I’m worried about Sheba my lovely and dedicated anonymous spouse. What worries me about Sheba is that in the not too distant past she has left the toilet lid up a time or two. Opened to the world to see. We have a community filled with kitties. All belonging to nearby neighbors. I’m afraid the kitties might get into our cottage and start drinking from the toilet water and/or fall in. Only because Sheba forgot to put the toilet lid down. Plus she has in the recent past forgotten her coffee cup she left in the microwave. A cup I discover when attempting to place my own cup into the coffee warmer. Only to clink and spill a bit of coffee. Then there is her forgetting to plug back in my electric re-chargeable shaver after when Sheba unplugs her curling iron and hair dryer. Something that really cranks my angst.
I am so afraid Sheba is losing it. However she has no problem keeping score at Pickleball. Never the less, should I have Sheba examined by a memory specialist? She’s only 75. I am expecting her someday to call home and say she can’t find her glasses in order to drive home. All the while they are stuck in her hair on top of her head. What should I do? Jumping Jack Bojonovich! This behavior is not at all normal. Whew!
PS, of course Sheba is not her real name. None the less if I mention her name or show her image on social media I would be taken by space aliens and eaten like a cob of corn.
An apple for the teacher for sure.
A poem
By Charles A. Third grade.
I found a nickelI reached deep into my jeans pocket.
And I found a nickel at the bottom.
It was a complete surprise.
Mom had recently washed and ironed these faded blue dungarees
So how it kept from following out and
Into the wash tub was almost A miracle.
At the moment of this discovery, I was
Passing Joe Miller’s market.
At that time, I was about thirty-minutes
Late for school.
I had read in comic books and watched on TV
And in order to calm the
Wrath of the teacher one could
Buy a big red and shiny apple and gift it
To the teacher.
So, into Miller’s market I went. Straight to
The produce department in the corner. Among dozens
Of apples I picked out the
Biggest, the most red and shiniest of them all.
So, I gave Mr. Miller my nickel and hurried off to school
Once in the classroom I quickly went up to the teacher’s desk and
Presented the red delicious peace offering.
She took it from my hands and
Said, “A diller, a dollar. A ten O Clock scholar.”
Then I thought to myself, Crap! What is an Okie boy to do?
Immigrants not on the Mother Road.
Today in history.
On Saturday March 8, 1941 they left their homeland to explore new territories with the hope for a better and prosperous life. Leaving behind a homeland ravaged by depression and drought. It was a major decision to leave family and friends in order to explore new worlds. Never the less the decision was made and final. So off they drove on roads less traveled. Not knowing what lies ahead. Would this be a big mistake? What will we find when we get there. And where is ‘there’ anyway?
On the advisement of a close relative the leader of the expedition was earnestly implored to come to southern California after March 8 and you might find opportunities waiting you. So my dad, my mother, along with my older brother and oldest sister set off for the west coast. Traveling with my dad was his middle sister and her new husband and my dad’s seventeen-year old younger brother. All anxious to see what the promise land looks like. What is the promise? Would I find the promise? Is this for me? Will I like it here? Are there people there like me? Will I fit in? Will I find work? What is there that I might benefit from? I have never lived in a place with more than a dozen people per square mile. Will they speak the same language as me?
None the less, they all climb into my dad’s green 1937 Ford sedan and left Carter County, Oklahoma. Leaving the known behind in search of the unknown. Something like searching and finding the end of the rainbow. Will we find the proverbial pot of gold or just a flushing toilet? Either would be fine with them. The local Californians called them Okies. Never mind most of the seasoned southern Californians came from somewhere else far away as well.
This is not my father’s breakfast.
Breakfast sometimes is a little bit boring.
Don’t get me wrong I love breakfast but it can be a bit same old same old. Possibly non-nutritious nor desirable. Wife thinks either toast or cheerios is breakfast. No it aint! I grew up in a household where my dad loved a big egg and meat breakfast along with homemade biscuits and more. Of course he grew up on the farm where breakfasts were big and filling. Had to have calories in order to go out and plow with a mule and had to fix fences. Yes, he was a red dirt Okie.
But it’s been a while since I had to plow and fix fences. So my calorie intake is much less but I do like a reasonable volume of breakfast. So I came up with my own recipe for breakfast. Trying to eliminate egg, cheese, and bread. Oh sure, I fix and eat a yummy omelet now and then but I have this “Breakfast Stir Fry” thing I like to share.
It basically consists of rice, veggies, fresh or canned pineapple and smoked turkey sausage. Chunks of low-salt and low-sugar ham could work instead of smoked sausage.
It starts like this:
I measure about a half cup of dry rice into boiled water. Dropping in a pat of real butter and about a quarter teaspoon salt in the boiling water before pouring in the rice. Let steep with lid on and cool for about thirty minutes.
While rice is cooling I chop up coarsely chopped veggies. Onion, celery, bell or Jalapeno peppers, sliced mushrooms, and chop up chunks of pineapple and smoked sausage. Of course you can put into this breakfast stir fry whatever veggie or fruit you wish.
I then take a large cast-iron fry pan with lid(a Wok could work) put in about a teaspoon of olive oil or sesame could work, toss in about a quarter cup of finely chopped onions and a sprinkle of toasted garlic into a sizzling pan. Stir that a bit and then pour in the veggies sprinkled with a bit of salt and pepper and sauté for about two or three minutes and then dump the cooled rice and mix that in with the veggies. Let all that steam for a minute or two with the lid on. Then pour in the pineapple and smoked sausage and put lid back on and let steam for about two or three minutes longer. You might want to sprinkle in some soy sauce for added flavor before putting the lid on.
Then I take the cast iron skillet with lid still on and set it on the table and serve steaming hot right out of the pan. Oh so good. Any Okie farmer would love this. No bread, no egg, and no cheese. Just pure goodness. Woo! Lick my lips.
Next time I have a salmon and seasoned rice breakfast topped with two medium poached eggs recipe I will share with you.
Keep those freaking hackers out!
I don’t understand why they do this.
If we don’t want hackers to hack into our power grid or utilities or pipelines for Pete sakes, take them off-line. The only operational access should be from the inside of the facility or control center. An authorized operator must be in the building or facility in order to control and manipulate the grid. Are you following me?
Access to anything operational should only be from inside the power utility or pipeline. Not remotely. Not through the internet. Not online. Not even from an IT’s cozy cabin up in the Rockys.
Again, if we don’t want Russian hackers to gain control of our pipelines never ever make our operations available on the net. Only by being inside the restricted and guarded premises. And only by qualified and certified company or government personnel. No visitors or tour groups. Not even the curious.
Obviously the system, as it is run now is vulnerable to outside snoops and hackers. Stop that now! No more outside access. Matter of fact no phone or cable lines should come to the building. No satellite dishes or carrier pigeons. Yes, computer operators and programmers would have to be in the building at all times in order to operate the water works facility or pipeline. It may be a bit inconvenient but it’s for the security of the grid. So, unplug and go off line! And leave your cell phone at the door. What’s so hard about that?
The more you pay the less you get.
Have you noticed this?
Or am I the only one? They call it ‘Shrinkflation.” An example of shrinkflation is my granola bar I have been eating for years. My oat and walnut crunchy granola bar that I pay about a dollar for use to be about four and a half inches long. But after about two or three shrinkings it is still a buck but measuring about three and a half inches. Lesser product for the same price. Are you following me?
A 12-ounce can of frozen OJ is now sold in about 10.5 ounces at the same price. See the trend here? I opened a bag of Ruffles which came in the same size bag as it was a few years ago, now comes half full or half empty. All for the same price I paid a few years back. Who ate the top half? The same thing happened with some of my boxed cereals. Half empty. Where is the top half? I guess in the bottom half of the next box of cereal.
So many packaged goods times a million and minus a couple of ounces or inches is a big savings for the manufacturer but less product for the consumer. Thus we have inflation. Having to buy more and getting less. Then times this Shrinkflation with hundreds of product manufacturer doing the same. Resulting in the cost of living goes up. Then labor wants an increase in order to afford the inflated product prices. This is where the real inflation comes from. Never mind a shortage of some products. It’s your basic product manufacturer greed. “Gotta pay those shareholders or they will cash out.” So every time I go to the grocery store now, I demand a cost of living increase.
They left Oklahoma this time of the year 1941.
They were third-world immigrants.
Immigrants now leaving a life of hardship and primitive living behind. But not knowing what lies ahead. But anyway they are leaving a life with No running water, cooking on a wood burning stove, and a crudely built outhouse. Farming in rural southern Oklahoma was almost impossible. Farming was with an undernourished gray mule and an old wood and metal plow barely scraping the harden parched red clay dirt and rock. Rain hadn’t fallen in years. Red dust from the sky has now covered the land. Combine all that with trying to raise two toddling children.
So, after thinking it over, they decided to sell what little they had including the 40-acre dry farm and migrate to the west. Westward had promise of work and possible prosperity. Once in the southern regions climate became milder than they were accustomed to. Moving to southern California from parched dust bowl Oklahoma was almost culture shock. They encountered their first indoor flushing toilet. “Well if that don’t beat all I ever saw.” They also witnessed running water inside the house that flowed from faucets. Water without pumping a big iron handle. They discovered an ‘icebox’ without ice. Some call them refrigerators. And a stove that cooks with natural gas. Wow! It was all like landing in a new world or on a new planet. Los Angeles had it all plus an ocean. Amenities never known before by this Okie couple At least for this small family. “An indoor bath tub?” And it had both hot and cold running water. “Just imagine.” The folks back home won’t believe this. Boy Howdy! They will think we are now in modern Kansas City. “Just let me flush that toilet again. Dad gummit man! Look at that water go down would ya.”
Celebrating one’s own birthday is embarrassing.
Don’t like being the center of attention. Especially for my own inconsequential birthday. To me there is nothing about growing old that excites me enough to get silly and wear pointy hats.
Here is my suggestion for celebrating birthdays. Just celebrate the zeros. Yes, just celebrate the 20s, the 30s, the 40s, etc etc. You know what I mean? Never mind the annual giving of Hallmark cards and hiring cake bakers. Celebrate only every ten years. However the Chinese celebrate only the first birthday. At age one a significant celebration is planned. Many uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents, and others give cash for the first birthday. Usually enough to pay for the first year of college. Seems pretty good to me.
I’m just too old to celebrate anything much less an annual birth day whoop-laa. However, I do like the Zero celebration idea. What do you think? Well, I might take an annual cake without candles and that dreadful happy birthday song. Or how about this; instead of a cake we could celebrate over big bowls of refried beans, guacamole and with tortilla chips. Yum!
Not certain of the ending yet.
I am reading a book.
A book titled Black, White, and the Grey. It’s about a New York white guy who wants to establish his own restaurant in Georgia. A restaurant cheffed by a black woman. A black woman who lives in New York but the two of them establishes a restaurant in Savanna, Georgia. Setting up a restaurant in an old Greyhound bus station. Once known to be segregated not allowing blacks in the front door. But naming the restaurant “The Grey” but serving all people of color and non-color. Both restaurateurs trying to serve foods with a southern down home flair made from fresh local ingredients. Garden to table. If you know what I mean.
The better part of the book is getting to know each other’s style and temperament. Then going through an exhaustive process of developing a viable menu. Actually visiting several towns in Italy and noteworthy restaurants and also many restaurants in cities in the southeast of the United States.
So I got to thinking. How would I go through this painful process of establishing my own Curmudgeon style restaurant? I would first travel to Las Vegas, Nevada. Go into the more established casinos and sample their buffets. The one’s with several large serving islands. Large self-serve islands with Mexican, Italian, Asian, and southern cooked comfort food. Most of these casino eateries start you off with a plate the size of a serving platter. The kind used to carve a turkey on. Then make sure each guest knows for certain it is ‘All you can eat.’ The unfortunate thing today it is not as cheap as it was a couple of decades ago. A giant platter of food at most casinos was at one time…free. But now it is like twenty bucks. But all you can eat.
But anyway this would be my model for a good restaurant. If you wish sushi mooshi veggie vegan gluten free froo froo stuff, drive to San Francisco instead. Bon Apatite.
It was just Barberism.
From the time I could first remember, my dad cut my hair. From about two-years old and up to age 13 my Okie dad was my exclusive hair stylist.
My dad would have me sit on a stack of Los Angeles telephone directories and Yellow pages all piled on a dining chair he sat out in our wash machine room. He would spread out his scissors, comb, and hand squeezed manual barber clippers on top of my mom’s Maytag washer like a surgeon ready for brain surgery. And with an old bed sheet pin the sheet around my neck. Hopefully to catch most of the hair clippings. This was quick and dirty work. Barbering at its amateurish. Barbering as only he knew how. Zip, clip, snip, and it all came off. Leaving me with just enough hair atop to oil down and make a part. The sides and back was almost as bare as police detective Kojak’s. “Who loves ya’ baby? Do I get a sucker pops?
However early in that process of elimination, I decided at about age five or six to cut my own hair. I guess it was when I saw my dad’s barber scissors laying out on the kitchen counter and I grabbed them and with little thought I proceeded to whack off all hair in the front of my large head. Giving me that ‘head hit the fan’ look. Why bother to comb one’s hair when I could just get rid of it. It worked for Yul Brynner didn’t it? But as a result my Uncle Bat started calling me Butch. And it stuck for longer than I wanted.
Then as my social conscience evolved in junior high I went to the barber for the first time at about age 14. A barber shop in an arcade near the Five and Dime store. There were four barbers all with their white barbering frocks ready to trim and buzz. However, none of them sang in a barber shop quartet. Nor did they wash and blow dry. But they did shave my neck with hot shave cream and towel it off with a nice warm wet towel.
In keeping with trends I had the barber give me a flat-top. Some called it a Princeton. The top of my head was shaved flat down to the scalp. Leaving the sides long and swept back. All kept in place with a jar of Butch wax. An orangish waxy goo to keep the top hair standing in place and sides combed straight back over the ears. Straight back and looking like the front fender of a VW Beetle. But as I soon found out this flat top configuration required constant maintenance. Stupid hair kept growing and began to quickly look like a front lawn not mowed for weeks. And did I mention never paying my dad for my haircut. I had to pay these barber guys a buck-25. And to keep it looking good I needed a cut and trim at least every two weeks. Where does a fourteen-year old with no job or allowance get that kind of money? My Okie parents didn’t believe in allowances for their children. Plus my dad didn’t know how to trim and style my new trendy haircut. None the less, he didn’t like the long swept back hair on the sides. All he knew to do was to just buzz it all off. But anyway, I was able to keep it trimmed every three or four weeks. Looking like the Okie goober that I was.
All in all learning a lesson. You gotta pay for what you get. And money didn’t come easy in those days. I finally convinced my dad to put me on the payroll and pay me a dollar allowance each week. But thinking back my dad’s hair always looked neat and trimmed. Evidently he must have gone to the barber himself because none of we kids and my mom didn’t know how to cut hair. Well, if that don’t beat all I ever saw, my Okie dad often proclaimed.
Chuck the Blogger Guy 