Sam 'n Sara: September 2011

That's how I refer to them. Always with the 'n instead of the word "and," kind of like Chip 'n Dale.

They are my grandchildren and you'd better prepare yourself for what I have to say next:

They are the two greatest grandchildren in the world.

This means that my grandchildren are better than your grandchildren. And I don't just mean a little better. They are vastly better in every measurable way.

The sooner you come to grips with this, the easier it will be for all of us.

Of course I'm sure your grandchildren are fine "in their own way." I mean if I didn't know of the existence of Sam 'n Sara, and I bumped into your grandchildren at a Walmart or Dunkin' Donuts, I'm sure I'd be thinking, "Gee, those grandchildren are just about cute and pretty darn close to better than average."

Please don't blame Sam 'n Sara for any of this. They can't help it. First of all, they are twins and we all know that twins are by definition awesome. They're even better than triplets who, in my opinion, have a tendency toward slovenliness. Second of all, they seem to be very fond of me. I doubt that your grandchildren feel any kind of strong emotion toward me, a fact which has always bothered me. Sam 'n Sara seem to recognize the depth and power of my love for them while your brood just doesn't get it.

Again, please don't shoot the messenger, okay?

I'm not going to list all of the reasons why Sam 'n Sara are officially the two greatest grandchildren in the world. That would be considered boastful. But here are some of the more important factors. After reading this, I'm sure you'll agree, albeit reluctantly, that my grandchildren deserve their place at the top of the grandchildren heap.

If it's any consolation, there is a huge tie for second place.

At a restaurant, Sam will look directly at the waiter or waitress and confidently tell her that he wants a Sprite. He'll even add the word "Please." I mean, people, are you beginning to see what I'm talking about here?

Sara, thanks to her beloved Nana's tutelage, can knit and does knit. This means that while your grandchildren are playing video games or texting each other, my beautiful granddaughter is knitting. Now, admittedly, Ada never got the chance to teach Sara any of the finer points of knitting, so the only garment Sara is able to knit is one incredibly long scarf. However, I'm sure some day Sara will be able to figure out how to end this scarf, which currently extends from her home in Weymouth to lovely Newport, RI, and possibly start a new one.

Sam will watch the movie "Cars" anytime, anywhere. Just think of the dedication that takes. He knows exactly when the good stuff is coming and he is willing to sit through the boring stuff to get to it. Do you have any idea what kind of perseverance that requires? The same is true for all three "Toy Stories" and "Despicable Me." Anytime. Anywhere.

Sara can sing anything. I once taught her "One Note Samba" using fake Portuguese words and she parroted it back like a real fake Portuguese person. The other day I mentioned that I liked the song featured in a new Heineken commercial and Sara began singing it in the exact same style as the singer in the commercial. I bet your grandkids change the station when the beer commercials come on. That's what I'm talkin' about!

OK, all kidding aside, I hope all of you either already have or will soon experience grandparenthood, or great-unclehood, or great-aunthood, or any kind of relationship with children that allows you to love them freely without too much of the day-to-day disciplining that their parents have to do. I hope you get to watch in amazement as a child starts to figure out how the world works, what's fair and unfair about it all, and how he or she can make things better for one person or all people. I hope you get a chance to talk to a child over the phone and say something goofy which makes him or her laugh at your silliness. I hope you get to watch the day to day drama of schoolyard friendships, knowing full well that today's crisis will soon be forgotten as it is replaced by tomorrow's dilemma. Most of all, I hope you get to see a child act in a selfless, compassionate way to another child, thereby guaranteeing the possibility that GOODNESS will get to thrive for at least another generation.

These and many other gifts too numerous to mention are what Sam 'n Sara have bestowed upon me.

Which is why I can't help but proclaim...

Ain't life grand?
J

The Old Man and the Bay: August 2011

Day One (morning): I knew if I were going to land Ol' Charley, the monster of Choctawhatchee Bay, I'd have to start early. Ol' Charley doesn't tolerate dawdling and many an eager Panhandle fisherman has gone home disappointed and broken because he got a late start. The alarm went off at 4:30 am but it was unnecessary. I had already gotten up to check my gear. It is well known in these parts that Ol' Charley looks askance at the slovenly handling of gear. First I inspected the rod. What a graphite beauty! Brand spanking new from Walmart.Thick at one end and thin at the other, just like I wanted it, with little eyelets all lined up perfectly. Then the all-important reel, my beautiful mechanical advantage over this creature. Really, when you think about it, the reel is my ONLY advantage over this magnificent beast. He swims much better than I do. His dental work is better. He can change direction in an instant. I usually have to watch "Meet the Press" to do that. Truth be told, most people would say he smells better.

But he has no reel. And if he did, what would he do with it?

Nothin', that's what!

Whereas, I have this little Daiwa beauty that goes in two directions, out and in. Granted, sometimes when I want the line to go out, it ends up in a horribly tangled mess at my feet, forcing me to call off that day's adventure and spend the rest of the night with a magnifying glass, a crochet needle, and good pair of scissors.

Day One (evening): I put down the magnifying glass and grabbed the crochet needle.

"What are you going to do with that, Captain Ahab, harpoon the poor thing?"

Some questions don't deserve a response. I blithely ignored Kate and simply went about my business untangling the four or five hundred yards of monofilament that lay in a bizarre mess on the living room floor like a gigantic plate of angel hair pasta. During this procedure I managed to "catch" Coco, the neurotic Shih Tzu, a lamp, and my latest edition of Field and Stream. Not a bad haul, but not what I was looking for.

Kate headed off to bed thankful she too hadn't been hooked, and I continued getting most of my line back on the reel.

As I brushed my teeth and practiced my casting, I couldn't help think that the next day Ol' Charley and I would finally be face to face...and I would be the more disgusted one (by a little).

Day Two (morning): My day of destiny began with the perfect fisherman's breakfast: strong coffee, a burnt bagel and some cod liver oil. I needed the scent of my prey on my fingertips. Surprisingly, Ol' Charley is alleged to smell like burnt bagel (poppy seed) and not cod so I probably could have eliminated the cod liver oil. But I was into it, know what I mean?

As I negotiated the five minute walk from our new rented home to the bay, I began happily whistling the "Andy Griffith Show" theme song. Would this day end with my strutting around like a triumphant Sheriff Taylor or would I feel closer to sad sack Deputy Barney Fife? To tell you the truth I've always felt a little something for Aunt Bea, but that's neither here nor there.

I couldn't have been more confident. After all, this wasn't my first rodeo, as they say. I took up fishing back in my teens. Armed with only a rickety dropline, a bag of sea worms, and a hard salami sandwich from the G and G Delicatessen, I used to bravely navigate the waters of Quincy Bay with several other Aardvarks from the YMHA-Hecht House in a rented boat from Hurley's Marina in Hough's Neck. Five or six of us outdoorsmen would take up space in the sleek craft, nicely equipped with a 15 horsepower Evinrude. Rough seas, numerous equipment issues, and hooks stuck in one's fellow fishermen as opposed to actual fish were just some of the problems we had to learn to overcome. Another problem many of us had was a strong aversion to the taste of fish; however, this hardly ever posed any difficulty since the only way many of us could actually catch anything was to have the fish place themselves on the hooks and, as we all know, fish have no hands.

Adding to the problems on these fishing expeditions were the aforementioned hard salami sandwiches from the G and G Delicatessen. Under normal circumstances these beautiful, hand-crafted extravaganzas would be considered works of art; however, when combined with the inevitable motion of the boat and the smell of sliced sea worms...well, let's just say that when our boat was a-rockin', you definitely didn't want to come a-knockin'!

Admittedly, there has been about a 50-year gap between fishing experiences for me. I think it was probably that last hard salami sandwich fiasco that contributed to this hiatus, but, now, as George Costanza would say, "I'm back, baby!"

As I carefully tied on my special lure, a thing of beauty which closely resembled Warren G. Harding if he were a minnow, I must admit I felt a tiny droplet of remorse. After all, this could well be Ol' Charley's last day in the Bay. After today, he will undoubtedly spend eternity stuffed and mounted above our new fireplace. No longer would he frolic in the depths of Choctawhatchee Bay. No longer would he lord it over all the other creatures living in the bay and most of the creatures floating in boats above it.

The end of an era and I would be the one responsible. It kind of made me feel a little like Curt Schilling, if you know what I mean.

I carefully surveyed the watery tableau before me. My eyes had been trained to interpret every ripple or disturbance on the surface. Ol' Charley had no chance against my knowledge and cunning.

(Full disclosure: I wouldn't know the meaning of a ripple or disturbance if Moby Dick himself were surfacing...I just like the way that previous paragraph sounded...and now back to our true story)

I determined that a cast of about 60-63 feet to a point sou'/sou'west would do the trick. Using all my skill I whipped the rod back and forward and cast my lure exactly where I had determined Ol' Charley to be.

(Full disclosure: If I could cast this stupid thing within a half-mile of my intended target, it would be some kind of fishing miracle, worthy of the New Testament!)

Anyway, I knew it was just a matter of time. My fingers were on alert. Like 10 tiny seismographs, they have been trained to detect the slightest tremble.

(I'd do that full disclosure thing again, but I assume you're tired of it.)

Charlie hit that Warren G. Harding lure with all the force of an early Mike Tyson uppercut. It was all I could do to hang on to the rod. Believe me, I had no intention of letting my entire $21.96 investment get swallowed up beneath the waters of Choctawhatchee Bay. As I struggled to get control, I remembered Hemingway's timeless story of Santiago and his fish. Was I worthy of this fish? Have I honed my skills to a razor sharp edge? Do we have enough milk at home? Why am I having so much trouble sinking 4-foot putts? How funny is Louis C.K.? What's my favorite stringed instrument?

These and other questions too numerous to mention swam around my head as I struggled with Ol' Charley. Daylight faded into twilight and still our dance of death continued.

"It's you or me, Charley," I thought, "and I'm here to tell you that I intend to fish here for many more years or at least until this lease is up, so I guess that means it's you."

And just like that it was over. Don't blame Charley. He knew his match and he had too much dignity to try and escape. He faced his responsibilities like a man...er...fish, and I shall never forget him.

Let the photo of me and Ol' Charley serve as a testament to what a man can do if he has enough resolve and determination.

Or, you could use this blog to wrap fish in.

Ain't life grand?
J

43 Years Ago Today: August 2011

Ada and I were married exactly 43 years ago today. I felt like writing a little about that day and the 43 years that have followed in the blink of an eye, so with your kind indulgence...

August 25, 1968...Temple Emmanu-El, Marblehead, Massachusetts. It was the hottest day in recorded history. Anywhere. The temperatures topped off at 296 degrees as I remember. If there were any air conditioning at the Temple, I sure don't recall. At the last minute we changed our vows and inserted: "...in sickness and in health, whatever the heat index happens to be..."

Not to be gross but I clearly remember sweating right through my rented tuxedo during the reception. Yes, I was some catch. Ada, of course, was quite beautiful and unflappable. She was determined to have an enjoyable and fun wedding, whatever the weather. Ada was the opposite of a Bridezilla.

It's weird but I don't remember too many details from that day other than the general impression that we all had a good time despite the heat. There were no dramatic or embarrassing incidents to be relived through the years; just a lot of good friends and relatives who were all quite comfortable with this very expected union and were free from any stress over what might transpire at the wedding. Ada and I had been going out quite steadily since we were 15, so there were no real surprises here.

We had been thoroughly vetted, as they say these days.

Our honeymoon was, shall we say, less than extravagant. After the reception, we hopped into our 1968 Rambler American Coupe (similar to the one pictured above, but dark green in color) and headed north to New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. We boarded the ferry (I can't remember if it was Portland or Bar Harbor) and made our way to Canada for the next week or so. Mostly we just rode around enjoying the rocky coastline. It's hard for me to imagine now, but I don't believe we had any kind of itinerary. We just winged it in our hot little Rambler.

With the advantage of hindsight, I can see now how this honeymoon kind of symbolized much of our wonderful life together. There was absolutely nothing glamorous about it or about us. Every place we visited was grounded in reality: farms, lobster pounds, rocky coves, fishing villages. These were hardly all-inclusive resorts, but, then again, we weren't the all-inclusive type. (Seinfeld aficionados, please insert: "Not that there's anything wrong with that!") We were 21-years-old, quite unsophisticated, the opposite of worldly. The Maritimes were about as exotic as we could muster at the time. It would be much later before we would venture out "deeper in the pool" to fairytale places like England, Aruba, or Cohasset.

When we returned from our honeymoon, we set up our first apartment, in the Montclair section of Quincy, MA. It was a miserable, tiny place with a weird layout. I chose it because it only cost $100 a month. Like I said before, I was some catch! If Ada was disappointed in it, she never let on. Eventually, we left there for a nicer place in Waltham after the landlord became angry over our attempt to bring in a dog. Ada would soon begin her teaching career in Newton while I was working as a reporter for the Quincy Patriot Ledger. As I think about it, we must have shared the one car for both jobs. I was on the 4 to midnight shift, so I must have waited for Ada to return from school before I could get to work. Our first salaries were in the $5,000-$6,000 range, but with both of us working, we did fine other than the fact that we hardly saw each other most days. I'm sure that not having me around only increased our chances for a happy marriage.

We lived within our means. That was our style. Our cars, clothes, houses, vacations, and entertainments were always sensible. I don't ever remember making a conscious decision to live this way; it was just what both of us were comfortable with. We put up with a little personal discomfort rather than spend "wastefully." I guess we both felt that we were all meant to "suffer" a little; it built character. One way in which this attitude manifested itself was in the notion of never, ever, ever paying to park in Boston. If we had to walk 10 miles to get to the ballgame/movie/concert, so be it. Paying to park was an example of the kind of "luxury" we chose not to indulge in. Also, we never had a home with any kind of air conditioning. It was better to suffer ten or twenty nights a year than to give in to this indulgence, we thought.

We didn't consider ourselves heroic or particularly strong-willed and we certainly didn't mind what other people did. (Actually we tried to cultivate as many "air-conditioned friendships" as we could because our freakin' house was completely unbearable!)

Did we "miss out" on some enjoyable adventures and opportunities during those early married days? Of course. Did we mind? Not really. It's all about finding out what lifestyle makes you comfortable and being happy with that. I think by and large, we succeeded. When the boys came along, we were able to raise them comfortably if not extravagantly. I don't think Josh or Matt would say they felt deprived in any way.

Of course as the years wore on and we both kept working, we found that we could comfortably afford more so-called luxury items. At one point, I even consented to buy sunglasses. That was a big step for me, friends.

During our nine wonderful retirement years together, we certainly didn't hold back. Thankfully, and owing to our earlier fiscal conservatism, we didn't have to.

Tomorrow will be August 26th and I will stop wallowing in the past and will look forward to Kate's return from Jacksonville and our October move about ten miles from here to a lovely rented house right near Choctawhatchee Bay in Santa Rosa Beach.

But today was made for memories.

Ain't life grand?
J

A Vote for Mediocrity: August 2011

I would like to take this opportunity to announce my candidacy for the office of President of Most of the United States.

I haven't completely figured out which states I won't be President of should you honor me with a victory, but when I know, you'll know. That's a promise.

Oh heck, I can't stand the suspense any more than you can. Here are some of the ones that are going to be allowed in my new Republic and the reasons why:

Massachusetts: I know my way around and I speak the local dialect.
New Hampshire: No sales tax...people like that.
Pennsylvania: I know how it got its name and I love the Pirates' uniforms.
Rhode Island: Such a little cutie; low maintenance.
South Carolina: Great golf.
Maine: Lots of storage space; the whole top half is like a giant walk-in closet.
Minnesota and Louisiana: I haven't decided about the middle of the Mississippi River, but I want the top and bottom of it.
Colorado: I need at least one square one.
New Mexico: Plenty of parking.

Here are some of the ones I don't want in my Union:

Vermont: Too pretentious and a bit of a bully to New Hampshire.
Connecticut: Too hard to spell and can't seem to make up its mind between the Yankees and Red Sox.
New York: This is fun.
North Carolina and North Dakota: Sorry, but I don't want any Norths. I know it's a bit arbitrary, but sometimes you have to keep the citizenry guessing.
Texas: Their governor has said he might secede anyway; this way it's my decision.

Wow! It just occurred to me that doing it this way, I probably only need about 50 electoral votes to win. Jump on board, people, 'cause this train can't be stopped.

As far as my qualifications go, I have a long and illustrious history of public service. I was elected to the Boston Latin School Class Committee in 1963-64. To this day I have absolutely no idea what the purpose of the Class Committee was, but I served out my entire term which is more than some people can say. I was elected treasurer of the YMHA-Hecht House Aardvarks in 1963 which necessitated my keeping track of all the dues that people claimed they couldn't pay at each weekly meeting. I was also responsible for determining what we would have spent the dues on had I been able to collect any. Come to think of it, this makes the recent round of crazy deficit negotiations seem sensible. As an undergrad at Temple University in Philadelphia, I served as a floor leader in the Johnson Hall men's dormitory. Some of my responsibilities were cleaning up vomit and making sure no one had sex. The two jobs seemed to go hand in hand, although I'm pretty sure Kenny Rosenthal was able to...never mind, we'll just call that Executive Privilege. In my 31 years as an educator in Hingham, MA, I served on numerous committees. Sometimes I even went to the meetings. At Eastman in New Hampshire, I was the Tournament Chairman of the Golf Committee for three years and never managed to win a golf tournament. This speaks both to my sense of fairness and my lack of golfing ability.

I could go on and on, but I think it's best to let the rigors of the campaign reveal my true nature. Speaking of the campaign, I'm sure some of you are eager to volunteer in this grass roots effort or, more importantly, contribute cash to this historic movement. I'm not going to lie to you (yet!). We're strapped for dough, so strapped I had to let my campaign director go. It was both a financial and a philosophical decision. This guy wanted me to attack my opponents personally, focusing on old acne scars and remnants of lisps. I preferred to make this campaign about the important issues of the day like “Is Islam contagious?” and “Is there such a thing as too much caliber?”

There are some who have said that my religion might make me unelectable. After all we haven't had a Jewish president or even a nominee, although many people would be surprised to know that Dan Quayle originally spelled his name Kvell. (You'll just have to ask someone if you don't understand!) To put everyone at ease, I've decided to kick off my campaign with a giant prayer meeting at Dorchester's Franklin Field. The evening will feature some of the most inspiring prayers ever heard including “Would it have killed you to have made Israel bigger?” and “Hey, Noah, let's open a window and let the mosquitoes out, waddaya say?”

Finally, there is the question of party affiliation. To be honest, I haven't exactly been thrilled with any of the usual suspects and I may have to start my own. I'm toying with the name “Dependent” Party. It's kind of like an Independent Party with bladder problems.

Our motto could be “We're Number One!”

Sorry,

Ain't life grand?
J

Banff....f: July 2011

Yes, I added an extra "f" because Banff...f is "effing" fenomenal! The pictures don't do it justice, believe me.

The town of Banff...f is located in the middle of Banff...f National Park in Alberta, Canada. It's about a ninety minute drive from Calgary. Kate and I spent a week there recently and were blown away by the beauty of the place, the abundant wildlife, the friendliness of the locals, and the frightening cost of a nice lunch.

Ada and I had visited Banff...f back in the late '80's in the dead of winter. We were heavy into cross-country skiing in those days and had read about the famous Banff...f Springs Hotel and the wonderful x-country skiing in the area. Actually, given the way we approached this sport, we should have called it Cross-Country Falling. Anyway, it was a wonderful trip and the skiing was remarkable despite temperatures that stayed right around 0 (but it was a dry heat!). I remember that our room at the venerable Banff Springs Hotel was one of the only rooms without a view, so we had that going for us. I also remember that on one of our drives along the scenic Bow Valley Parkway, a rarely seen lynx slunk by our car during a rest stop. I'd show you a picture of it, but I got so excited I fumbled with the camera and got about 100 out-of-focus shots of what might have been some sort of mammal or perhaps an odd looking bush. I've always wondered what Banff...f looked like in the summer, so this was an opportunity to scratch that particular itch.



We were delighted to discover that flying from the Destin area to Calgary was not too difficult. Continental took us from Ft. Walton Regional Airport to Houston and then non-stop to Calgary. A rented Ford Fusion took us the rest of the way to the park and our accomodations: a week's timeshare at the Banff...f Rocky Mountain Resort. I swapped a week on the Cape in November for a week in Banff...f in July. Boy, did someone get screwed!

We took several terrific excursions during our week, but the Bow Valley Parkway and the Icefields Parkway were absolutely magnificent. The Bow Valley Parkway connects Banff...f with Lake Louise. It provides a slow, scenic 35-mile alternative to the high speed Trans Canada Highway. On any given day lucky motorists will see elk, bighorn sheep, wolves, bear, moose, or busloads of people from Japan. We rode this beautiful strand almost every day and saw everything except moose. One day we spied a group of bighorn sheep grazing by the roadside. After taking a bunch of mediocre pictures, we moved on down the road and saw a large, black wolf slinking in the direction of the sheep.

"This oughtta be good," I said to Kate.

"Maybe we should warn the sheep," Kate suggested.

"I don't speak bighorn," I said sheepishly. (sorry)

At any rate, as the wolf got closer, we watched intently. One of the sheep scented the wolf and immediately bounded away down a steep nearby slope. We never saw what happened to the other sheep, but I guess Nature has a way of evening things out for all concerned.

We were enthralled by the beauty and the possibilities of the Bow Valley Parkway and traveled all or part of it each day. Further down the line lay the Icefields Parkway, which begins just past Lake Louise and continues for 150 miles toward Jasper. While it is harder to view wildlife because of the higher speeds allowed on this road, the natural beauty of the lakes, glaciers, and mountains make it worth the effort. We tried to ride this parkway on an "iffy" day with rain and temperatures in the 40's. We had rented a neat GPS-activated narration gizmo that plugged into the car's cigarette lighter. It was like having a very well informed, (almost too well informed if you get my drift) local expert in the car with us. As the narrator commented on this peak or that glacier, Kate and I tried desperately to see even a glimpse of what he was going on about. Alas, the fog and low sky rendered all of the natural wonders invisible. We were determined to get back to that drive and a couple of days later, the weather was as sparkling clear as a crisp New England September afternoon. We had returned the GPS gizmo, so we had to make up our own narration.

It went something like this:

"On your left you will see yet another 12,000 foot peak. You've been looking at these peaks for almost a week now so I don't know what more I can say about them except that some people claim this peak resembles a group of ladies playing Mahjong while other people look at this peak and see a group of really big rocks which eventually come to a point. Personally, I don't want to get involved."

After a wonderful week of viewing majestic peaks, lakes so blue you could only describe them as "really, really blue lakes," elk and bighorn sheep up the yin yang, and old railroad hotels and chateaux that evoke memories of old railroad hotels and chateaux, Kate and I were anxious to get back to sea level where the temperature is in Farenheit, the dollar is worth what it's worth, and speed limits never read "100".

Ain't life grand? eh?
J

Coco's World: July 2011

Kate's ridiculously cute, impossibly neurotic Shi Tzu is named Coco. Actually, it's Cocohoney. Kate had named her Honey and her grandson Jack added Coco because he felt she looked like Coco-puffs cereal. At various times Coco will respond to these two names as well as Rosie, and Rose Petal. When I say "respond", I mean the dog might blithely look over her shoulder at you as she chooses to ignore your request.

Lassie she ain't.

Coco is completely self-aware. She knows the following about herself: she is cute; she will be fed like clockwork no matter how stubborn she may have acted that day; she is superior to all of the creatures she sees as she gazes out her window (pictured above), including joggers and people from Alabama.

That window is Coco's view of the world. She seems very content to spend hours sitting rather regally and watching the various happenings out that window. Whenever anything untoward enters her world-view, say a lizard, squirrel, landscaper, or member of Congress, she will sharply voice her disapproval until the offending critter moves out of her line of sight. I don't know if they have yentas in Tibet, Coco's ancestral home, but she's a Tibetan yenta if I ever saw one.

Kate rescued Coco about four years ago from an abusive puppy mill situation. Coco had been living isolated in a crate and had never been socialized. Kate was told that it would take Coco a while to warm up to her but she would eventually. With great patience and dedication, Kate was able to break through Coco's distrust of large beings and begin her entry into something close to a dog's normal life. It wasn't easy, but today Coco and Kate have achieved a nice mutual respect and love for each other.

She still hates me, though. Coco, that is.

Kate has a roomy, comfortable dog crate that Coco really enjoys. She will retreat to her "house" several times a day, especially if she feels nervous or senses that Kate is going out on an errand. Whenever she leaves the house, Kate tells Coco that she is going shopping and will be back in "twenty-two minutes." Immediately, Coco will head happily into her home and patiently await Kate's return. If she understands the meaning of the passage of time, she's never let on. Whether Kate is back in twenty-two minutes or four hours, Coco greets her return in the same way: modest gratitude and benign indifference: "I knew you'd be home eventually; I really wasn't worried about it. When do we eat?"

Coco spends most of her day lounging around the house, finding different areas in which to nap. In this way she is much like your humble blogger. The only strenuous activity Coco engages in centers around the stuffed animals Kate has bought her. The local Pet Smart store is able to stay open because of these purchases. They number in the millions. For some unknown reason, the minute Kate picks up one of these ratty-looking, squeaky toys, Coco goes completely berserk, jumping up and down and barking her sharp, loud yelp until Kate agrees to give the animal up and allow Coco to fiercely tear it apart with little razor sharp teeth while dragging the poor squirrel/hedgehog/fox/monkey around the house, activating the squeaking noise in every room of the house over and over again.

Good times...good times.

Walking Coco can be a challenge. She hates any kind of adverse weather condition including wind, rain, and excessive sun. Thunder absolutely sends her over the edge. She will begin shaking uncontrollably until Kate picks her up and calms her down. I tried doing the same, but Kate was wise to me. Anyway, when Coco is taking a walk, we have to hope for almost complete silence. Any noise out of the ordinary will break Coco's concentration and the mission is all but over. Luckily, Coco accepts her part of the bargain and will agree to "hold off" until we try again later.

She may be a neurotic, but at least she's a responsible one.

Something many of us should aspire to.

Ain't dogs grand?
J

Roberts' Rules: June 2011

I have been adopted by a wonderful group of golfers at my golf course, The Santa Rosa Golf and Beach Club. This group plays every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning at 8:00. I happened to show up one morning and was invited to fill in. The rest, as they say, is history.

I'm back playing with these guys after my recent back woes which kept me on the shelf for almost two months. It turned out that I had a herniated disc which impacted the sciatic nerves which in turn impacted the muscles around my left quad and knee.

The thigh bone really is connected to the knee bone, etc...Who knew?

Anyway, after some rest and physical therapy I'm doing quite a bit better and, much to my surprise, I was welcomed back into the group enthusiastically. Some of the guys even remembered my name.

I enjoy playing with this group because we're all pretty much of the same ability. By that I mean we can all go from brilliant to putrid in the blink of an eye. Also, the conversation, a very important consideration during a four hour round of golf, is always pleasant, never testy.

But the most appealing aspect of this gang is that they play according to "Roberts' Rules." The group was founded and is still headed by one Billy Roberts, a terrific gentleman from Birmingham, Alabama. Bill is a retired medical equipment salesman and a fine golfer. It is his feeling that the rules of golf are too punitive, so he has amended them with some of his own. He calls his approach "Cheating with Integrity."

Here are a couple of his best rules:

Rule 27A: If three or more players in a foursome have a miserable tee shot, then all of the players may re-tee. The rationale behind this rule is that if that many players screwed up their tee shots, there was obviously something very wrong with the tee box. Perfect!

Rule 34B: On hole #14, when the "white" tees are too far back to make the dogleg, players may arbitrarily place their tees at the extreme front of the tee box. The rationale for this is that placing the tees up front makes it easier to score a par, which, after all, is the idea of the damn game! Brilliant!

Rule 48D: Any putt for a double bogey is automatically good. The rationale here is that triple-bogeys are extremely annoying. So simple, yet so perfect.

There are a few other rules we invoke, but this gives you an idea of what the mood of this group is like. Needless to say, everyone in the group seems to enjoy golf quite a bit more than they used to when they played with people who took the rules more seriously.

The group, which usually consists of between 8-12 guys, will gather after each round to enjoy a beer or two. The other day, one of the guys revealed that he had brought a remote control device that made a loud farting sound when activated. We had him place the device in a golf bag and then placed said golf bag at the entrance to the pro shop. As each unsuspecting golfer approached the bag, the remote control button was pressed and a tremendous fart noise was unleashed from the bag. We laughed hysterically as each person looked around to determine the nasty origin of each farting sound. Sometimes it's fun to be 12 again.

Cheating with integrity. Good times...good times.

Ain't life grand?
J