The bottom line for me: these pre-mixed lemonades and powdered lemonade mixes do not taste much like lemonade. And frozen lemonade also falls short. It's better, but . . .

Not any of it can come remotely close to the lemonade my dad made on Sundays with lemons from the two little lemon trees he planted. I'm sure I've mentioned it before. Even so, I say this: That is the lemonade I want. Maybe this is a glorified memory from childhood. Maybe not. How do you like the lemonade you buy these days?

And, while I'm at it, wouldn't it be fun to be in that kitchen again with Mama and Daddy working on Sunday dinner? Mama cooking the food, Daddy making the lemonade.

Indeed it would.

Carol's Corner, after all

"Never compose anything unless not composing it brings you constant annoyance."

That, says Gustav Holst, is the best advice he ever got.

I say, let's stick it onto writing. If it's bugging you, you'd better write it.

Brief Thought

Isn't one of life's purposes to complain about the weather? I think so.

Here, in fulfillment, is my complaint.

Too hot for too many days. No relief.

Reader Response

Here's the book I'm reading: Black Sheep and Kissing Cousins How Our Family Stories Shape Us, by Elizabeth Stone. It's old, 1988, but good.

The author's heritage is Italian, her great and great, great grandparents coming from Sicily. There was a lot of cousins marrying in her family in those earliest days. I know of no cousins marrying in my family, but we're not Italians and I don't know enough to say for sure such a thing never happened. But I believe it didn't happen.

Here's something to think about. It has certainly made me think:

"In 1983, 5.7 million families were headed by women, which meant that 22 percent of all children were growing up with just one parent, usually the mother. The increase in such families is usually attributed to the increase in divorce, the American inclination to self-fulfillment at the price of commitment and self-sacrifice, and the greater number of women in the work force."

This information comes to support Stone's assertion about women's prominence in the family, that it puts women in the role of caretaker, not only of children, but also of family stories, traditions, sayings, rituals, and so on. 

I have no argument with this assertion, except that I have already written that in my family my father told the stories. But they were not, that's not, family stories. At least I don't remember any. And we were far from a single parent home. My dad was gone some, traveling up and down California to sell life insurance, but he was home a lot, too.

I could say Wow! about those statistics.  

Because can you imagine how those statistics have changed since 1983? How on earth many single-parent homes do we have in America today, in 2014? Good heavens! It's a staggering number, no doubt.  

But this is not the part that struck me most. I'll carry on.

It's that little idea tucked away in the middle that struck me. The one about "the American inclination to self-fulfillment at the price of commitment and self-sacrifice."  I could write a lot about that, and I think I could argue for and against that American inclination.

I have written on the subject already, many years ago, from a very personal perspective. Some day I may find it or write it again. I do remember what I said, how I felt, and I know what I think now.  I suppose I'll have to write it.

Just not today.

It's My Blog, so . . .

As I thought about those words and phrases I began writing yesterday--about love, its ins and outs--I sang through a very old song, "Everything I Have Is Yours," (Billy Ekstine sang it in the 1940s). 

In the song is this line "I'd be happy just to spend my life waiting at your beck and call." And I knew it was beck and call, not beckon call, but I wanted to know where that phrase came from, so I googled it. From Phrase Finder I learned that it began in England in the 14th century and means to be totally subservient to someone. 

"Beck" is a word. It is not a word we use anymore, except in the phrase I'm talking about: beck and call. Beck is not the same as "beckon," which means to silently call or signal someone to come. However, we sometimes say or spell things wrong. You know that. And some folks think the phrase is "beckon call." It's not. 

And here I quote from Phrase Finder:

Just because 'beckon call' is based on a mishearing doesn't mean that it won't one day become accepted as proper English. Other phrases, like 'beg the question' for instance, are routinely used incorrectly by so many people that the incorrect usage has now become the standard. Let's hope 'beckon call' dies a natural death, not only because it is essentially just a spelling mistake but because its adoption would signal the last gasp of the enjoyable little word 'beck'.

By the way--and this is your friend Carol again--you may notice the single quotation marks and the period outside the mark in the above quotation. 

Or you may not notice, which is more likely, and please don't take offense here.

But I noticed, not because I'm perfect or even wonderful, but just because I notice this stuff. Anyway, the use of punctuation should tell you the article was written in England. I have left off any quotation marks because I can because this is my blog. But mostly to avoid confusion.

And, remember, in America we always put commas and periods inside the quotation marks, whether we're quoting a word, a phrase, a sentence, or a whole paragraph. Or, at least, that's the rule. Which means that in this article we would use double quotation marks where they use single, and we would put the period inside. Get it?

The sublime to the not so sublime

Last night, just after I opened my bedroom window, an owl came and perched on the metal shelf (from when I had an air conditioner in the window). Between us was only the window screen. We were three inches apart.

I think the owl came because of the sparrows who nest in the bird house on my deck, maybe snatch one for dinner. But I can't be sure.

She was a beautiful bird and might have stayed beyond a few seconds if I had not moved. But she startled me, and I moved and said, "Well, hello." Then she was gone. I'm glad I saw her.

*     *     *

Today, as I pulled to a stop at the red light--at the top of the Broadway exit--I saw the man. A panhandler. 

Certainly not an uncommon sight at those freeway exits. Several months ago I stopped at the Garrity exit in Nampa and witnessed a fight between two panhandlers, one holding a sign asking for money, the other folding his sign and slipping it into his back pocket. Clearly a practiced move. 

The fight was over the place. One claimed this was his spot and demanded the other "get lost." The other said "I got here first."

The light turned green, and I left. I don't know if they came to blows.

Today's guy held a sign, too, of course. His said, "Bet you can't hit me with a quarter." 

I wonder if you're thinking what I'm thinking. 

A quarter? Does he really want a quarter?

*     *     *

It isn't warm today. A little rain in the morning and not a lot of heat after that. It's 3:30 and not 70 degrees yet. Strange weather this year. No?

It Is the World We Live In

I am distressed. I never turn on the tv in the morning but did today. CBS featured, or at least announced it would be a feature story, "the woman banned from the Mormon church." Excommunicated. That is actually what happened to her. I did not watch it. I went for my walk instead. And I wonder WHY this is worthy of national news. 

 Reminds of a scripture. Matthew 6:5.

Of course I know what the story is about. I know what the woman wants, and I don't hate this woman, but I have no sympathy with her or her cause.

  

Not a cake walk

I have walked four days this week.  Five days last week. I go out in the morning, as early as I can get myself out there. I'm not asking for praise, just imparting the information. After all, it's only thirty minutes. No big deal.

Except that it is.

Before I start out and several times while I am walking, I say out loud--well, not too loud in case there are people nearby--"It doesn't have to be fast; it just has to be done." I know it's good for me, even a slow walk, although it doesn't help my flabby arms.

I also try to tell myself, "It will get easier." This is hard to believe, but I want to believe it.

I haven't been to Curves at all this month, but I may have to go back. We'll see.

The Facts

Okay, so I turned on my heat last night, and it makes me so mad. It's June 19th, for crying out loud. And I'm COLD in the house and out of it. I mean, I wore socks to bed last night and got all the way under the covers.

Should I have to do such things at this date?

Today, I've got it up to 67 in my house, but I'm thinking I'd better turn it off again because it's supposed to be 86 today--not until 6 o'clock tonight, though--and 93 on Sunday.

Oh, I know. This is all too negative. So here is the positive.

I have a wonderful furnace. And air conditioner. And a good house. And I could mention my family, they're wonderful, too.

Gotta run. I'm going into the kitchen, turn on the oven, and stand in front of it for a while.

It's the world we live in

The Broadway hit, The Book of Mormon, winner of nine Tony awards, is coming to Boise this summer.

I am sure it will be a sell-out, but I will not be buying. It distresses and disturbs me, and the fact that it won nine Tony awards indicates to me the low level that "taste" has descended to. Can it sink lower? No doubt.

Because I have not seen the show, I know only bits about it. I know that it is filled with profane, and worse, language, and I find the entire idea--to hold up to ridicule something that people hold sacred--profane itself.

The other thing I know is that one of its stars is a "Mormon," sort of. Or was. I know his name but will not put it here, since I have found him smug, self-important, and highly offensive the few times I have seen him.

Just now, this week, I have seen him in his ads for his US News column. He attempts to adopt a professional/writerly persona, in his dinner jacket and with his pipe. Does anyone still smoke a pipe? (That question, I know, is neither here nor there.) He is a little man, that is, short. He is heavy. Still, he is, I believe, quite successful and owes his success to The Book of Mormon. However, I think the TV show in which he starred flopped.

By the way, the ad is silly.

Yes, I have strong feelings here and have not left you in the dark about them. Sometimes I try very hard not to be judgmental. Not working here. Still, one must use judgment and discernment in what one supports and approves.

I hope not to offend anyone, but if I have, sorry-ish.

Sorry. This stuff just happens.

Today as I drove down Park Center Blvd I noticed white paper-like things flying in the air now and then. They looked almost like toilet paper, but how could that be?

Then I got to the signal and saw I had been following a guy pulling a trailer with an outhouse on it. Creeped me out.

A little later, 8th Street, I was at a red light. A young woman on a bicycle pulled up right next to me. With the green light I let her go first, so she would be safe. As I started out, wanting to stay wide of her, I looked up to see her very short black skirt blow in the wind. Up, up it blew revealing her underwear. A thong. You know, in that instant I saw much more than I expected, having expected nothing, and much, much more than I wanted. Creeped me out.

I suspect you're also creeped out.

Do the Best I Can

I'm starting a new campaign, one of pure self-interest. It is this: Be positive about myself. It involves not saying and eventually not thinking the negative things about myself that have so much characterized my recent thoughts and speech.

Like, while in Utah (but it hasn't mattered where I have been) I may have said some variation of "I'm old" at least 35 times. And why? I'd like to know. Does it get me anywhere, make me feel good? No. Of course not.

And worse things have come out of my mouth about me. 

And I don't know what effect these things have on hearers or what effect I may have hoped for.

So I say Stop it! Stifle those negative self-slurs, Carol. You can do it.

This Day in History

Today marks 70 years since D-Day, the Allied invasion of those Normandy beaches.  I was alive then but do not remember the day. I was not yet four years old.

Growing up in a home where Republican was the political persuasion and republican our values, I was never--once I became old enough to understand these things--a fan of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. But here I reprint his speech, a prayer, on the eve of D-Day. I appreciate it
At that time I believe this prayer was nationally well-received and appreciated. Today, of course, people protest about it.

Franklin Roosevelt's D-Day Prayer 

June 6, 1944

My fellow Americans: Last night, when I spoke with you about the fall of Rome, I knew at that moment that troops of the United States and our allies were crossing the Channel in another and greater operation. It has come to pass with success thus far.

And so, in this poignant hour, I ask you to join with me in prayer:

Almighty God: Our sons, pride of our Nation, this day have set upon a mighty endeavor, a struggle to preserve our Republic, our religion, and our civilization, and to set free a suffering humanity.

Lead them straight and true; give strength to their arms, stoutness to their hearts, steadfastness in their faith.

They will need Thy blessings. Their road will be long and hard. For the enemy is strong. He may hurl back our forces. Success may not come with rushing speed, but we shall return again and again; and we know that by Thy grace, and by the righteousness of our cause, our sons will triumph.

They will be sore tried, by night and by day, without rest-until the victory is won. The darkness will be rent by noise and flame. Men's souls will be shaken with the violences of war.

For these men are lately drawn from the ways of peace. They fight not for the lust of conquest. They fight to end conquest. They fight to liberate. They fight to let justice arise, and tolerance and good will among all Thy people. They yearn but for the end of battle, for their return to the haven of home.

Some will never return. Embrace these, Father, and receive them, Thy heroic servants, into Thy kingdom.

And for us at home -- fathers, mothers, children, wives, sisters, and brothers of brave men overseas -- whose thoughts and prayers are ever with them--help us, Almighty God, to rededicate ourselves in renewed faith in Thee in this hour of great sacrifice.

Many people have urged that I call the Nation into a single day of special prayer. But because the road is long and the desire is great, I ask that our people devote themselves in a continuance of prayer. As we rise to each new day, and again when each day is spent, let words of prayer be on our lips, invoking Thy help to our efforts.

Give us strength, too -- strength in our daily tasks, to redouble the contributions we make in the physical and the material support of our armed forces.

And let our hearts be stout, to wait out the long travail, to bear sorrows that may come, to impart our courage unto our sons wheresoever they may be.

And, O Lord, give us Faith. Give us Faith in Thee; Faith in our sons; Faith in each other; Faith in our united crusade. Let not the keenness of our spirit ever be dulled. Let not the impacts of temporary events, of temporal matters of but fleeting moment let not these deter us in our unconquerable purpose.

With Thy blessing, we shall prevail over the unholy forces of our enemy. Help us to conquer the apostles of greed and racial arrogancies. Lead us to the saving of our country, and with our sister Nations into a world unity that will spell a sure peace a peace invulnerable to the schemings of unworthy men. And a peace that will let all of men live in freedom, reaping the just rewards of their honest toil.

Thy will be done, Almighty God.

Amen. 

Randomish

I found out how I really feel about squirrels.

You know, or should know, that I have written many times that I see them as rodents, which they are. Pesky, ever-present. Rats with bushy tails. But as I drove past White Pine school last Thursday on my way out of town, a squirrel ran out into the street, started to turn back, but instead came on and ran under my car. I heard the thump and knew I had hit him. Sure enough, he lay in the street as I drove away.

I felt terrible. I may have thought once or twice that I'd like to buy a gun and use it to shoot squirrels. No.

*     *     *

Carol R is a close talker. Really close. The first few times we ever had a conversation, I backed up. I thought maybe she didn't mean to be so close. But now I just stand in there and take it. I mean we're almost close enough to kiss. We don't, though. And that is one thing I can be glad for. 

*     *     *

As I drove around the curve where the new construction is and came to the knoll with trees, I saw a deer just lounging in the shade. Very unconcerned. And it seemed quite right to see such a thing. Right here in downtown Boise.

I wonder

Who are the people you hear laughing in the background on TV comedy shows? I mean, are there people who spend their lives being audiences for sit-coms? How do they know when the shows are taping? Is it in the newspaper or can they find out online? Or do they get notices sent to them?

I believe many shows used to use laugh tracks. You know, just turn on the laugh track at the right time. But it sounded like what it was, canned laughter. I think the laughs are from real people these days. Real people for whom, apparently, some very stupid and unfunny things are worth a laugh.

I suppose someone cues them when to laugh. Someone with a script. Someone who knows when something is supposed to be funny, even if it isn't funny.

Are these laughing people paid? Or do they pay to be part of the audience, the laughing crew?

That would be good to know, well, maybe not good. Do they get money for laughing? I guess that would make them professional audiences, professional laughers.  No doubt some folks laugh better than others. And maybe they get paid more. Is there a laughing hierarchy? Can you graduate to advanced laugher status?

Important questions these on a Tuesday morning after Memorial Day.