If a ‘dollar store’ (and there a plenty around) is good, is a ‘two dollar store’ (have never seen one) even better?
I thought I’d been shot.
My wife came running and was startled to find me flat on my back, expecting the chalk police to arrive any second to outline my perimeter on the hot blacktop and wrap our house with yellow ‘crime scene’ tape.
“What happened”, she asked, with a bit of worry in her voice.
“I misread the ‘psi’ on the tire and over inflated the damn thing, it blew itself to smithereens”. Sometimes, I impress myself with how quickly I can answer her deposition-like questions, but she saw right through me this time, as I tried to misplace the blame on the tire, itself.
‘How could you be so careless (you nincompoop)’? Wow, that hurt more than the ‘shot’.
She didn’t actually call me a nincompoop, but after decades of marriage, a husband knows his better half’s thoughts. Her eyes spoke ‘Nincompoop’‘.
However, it seemed a good time to employ a favorite troubleshooting tool of quality control personnel, the ‘5 Why’. State the issue, then ask a series of ‘why’ questions that lead to the root cause. Let’s try it…
My wheelbarrow tire blew apart. Why?
I over inflated it. Why?
I misread the psi number on the sidewall. Why?
I didn’t look at it carefully. Why?
Because I’m an old guy with bony knees and if I get down on the ground to look closely, then I may not get up again. Why?
There, it works, doesn’t it. I seemed to have discovered the irrefutable and undeniable root cause of the tire explosion and deafening sound, Life, and I’m not sure there’s a ‘corrective action’. More ‘Whys’ might help, but Life is very challenging. Agree?
Fortunately, no injuries were sustained other than a momentary loss of senses, a temporary deafness and total embarrassment.
Have you ever crossed paths with ‘carelessness’? A friend cut a live electrical wire at home with nary a tickle. A brother-in-law used an electric hedge clipper to trim fingernails and only suffered 32 stitches. ‘Lady Luck’ was on their side this time. Or a Guardian Angel!
Unlike cats, we have 1 Life, so let’s be careful with it, not careless. And if you are the latter, try asking yourself, ‘Why?’. Ask it as many times as necessary to find the root cause of your ‘nincompoopness’. And, yes, while she may not say it, you’ll know she’s thinking it. Just look at her eyes…the ones that have been watching your faux pas for years.
To husbands, everywhere, but especially Steve P and Gary C for ‘giving’ me a story! Be careful!
Gardening is in full swing now so I thought I’d repost this personal story from a couple of years ago. I hope you enjoy it.
Up and down our Meadowbrook streets, summer gardens are coming into full bloom and it’s not because the gardeners are taking it easy. Soiled fingernails, calloused knees and aching muscles are testimony to the truism that gardeners love getting down and dirty.
My wife is a passionate gardener, one of many in our floral neighborhood. She does her part to make our parcel of land attractive, adding plants to every corner and contour where grass doesn’t grow, enhancing the beauty of our surroundings.
Fanciful colors dot our landscape: passionate pinks, plum purples, baby blues, ravenous reds and a potpourri of whites. Whimsical names like quick fire, limelight, pink diamonds, twist and shout and pinky winky, fill the pages of her ‘green thumb’ notebook.
From spring to fall, there is constant…
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The tall Norway maple provided welcome shade onto our ‘hill’ garden, where we were preparing a spot for yet another hydrangea, the thirtieth, or so, in this corner of our backyard.
Myself, I’m a reluctant gardener, so much so that I dare even call myself a gardener. However, my wife is passionate about her plants, so I help and we work the land together, she a bonafide ‘green thumb’ and me, just a ‘plain’ thumb. Quite honestly, I enjoy our hydrangea gardens. A walk among the changing flora of our mature gardens is a relaxing respite at day’s end.
The planting process is simple for our gardens: select the plant, choose a location, decide on composition (positioning), and, finally, dig the hole . All important decisions are made by my wife, the real gardener, my role comes in at the end, I’m the digger. There is no mental stress in digging, just physical, hence, the welcome cover of shade from the hot sun.
Excavating our soil is no easy task, though, it’s clay, dense and heavy, once used in the local manufacturing of bricks*. To complicate the dig, the spot we refer to as ‘the hill’ once was occupied by a tall silver maple tree. It’s only a ‘hill’ because the thick, woody roots of that tree are still there, like a subterranean maze, pushing up the ground. They criss-cross beneath the soil, challenging me to find a spot for the perfect hole. It’s a trial and error process, but I find one.
The hole must be deep and wide enough to accept an ample amount of cow manure, making a healthy bed, and the roots of the plant must be relieved, or untangled, before planting to allow them to grow freely, not be strangled. My wife cuts them with a garden knife, around the perimeter and bottom.
The plant is placed in the hole, manure is packed around it and some fine mulch (leaf is our favorite) laid atop. A good watering follows and continues for days to assure a good start.
If we’ve done it right, then we wait and our patience will be rewarded with beautiful flowers that have made the hydrangea a favorite of gardeners, reluctant gardeners, too. With such fancy names as Pinky Winky, Quick Fire, Twist n Shout, the colorful petals, from soft white to blushing pinks and blues, adorn our yard from summer to fall.
Gardeners love their hobby. My wife glows. Me? I find the benefit of gardening is teaching me patience, learning to wait for beautiful results…and then to enjoy some much needed therapy with a walk among the plants.
To my wife, a green thumb gardener
A warm stretch of May days, summer like, goosed the ‘bar chroniclers’ to find our way to Caverly’s Irish Pub. We seem to be stuck on Caverly’s, but how can you beat $20 for 5 beers? Add the intimate bar with its colorful array of taps, friendly patrons, the worn hardwoods and oversized chalkboard beer menu, and Caverly’s is as comfortable as any watering hole we’ve patronized on ‘bar nights’.
The sidewalk tables were taken by heavily pierced bikers, with their black leather chaps and vests and a potpourri of busy tattoos covering any exposed skin. In contrast, wedding bands and silver fillings was the extent of our body metal, no pierced ears or tattoos, at least none visible. Our belts, the only leather we showed, were functional, holding back the 34s, 36s, maybe a 38. A couple of beers tonight would bloat us enough to test those straps and push the limits of the numbers.
We posted inside, at our favorite table, a wobbly one with a napkin shim. Following the customary toast to good health and good fortune, the gabfest began. The clinking of glasses was like the gates swinging open at a horse race, we were off and running with an evening of books, biology and beer.
Normally, while our ‘beer clutch’ is not a book review club, we occasionally refer to them to support our discussions or show off our intellect. Tonight, we hit the trifecta with ‘The Great Halifax Explosion’, ‘Beneath the Metropolis’ and ‘The Winner’, another Baldacci thriller. But the best read & reference was a newsletter about the invasive, Asian ‘jumping worm’.
‘Disturb a jumping worm and it’s like a nightcrawler on steroids: It violently writhes on the forest floor, recalling a snake in a bad horror movie. Try to catch it, a piece of its tail will detach in your hand — still wriggling as you hold it.’ *
Creepiness aside, this invasive invader goes against all positive thoughts we have about earthworms as great aerators of our garden soil, and good bait for adventures at ‘the ol’ fishing hole’. These summertime squirmers are underground giants, up to eight inches long, that render the ground void of nutrients for any type of plant growth with their piranha like foraging.
I’ll be watching our gardens, as you should yours, for telltale signs of these monsters. If our ferns flop, the sedum sag or hydrangeas halt, I’ll call the ‘authorities’ to report the invasion, a government bureaucrat who knows about snakes and worms, and they do.
When our refills were finished, we cautiously walked to the car with an eye to the ground for anything that jumps. Some fascinating conversation tonight, but, worms aside, the real takeaway was, once again, the friendship and comradery among a few senior neighbors…with the help of a cold beer, or two.
S’amusing @ Srbottch.Com
Bar Night #16, and our first of 2018. When ‘old’ friends get together after a long hiatus, a seat at the table with a frothy beer in hand is a good way to reacquaint and kick start our ‘bar nights’.
Once again, Caverly’s Irish Pub is our choice of watering holes, and why not? It has a good variety of beer at fair prices and a proper atmosphere, including a ‘house dog’. Navigating the parking lot potholes was the only impediment to the pub’s front door. Not uncommon following an overbearing winter in western New York.
Our usual table was full tonight and the bar was noisy, with patrons in a festive mood for a chilly mid week night. We convened in the back room, a wise move for four sets of Senior ears. Here, we could spin tales, and more importantly , hear them, away from the constant humdrum and boisterous dart games in the forward quarters.
We settled in, clinked our glasses…’here, here’… and commenced with our wit and wisdom. After the usual potpourri of small talk, we somehow melded into a ‘deep’ conversation of airplanes, rockets and mathematics, dropping names of icons; Robert Goddard, Wernher von Braun and Fibonacci**. No, not Liberace, Fibonacci.
The mathematician among us took the lead and enthusiastically, neigh, excitedly guided the conversation into sequences, ratios and solutions, a Fibonacci fanatic. The pilot at the table, a technocrat of sorts, listened attentively with approving smiles and nods. He got it. The one tool & die maker nodded, as well, but with eyes closed, as though resting. And the salesperson, while feigning understanding, did what all good sales pros do, found some way to ask a topical question to keep the conversation going. The answer was irrelevant, but the continuity was critical.
0-1-1-2-3-5-8-13-21-34-and so on…
Do you see the number pattern, the ‘sequence’? The next day, I dug into the Internet to learn more about Fibonacci and his Sequence. I absorbed enough to hone some math skills and learn a trick, or two, to share at our next ‘bar night’. Curious? Research it yourself, Google ‘Fibonacci’. .
“The Fibonacci Sequence is a set of numbers that starts with a one or zero, followed by a one, and proceeds based on the rule that each number (called a Fibonacci number) is equal to the sum of the two preceding numbers.” (definition from ‘WhatIs.com)
The wonderful part of ‘bar night’ is that we never know the direction of our conversation, but it always seems to lead us home with a belly full of gratification and a little beer from an evening well spent with friends. And, importantly, we learn from each other.
As for the beers, when we were young men we certainly would have climbed a few rungs on Fibonacci’s Sequence, but tonight, as mature gentlemen, we stopped at step 2, or one apiece.
Fibonacci, himself, would have been underwhelmed.
**Fibonacci was considered to be the most talented Western mathematician of the Middle Ages’ (Wikipedia)
To Moish, a S’amusing follower and math professor. Wish you had been here. I’m sure you would have enjoyed the conversation.
May your troubles be less,
And your blessing be more.
And nothing but happiness,
Come through your door.
So, you say you’re Irish, at least today you say it. And why not, it’s St. Patrick’s Day, everyone can be Irish.
St. Patrick’s Day is a fun day for all, Irish or not. The ‘wearing of the green’ announces to everyone that you’re either real Irish, or just Irish for the day. You’re showin’ the spirit.
I’ve a little bit of ‘the green’ both in and on me, and enjoying it. The day seems to lift spirits a bit, makes us happy. The bright sunshine adds to the gaiety of parades and parties. Irish music fills the airwaves and Irish dancers jig their way around town, exhibiting the fast moving feet of Irish dance steps.
Foremost, it reminds me of my mother who boasted proudly of her Irish roots. Her mother, my grandmother, emigrated to the States from Ireland in the early 1900’s, no doubt looking for a better life, like many immigrants at that time. The world passed our Statue of Liberty, stopped on our doorstep, asked to come in and were welcomed to be part of the American community.
St. Patrick’s Day brings out a potpourri of politicians to be Irish for the day, maybe hoping it’ll win another voting block to their side. ‘Pols’ are the best chameleons when looking for support, aren’t they?
I will toast St. Patrick’s Day with an Irish stout, a Guinness, maybe two, but no more, no corn beef nor cabbage, but, yes, some potatoes, a food staple that’s has a major chapter in Irish history.
“The significance of St. Patrick’s Day is the introduction of Christianity to Ireland” * hundreds of years ago. Irish history, like most cultures, is replete with times of joy, sadness, struggles and triumphs. It’s more than just a party day as we celebrate our Irish here in the States and around the world. However, the celebration factor is significant which contributes to the heavy consumption of alcohol and that brings us back to the reveling, doesn’t it.
The White House fountain is spewing green, the Chicago River is dyed green and other celebrations will take place. But, a word of caution. If you must celebrate tonight, take care not to overdo it. When you start to see ‘Irish dogs’, then you’ll know you’ve had too much. And they’re out there, ‘cause everyone can be Irish today.
(‘Bud’, photo by Diana on Instagram @didimac211)
Happy St. Patrick’s Day
To the Irish and everyone who wishes they were…
*Wickipedia: Saint Patrick’s Day