Want to live to 114?

Scientist have determined, at the time of birth, a healthy child has a life expectancy of approximately 114 years. Whether we make it to the ripe old age of 114 is determined by the type lifestyle factors we choose to pursue.

The following list was determined by the National Institute of Health (NIH). It is not a complete list, but highlight some of the more dramatic lifestyles. The additions and subtractions impact our projected 114 year life span dramatically. 

Factors Influencing Life Expectancy

1. Mother lived to be 80 - add 4 years

2. Father lived to be 80 - add 2 years

3. Parent, grandparent, or sibling died of cardiovascular disease before age 50 - subtract 4 years

4. Parent, grandparent, or sibling died of cardiovascular disease, diabetes, ulcer, stomach cancer, or breast cancer before age 60 -  subtract 2 years for each

5. Above average intelligence - add two years

6. More than 30% overweight - subtract 5 years

7. Eat a lot of vegetables and fruits, and stops eating before feeling full - add 1 year

8. Smoke two or more packs of cigarettes a day - subtract 12 years. Smokes between one and two packs a day - subtract 7 years. Smoke less than a pack  a day - subtract 2 years

9. Moderate or light drinker of alcohol - add 2 years. Heavy drinker - subtract 8 years

10. Exercise briskly at least three times a week - add 3 years

11. Graduate from college - add 4 years. Attend college but did not graduate - add 2 years.

12. Works as a professional or manager - add 1 year. Works as an unskilled laborer - subtract  4 years. 

13. Income above average for age and occupation - add 1 year. Income below average - sub tract 1 year.

14. Over 60 and still working - add 2 years

15. Married and living with spouse - add 1 year

16. Men: Separated or divorced and living alone - subtract 9 years (not alone - subtract 4  years). Widowed and living alone - subtract 7 years (not alone - subtract 3 years).

17. Women: Separated or divorced and living alone - subtract 4 years. Widowed and living  alone - subtract 3 years (not alone - subtract 2 years).

18. Never married woman - subtract 1 year for every decade after age 25

19. Never married man - subtract two years for every decade past age 25 living alone

20. Personality: Aggressive - subtract 5 years. Depressive - subtract 2 years. Flexible - add  two years. Happy - add 2 years. Risk-taking (e.g. leaves seat belts unfastened, takes a  dare) subtract 2 years

21. Has at least two close friends - add 1 year

Let’s see. According to the NIH, we began with a life expectancy of 114 years. If you smoke two packs a day, never graduated from high school, are overweight, live alone, a boozer and have a Type A personality you’ll be lucky to live through puberty.

Do You Remember?

Do you remember when your parents left the front door unlocked and ghettos were neighborhoods? Do you remember when the American flag stood for freedom and we didn’t need laws to protect it?

Do you remember when celebrities actually did something to be known as a celebrity? Do you remember when criminals were despised and not on the best seller list, and when taxes were only a necessary nuisance?

Do you remember when sagging pants meant low on the hips, not around the thighs. And what’s the deal about girls showing off their thong underwear and boys parading around so everyone can see most of their boxer shorts?

Do you remember when the poor were too proud to accept charity and the clergy talked religion not politics? Do you remember when clerks and repairmen took pride in pleasing their customers and songs had a tune that you could sing-along with. 

Do you remember when people knew what the Fourth of July stood for and you never dreamed the United States could lose at anything. Do you remember when the world looked up to the United States. 

Do you remember when a Sunday drive was a pleasant outing and not an ordeal. Do you remember when people sacrificed to make our country great? Do you remember when people valued what they had and enjoyed reading something other than their e-mail.

Do you remember when receiving a free education was a privilege and students respected their teachers and elders. Do you remember when politicians were patriotic and meant it, and when everyone knew the difference between right and wrong, and there were no gray areas.

Do you remember when you considered yourself lucky to have a good job and proud to have it.

And, do you remember when you could enjoy sex and the only dying involved a broken heart.

Do you remember . . . 

Kids Say the Darndest Things

Yesterday I received an e-mail from my favorite neighbor Sandy Mitchell telling me to go to the enclosed web site (http://carolynspreciousmemories.com/Videos/artlinkletterkidsntribute.html) and watch the little kid on the left of Tennessee Ernie Ford. “He’s so cute!” The site was wrapped in doilies and was led by a old kinescope of Ernie singing a song surrounded by kids. 

As he sang, one of the kids really got into the rhythm and he truly was really cute.

However, below that “video” were three from the late Art Linkletter’s show, “The Kids Say the Darndest Thing.” In one, Linkletter introduced the segment by saying the kids are all between the ages of 6-9 and “I follow two rules: 1- I don’t tell them what to say because they can say things much funnier than I can tell them. And, 2- I don’t tell them what not to say because they are innocent and whatever they say would never embarrass me.” Not surprisingly, they were sometimes funny, sometimes embarrassing, but always entertaining.

I’ll not spoil your viewing by picking my favorites, but below are a few I remember from long ago watching Art Linkletter and listening to my own kids. He had a wonderful rapport with the kids, much like Bill Cosby when he reprised the show years later after it had gone off the air - remember his Jello commercials..

From memory and I don’t remember the specific questions asked, but they are fairly obvious.

“Well, I guess that’s the last we’ll see of her...”

“Big boys sleep alone and three-year-olds are too big to sleep with me.”

“Superman sleeps by himself.”

“Daddy, Daddy! Mommy didn’t sleep with anyone while you were gone.”

“Dad, did they get their money by genetics or did they earn it?”

I think the reason that stories about children are always popular is the fact that, for the most part, they’re always honest.

Children hug when they feel like hugging and kiss only when they want to express emotion. The things that make them the greatest gift, however, is the fact that they never say they love you unless they mean it.

You know, growing up is not all its cracked-up to be.

Skivvy and the Bayou City Boogie

Last Saturday around sunset, with Houston’s heat index hovering around 115º, a tall, skinny man named Robert “Skivvy” Johnson robbed a McDonalds and was seen stumbling from the fast-food restaurant with several employees chasing him. 

While holding the sack and pistol in one hand and holding his trousers up with the other, Skivvy crossed a busy intersection toward a shopping center where he rushed into an O’Reilly Auto Parts Store. Sensing his predicament, he grabbed a hostage and drug her to the street. At this point, he was being chased by employees from O’Reilly’s, McDonalds and a member of Houston’s finest.

Somewhere along the way he lost the hostage when she shoved him into an Albertson’s shopping cart.  He had to do something so he hijacked the car of an 18-year-old, Lawrence Blackwell, pointed his pistol  and yelled, “DRIVE!”

He drove him to a nearby condominium where the harried bandit abandoned Blackwell’s car and literally kicked down the door of widow Miriam Trashell. Amazingly, the near-sighted Miriam was apparently expecting trouble because she immediately started firing her pistol at the intruder, who naturally returned fire – luckily neither hit anything. Houstonians become a bit testy when the temperature and humidity are high. 

Shortly, he had enough of Miriam Trashell and dashed through the remnants of her front door onto the parking lot where he accosted a driver who’d just entered. However, he didn’t get far because, for some reason, he couldn’t get the car through the security gate. He then dumped his second car and again took-off on foot.

He ran straight to a nearby Dairy Queen where he climbed inside the cab of a Ben E. Keith truck, pointed the now-empty pistol at the driver and, between huffs and puffs, demanded the truck. The brave driver yanked the gun out of his hand as the befuddled thief fell out the side door and again escaped into the night.

While being chased on foot by a Houston policeman and employees from McDonalds, the auto parts store, a Ben E. Keith meat truck driver and presumably the still irate Miriam Trashell,  he stumbled his way into a nearby residential neighborhood. 

The poor guy - I’m beginning to feel sorry for him at this point - jumps a fence where he’s attacked and bitten on the shoulder by a large gray Weimaraner. He then beats a hasty, albeit bloody, retreat back over the fence where he runs headlong into the growing posse. 

When last heard, he was being treated for minor injuries at Ben Taub General Hospital and obviously under arrest. While being handcuffed and bending over the hood of a Houston squad car, Skivvy was heard to say, “Who was that crazy woman in the apartment?”

Inspector Clouseau could not have planned a better August evening of entertainment in The Bayou City.

Tonda

At the conclusion of our third date, I matter-of-factly announced to Tonda that I’d like to marry her. It was not really a proposal. It was more of a statement of purpose.

We were standing on the unlighted porch of her parent’s double wide which sat anchored on their 32 acre family compound adjacent to Lake Texoma. The situation was unusual, at least for me (actually, probably anybody) because I’d had a date with her sister, Starling, the night before.

Being in my mid-30s and divorced for several years, I was dating and not overtly looking for a new wife; I thought. I’d had several not-serious dates with Starling and more than several serious dates with Martha who lived in Marshall, a smallish town in east Texas.

Martha was divorced, full of life, the sister and sister-in-law of my best friends in Sherman, and was the daughter of southern aristocracy and respectability. I liked her a lot. Then Tonda, unknowingly, swept me off my feet.

I’d met Tonda briefly in Jack Stafford’s office five years previously. By briefly, I mean the encounter could have been timed in seconds. I remember her having longish red hair and a terrific smile. Unfortunately, I remember little else. 

Our next meeting was when she visited Starling after filing for divorce from Floyd, a manager of a Gibson’s store (an early rival of Wal-Mart). After Starling and I had attended something or other at the country club, we went to her parent’s house, played cards and visited with Tonda and Granny. We had a proper good time and, I’m embarrassed to say, I was now smitten with three women – two of whom were sisters with one of them not officially divorced. Tonda still had that red hair, her vivacious personality and was currently unavailable. 

Within days, in which Starling and I had another date, Tonda returned to her home and five year old daughter, Courtney, in central Texas, but you know what they say about “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

In the meantime, Starling and I had a few more dates, but my ardor had slackened considerably. Thank goodness Martha was still in east Texas.

Then one day Tonda reappeared, this time for good, and she and Courtney moved into a very tiny travel trailer (a cat could jump from front to back) that was a stone’s throw from her sister. Life was again somewhat complicated, but I didn’t care. Tonda’s divorce was officially immanent so I asked her out.

Tonda, being the kind person that she is, asked her sister, “How serious are you and Allen?”

“Not too,” replied Star. “Why?”

“Allen has asked me out and I wondered if you’d mind,” responded my non-officially divorced future wife. 

“Sure, why not,” said Starling, taking care of a third of my dilemma. 

Without me telling Martha, Martha knew that the attraction was gone. We’d last seen each other before my fateful third date with Tonda. Maybe she could tell something from the tone in my voice during that last call. Maybe she had also met someone or someone, at least, closer to her home. I’ll never know. I do know that she later met and married a surgeon in that smallish town in east Texas and hopefully lived happily ever after.

Meanwhile, Tonda and I dated with the energy that somehow thrives on the lack of sleep. I was working full time in my studio in Denison and acting in a community theater in Sherman until 10 p.m. each night. I’d then drive out to her -did I mention small- trailer. We talked until the wee hours and Courtney would either fall asleep in Tonda’s arms or had drifted off while I was in the middle of Act II.

Tonda’s divorce became final and we set an indefinite date for sometime in the future. We were now officially engaged.

One of the first persons we told was Jack Stafford, our good friend and assistant minister of our church. We asked him to officiate our marriage, but, much to our surprise, he refused, saying, “It’s much too soon after Tonda’s divorce. It will never work. I won’t do it.” 

We decided to decide later about the minister. No marriage date was set with both of us agreeing that when the time was right, “We’ll do it.”

Fall and winter passed with us blending our two families. My ex returned to nursing school in Ft. Worth to become a nurse anesthetist and I gained custody of my kids Andy and Kelly. Courtney and Kelly became sisters almost immediately, and Andy discovered baseball cards and loud music. Tonda and my ex became good friends and I discovered they are very much alike. By the way, Tonda’s ex (remember Floyd) tried to talk her out of our engagement by warning her I was “a ladies man.” I took it as a backhanded compliment, and I think Tonda just laughed.

Despite Floyd, all the kids, and the smallish trailer, one fine day in late April when the birds were chirping, the leaves were returning and the planets swung into alignment we decided, “It was time.” We got the license, called the other minister and our parents. “We’re getting married on Saturday at First Presbyterian Church and we’d love for you to be there,” was our simple verbal invitation. Jethro, my German Shepherd/Saint Bernard stood-in as best dog. We and the three kids were married on a bright sunny morning in the church courtyard, with parents and Starling as witnesses.

That afternoon our honeymoon commenced with us buying two carts piled with groceries and Tonda watching me play in a softball game. 

That was 29 years and three months ago. I couldn’t be happier. I made the perfect choice. Jack has made a lot of terrific decisions in his life but boy, was he wrong on this one.  But, we still love him and rib him about it every chance we get.

The Sun and the Moon

The sun and the moon

I don’t know who wrote “the Best Things In Life Are Free” but the song writer was a wise person indeed.  Do you remember, “The Sun and the Moon. . .’?

Its lyrics are great but the author left out something– rain on a tin roof, and it should have been included. 

Last week it was thundering and raining so hard I couldn’t wait to snuggle into bed. I love the sound of rain. It’s so soothing, at least it is to me, but it scares some people. Meanwhile. I just drop deeper into sleep.

When we first moved into our new home, I was not yet aware of its night time idiosyncratic sounds and it was a pleasant surprise when I heard the sound of rain striking metal right outside our bedroom window. It’s funny how one simple sound can bring back many memories. Aromas can sometimes do that as well. And while I don’t live in the past, neither do I have any regrets about my childhood. 

The rain splashing on tin took me back to my boyhood when I always looked forward to spending the night in my grandmother’s cottage on Mockingbird Lane. She had this large evaporative cooler that hung out her dining room window. When it would rain, the sound created on that metal housing, mixed with the hum of the big fan blade was truly mesmerizing. Last week that simple sound took me back to my grandmother Mimi’s house. I miss her a lot.

'The Bible tells me so...'

Storytelling, terrific acting and writing are the keys to a wonderful cinematic or stage performance. Those are the reason’s why I enjoyed and still enjoy watching West Wing on television. I generally try not to get too involved in serial TV because my activities are so unpredictable that scheduling becomes a problem. I know I can time shift with a VCR but I just didn’t find one that was worth the effort until West Wing.

One of my favorite episodes was called, “The Midterms.” (Did I tell you I’m a political junkie and, reading my blog, you can probably tell I lean a bit to the left?)  Most weeks the ensemble cast is involved in several different but converging story lines, and this episode was no different.

Toward the conclusion, the White House is hosting a group of radio talk show hosts with the President Bartlet scheduled to attend. I love the ensuing dialog. 

Below is a transcript of the scene:

C.J. (Press secretary to gathering of radio talk show hosts at the White House)

Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Ladies and gentlemen. The President of the United States.

Everyone stands and claps. The flashbulbs go off as Bartlet enters the reception.

BARTLET (President)

Thank you. Thank you, very much. Thanks a lot. I wish I could spend more than a few minutes 

with you but the polls don’t close in the east for another hour and there are plenty of 

election results left to falsify. 

(Everyone chuckles.)

BARTLET

You know with so many people participating in the political and social debate through call 

in shows, it’s a good idea to be reminded...

(Bartlet loses his train of thought when something attracts his attention. The camera pans over 

to Jenna Jacobs, sitting on her chair.)

BARTLET

...it’s a good idea to be reminded of the awesome impact... the awesome impact...

He finally gives up and addresses her.

BARTLET

I’m sorry, um... you’re Dr. Jenna Jacobs, right? 

JENNA JACOBS (Conservative talk show host)

Yes, sir. 

BARTLET

It’s good to have you here.

JENNA JACOBS

Thank you.

BARTLET

The awesome impact of the airwaves and how that translates into the furthering of our national 

discussions but obviously also how it can... how it can...

(He sighs, and addresses Jenna Jacobs again.)

BARTLET

Forgive me, Dr. Jacobs. Are you an M.D.?

JENNA JACOBS

Ph.D.

BARTLET

A Ph.D.?

JENNA JACOBS

Yes, sir.

BARTLET

In Psychology?

JENNA JACOBS

No sir.

BARTLET

Theology?

JENNA JACOBS

No.

BARTLET

Social work?

JENNA JACOBS

I have a Ph.D. in English Literature.

BARTLET

I’m asking, ‘cause on your show, people call in for advice and you go by the name of 

Dr. Jacobs on your show. And I didn’t know if maybe your listeners were confused by that, 

and assumed you had advanced training in Psychology, Theology, or health care.

JENNA JACOBS

I don’t believe they are confused, no sir.

BARTLET

Good. I like your show. I like how you call homosexuality an abomination.

JENNA JACOBS

I don’t say homosexuality is an abomination, Mr. President. The Bible does.

BARTLET

Yes, it does. Leviticus.

JENNA JACOBS

18:22

BARTLET

Chapter and verse. I wanted to ask you a couple of questions while I had you here. 

I’m interested in selling my youngest daughter into slavery as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. 

(small chuckles from the guests) She’s a Georgetown sophomore, speaks fluent Italian, and 

always clears the table when it was her turn. What would a good price for her be? While 

thinking about that, can I ask another? My Chief of Staff, Leo McGarry, insists on working 

on the Sabbath, Exodus 35:2, clearly says he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated 

to kill him myself or is it okay to call the police? Here’s one that’s really important, 

‘cause we’ve got a lot of sports fans in this town. Touching the skin of a dead pig makes 

us unclean, Leviticus 11:7. If they promise to wear gloves, can the Washington Redskins 

still play football? Can Notre Dame? Can West Point? Does the whole town really have to be 

together to stone my brother, John, for planting different crops side by side? Can I burn 

my mother in a small family gathering for wearing garments made from two different threads? 

(Jenna Jacobs fidgets uncomfortably.)

BARTLET

Think about those questions, would you? One last thing, while you may be mistaking this 

for your monthly meeting of the Ignorant Tightass Club, in this building, when the President 

stands, nobody sits.

(Jenna Jacobs squirms in her seat but doesn’t rise. Bartlet glares meaningfully at her. 

She finally rises out of her seat.)

It was only a TV show but it highlights arguments that are heard too frequently. Presumably the person using the Bible as a reference assumes his/her opponent is ignorant in Biblical scholarship. Interesting when she’s suddenly cast with a more than worthy opponent. Regardless of how someone feels about this particular issue, the Biblical references don’t hold water in modern times. It’s unfortunate we need a fictionalized television show to highlight our debates and sometimes follies. Besides, one of the tenets of Christian teaching is tolerance. Maybe we should all practice it more often.

A vehicle I loved

Saturday, while driving to the cleaners to drop off a few shirts, I was stopped by a traffic light at Josey Lane and Frankford. Also stopped, but heading toward me on the opposite side of the street, was a 1963 white Studebaker Lark. When available, my dad would let me drive his car, a red ‘61 Studebaker Lark VIII with red and white leather interior and the Regal trim. I loved that car. Sounds snarky to love a car, but to a kid who didn’t have one it was wonderful.

First a little background. Dad was, and is, the most conservative guy I know. His cars were always white, always four door and always prim and proper. I don’t know what got into him in 1961 when he traded in his Buick, but I was astounded when he drove that somewhat compact, fire engine red car into the driveway. It had bucket seats (that folded flat, for sleeping?) and a console with a metal interior large enough to ice four cans of beer that, conveniently, even had a drain. Once, in a burst of extra money from my Morning News paper route, I splurged and purchased a reverb for the car radio that broadcast a semblance of stereo sound.

Needless to say I borrowed the red beast whenever available. Dad was kind enough to make it available very often.

After graduating from high school, I joined the Marine Corps and was fortunate to get a Christmas leave which involved an interminable bus trip from Camp Pendleton in California to Dallas. 

On New Years Eve I took Margie Asbury to a party, and after midnight we left to attend another gathering. At the hilltop intersection of Forest and Hillcrest, I looked both ways and slowed for the blinking yellow light. It looked safe so I started across. Unfortunately, a speeding car was hidden by the crest of the hill and hit the red Lark in the right rear quarter panel sending us into a violent spin. The impact caused the bucket seat to fold flat and Margie did a flip through the back windshield, and I was tossed out the driver’s door. Pretty good argument for seat belts, huh? But heh, this was before seat belt laws. 

Margie was okay, aside from bumps and bruises, and so was I. We were unhurt, but not so my first favorite car. It was totaled. On Margie’s side a 24 inch long, decorative metal strip (from the Regal trim) was bent inward and pierced her seat like a spear from Braveheart. In this instance, Margie probably would have died if she’d been wearing a seat belt. We were lucky.

Saturday, as I took the shirts to the cleaners and glimpsed across the street, I remembered a great little red car.

TRIVIA

(Try it without Google)

The answer will be in tomorrow’s blog.

Yesterday's Trivia: If a female dolphin is called a cow, what is a male dolphin called? A bull

Today’s Trivia: In Chinese, what is the word for mother?

Sometimes simple things can be confusing

During a visit to Jack Tar Village in Galveston, TX, we stopped for dinner at their restaurant. I love their food, but hate the way their rest rooms are designated for males and females. They have male and female dolphins on the doors, nothing else - no bonnets, purses, shotguns or boobs to make obvious which is which.

I was in a hurry but stopped and studied the three dimensional dolphins. Not coming to a definite conclusion and feeling somewhat stupid, I took a deep breath, made my choice, opened the door and peaked in. (Getting way ahead of me aren’t you?)

Ever spent 20 minutes in an isolation booth while lifting your knees to your chest and holding your breath?

The moment of truth came almost immediately when I heard the tap, tap, tap of spiked heels on tile. My fears were verified when I heard female chit-chat. I honestly didn’t want to listen, but what can you do when you’re eight feet away. I was frightened my cell phone or change would slip out of my pockets, roll under the partition and interrupt their conversation. You become very religious on these occasions. 

They talked and talked. Meanwhile, my bad knee from high school football started cramping. I was beginning to have visions of a banner headline in the Galveston Daily News, “Retired teacher arrested in women’s rest room at local resort.”

I thought they’d never leave, but eventually they did, never once powdering their noses. Now I was scared I’d run into more ladies before attempting my exit.

Uncoiling, I took the gamble and hurriedly slipped out the door. Seconds after limping through the door a lady approached. She, not surprisingly, hesitated at the door’s female dolphin signage. Adjusting her bifocals, she tilted her head back and studied the door. Turning toward me she asked, “Excuse me, is this the ladies room?”

Acting like a passerby, “Not sure,” I innocently responded. “But the little figurine should tell you. Is it male or female?”

“Beats me,” she said and brazenly marched through the door.

Some people have all the luck.

Trivia question of the day

(Try it without Google)

The answer will be in tomorrow’s blog.

Yesterday’s Question: A group of geese on the ground is gaggle. What is a group of geese in the air? A Skein

Today’s Trivia: If a female dolphin is called a cow, what is a male dolphin called?

Crime Doesn't Pay

Crime Doesn’t Pay

Is it my imagination are the bad guys more stupid than usual?

I read about a Harold Schmidt who was arrested for breaking and entering someone’s apartment. All the police knew  was that somebody had broken in, stolen bracelets, earrings, some CDs, vitamins from the medicine cabinet and several frozen chicken patties from the freezer.

Nobody would have realized that Harold was the breake-in-ee except that he apparently had the sudden urge to call his sweet grandmother in Ocala, Florida. 

Something must have reminded him of her. Maybe the jewelry. Maybe it was the frozen chicken patties. 

Anyway, when the next bill phone bill arrived at the apartment, the owner realized she hadn’t called Area Code 312 that night. So the police contacted the grandmother who said, “Yes, I remember who called. It was my wonderful grandson Harold.”

Harold now faces up to 10 years in prison.

Then there was the story of Mike Brennon who fell asleep on a woman’s couch while stealing from her house. When the woman arrived home, she quietly called the police and they arrested him mid slumber.

Crime certainly doesn’t pay, especially with criminals like these on the loose.

Then there was Bernie Madoff.

Trivia question of the day

(Try it without Google)

The answer will be in tomorrow’s blog.

Yesterday’s Question: What continent has the fewest flowering plants? Antartica

Today’s Trivia: A group of geese on the ground is gaggle. What is a group of geese in the air?

Juggling Act On Aisle 5

I’m bad about dashing into the supermarket to pick up just a few needed items. I always seem to get off to a bad start by never taking a cart or a basket for that matter.

This probably dates eons ago to my bachelor days when I grabbed a cart with a wimpy wheel that wouldn’t go straight on an AA pledge. I nearly demolished the store by knocking over a mountain of apple sauce, hitting the Country Time Lemonade display head-on and almost sideswiped a senior citizen using a walker.

I always say to myself when entering and spying the carts, “Only gunna pickup a few items. Don’t need one.”

Have you ever tried to pick up “just a few items”? It’s always my vowed intention when entering the supermarket to pick up something like two cans of chili and a box of crackers. HA! The road to the checkout stand is paved with good intentions, believe me.

What I usually end up with (without the cart, of course) looks something like this: 6 cans of chili (on sale), crackers, 2 tubes of Hungry Jack Biscuits, 3 onions, 2 tomatoes, a package of cheese, plus a couple of rolls of Charmin.

So, here I come, all the way from the back of the store vegetable bin heading toward the cashier.

Please don’t ask me why I didn’t start at the vegetable bin. If I was smart enough to answer that, I’d be rolling a cart with a wiggly wheel instead of going into my juggling act up aisle five.

Here’s how it works. Don’t try this without a net: First the biscuits, one in each pocket; cheese crammed in pants near the navel; one box of crackers, under the right arm pit; tomatoes and onions join the crackers; two rolls of Charmin, under my left arm pit; and the six cans of chili are stacked like firewood from my wrist to my chest.

All set, I begin my advance toward checkout walking with all the poise and dignity of a Maine lobster with a double hernia and hemorrhoids.

Finally, I limp to the checkout counter and stand there, a member of the walking wounded, while a sweet little lady proceeds to drop her handbag thereby dumping an entire assortment of grannie goodies and change across the slowly moving conveyor belt.

I was all set to unload when I heard a quiet voice behind me say, “Excuse me. Do you mind if I go ahead? I only have two cans of chili and some crackers.”

“Be my guest,” I said with a very slight bow. “You don’t even have a cart, do you?”

“Noooo. Never use ‘em. I avoid the hassle by just picking up a few items at a time.”

Yes, I know about hassles as she slipped past me, and two tomatoes plop between my feet.

Next time, I’ll get a basket. I promise.

Trivia question of the day

(Try it without Google)

The answer will be in tomorrow’s blog.

Yesterday’s Question: What explorer introduced pigs to North America? Columbus

Today’s Trivia: What is MacGyver’s first name?

Wonderings

Ahhh! The joys of nature at its finest. Recently, while in Colorado with my brother, we watched the lunar calendar and timed a trip to almost timberline with plans, and accompanying photo gear, of photographing the full moon rising majestically above the mountains. While standing in damp and deep Colorado high country grass, I began wondering about things.

(1) What color is Lindsay Lohan’s hair, really?

(2) What are grits, really?

(3) Does Queen Elizabeth ever get the urge to behead somebody?

(4) Why do children always choose to have a crisis while their parents are on the phone or going to the bathroom?

(5) Would history have been changed if Paul Revere had e-mail or Twitter?

(6) Why does the North have coffee houses and the South have waffle houses?

(7) Why is a fair’s Midway called a “Midway”? What’s it supposed to be midway between?

(8) Why does the North tend to have double last names and the South double first names?

About the time the clouds threatened to ruin our moon shot, I wondered

(9) What is the origin of the word Crotchety? Anyone know? And

(10) While reading an old family recipe book, I found the following: “Save all manner of bacon grease. You will be instructed later on how to use it.” Huh?

Trivia question of the day

(Try it without Google)

The answer will be in tomorrow’s blog.

Yesterday’s Question: What is Homer Simpson’s greatest fear? Sock Puppets

Today’s Trivia: What explorer introduced pigs to North America?

Modern technology, car troubles and the battery

ON THE ROAD

The engine problem light came on in my brother’s truck during our trip to Colorado. I’d always been told, “When that light comes on, you stop.” Since we were heading down a steep grade, with a lot of traffic and a guard rail hugging my right door we opted to carefully get down the hill. I snatched open the glove compartment, found the owners manual and quickly thumbed to the page, actually a brief paragraph, on engine warning light. Unexpectedly, it was vague concerning cause and remedy.

It mentioned a few causes but more or less said when you get a chance you ought to get it checked. That took the immediate pressure off but we were still concerned. To make matters worse, the engine would intermittently go off and return a few days later. Clark decided to wait until we returned to Dallas so his favorite mechanic could look at it. While returning home the light remained blank, until we were about five hours from home, and blared from the dashboard. An hour later the transmission oil light flashed hot.

We pulled off onto a side road and a large Good Samaritan wearing a red Halliburton jump suit with fluorescent yellow stripes stopped and kindly offered his help. He quickly deduced a engine computer sensor error and said to wait a while to let the oil cool and drive about 50 mph back to Dallas. We trusted his judgement. He looked like he knew what he was talking about. You know, he wasn’t a dweeb.

We did and all was well.

BACK HOME

After arrival, I needed to run an errand so I climbed in my always reliable ‘97 Volvo and turned the key to start. The engine went ................ It didn’t even turn over. Dead as a doornail.

I’d never jumped a Volvo before, but how hard could it be?

WALMART

Luckily, my car was parked next to Tonda’s so I stretched the cables between us, hooked the positives to positives and negatives to negatives and opened my door to start my engine. Immediately all lights started flashing and the horn began blowing. I got out my owners manual and read the vague instructions that offered no remedy for the Swedish safety system. At 7 p.m., I disconnected the battery, lugged it out of the engine compartment and headed to WalMart.

Because it was still in warranty, Jim in the auto department put a small computer gizmo on it to check if it was dead or not. The gizmo was not responding to anything, so he said, as he headed, towing my battery, out the door toward the bay/garage area, “I need to put it on The Big Machine. Back in a minute.” Jim looked like an ex-insurance salesman.

“It’ll take a while to do its thing,” was all he said upon retuning and disappearing.

Forty-five minutes later, after I watched the initial shutting down of the garage, I asked the department manager, “How long does it generally take for the BIG MACHINE to decide if a battery is dead or not?” He casually and vaguely responded, “Sometimes quite a while.” The head mechanic standing next to him slowly and knowingly nodded. About that time the lights went out in the garage and Jim had never returned. So I waited.

At 9:05, the department manager unexplainably said, “I’ve called the night store manager” and returned to the now dark garage to again check The Big Machine. This time he returned with the battery proclaiming it truly dead. “Do you want a replacement?” I was thinking of several pithy replies, but I held my tongue and headed home, new battery in hand, at 9:15 p.m.

Battery installation went smoothly, no warning lights or sounds because I crawled through the driver’s window to start the car.

THE INSPECTION

Since it was time for a new inspection sticker and oil change, I headed to my Jiffy oil change place first thing the next morning. I told Steve the large, bearded mechanic to change the oil and “I need a new Inspection Sticker.”

I plopped in a plastic seat in the waiting room with some drivel of a realty show showing on the TV. About 20 minutes later, Steve returned saying “You’ve failed the inspection because your battery is too new.” Both guys to the side of me joined me in mild laughter as I said, “Too new!?” He explained that you must drive it at least 50 miles to “Seat the sensors.” There’s that word again. Steven even looked a bit like Halliburton guy.

I left and drove not 50 but 100 miles that day and returned. Steve said it was too hot to get a reading. I wasn’t sure if he meant the engine or the outside temperature (102º). In the Texas cool of early the next morning, I returned. Steve grinned, as I pulled in the driveway, saying, “We’ll get it this time.”

Shortly he returned frustratedly saying, “I’m still not getting a reading. I’m going to the computer to check if there is any information on new batteries and Inspections for Volvos.”

About 15 minutes later, he appeared from wherever the computer was and laughed, “You’re not going to believe this, but I have six pages of printouts from Volvo describing the steps you must take (for ‘97 Volvo 690) after installing a new battery.”

Below is a excerpt from the six pages.

1. Drive a normal urban driving cycle for six minutes. Accelerate gently where necessary keeping the throttle as steady as possible.

2. Safely stop (I guess wrecks will disallow the sequence) the vehicle and allow the engine to idle for 90 seconds.

3. Drive a normal driving cycle for six minutes. Accelerate gently where necessary keeping the throttle as steady as possible.

4. Safely stop the vehicle and allow the vehicle to idle for 2-3 minutes.

5. Accelerate normally to a road speed over 45 mph and keep the engine between 1800-2200 RPM. Drive for 5-6 minutes.

6. Safely stop the vehicle and allow the vehicle to idle for 2-3 minutes.

7. Accelerate normally to a road speed over 45 mph the engine between 1800-2200 RPM. Drive for 5 minutes.

8. Safely stop the vehicle and allow the vehicle to idle for 90 seconds.

9-11 (More of the same)

In conclusion, Volvo is a fine car but numbers 1-11 are insane.

This morning I idled for seven minutes, Egad!

I have an 8:30 appointment Wednesday with my local Volvo dealer to, hopefully, get my car inspected.

Where is Halliburton guy when you need him.

Trivia question of the day

(Try it without Google)

The answer will be in tomorrow’s blog.

Yesterday’s Question: What are anchor persons called in Sweden? Cronkites

Today’s Trivia: What 1976 chart-topping song did Barry Manilow sing, but did not write?

Great new book & amazing coincidence

What an astonishing moment of fate and coincidence that Walter Cronkite and the 40th Anniversary of the moon landing should have happen almost simultaneously.

Walter - it seemed like all of us called him “Walter” for some reason, must have been his matter of fact delivery or honesty - was the first true “anchor man” on television. He was the most famous journalist of his time, the personification of success in his beloved profession: a journalism school named for him, a Presidential Medal of Freedom, and the adulation of his peers, audience and future journalist to come.

He covered wars, civil rights, assignations, day to day world affairs and, of course, the Apollo program with its climactic Moon landing.

During this period, one of my least favorite humans, but one of my favorite authors, Norman Mailer, knew that the world would be transformed with the landing of Eagle on the Moon’s surface. So, he did what all great writers do. He began researching and writing. From his efforts came the best novel since The Right Stuff called Of a Fire On the Moon. It told the story as it unfolded and kept you on the edge of your seat, even though you knew the outcome. That’s a great sign of a terrific read.

This month, Taschen Books released a remarkable photography book combining images from NASA’s archive and other private collections with the text from Mailer’s book. The 350-page Norman Mailer, MoonFire: The Epic Journey of Apollo 11, will come with a signed, framed, and numbered image of Buzz Aldrin for $1,000.

Below is a small excerpt the text of Norma Mailer, Moonfire: The Epic Journey of Apollo 11:

___

So one got ready for the climax of the greatest week since Christ was born . . .The LEM having flown around the Moon and gone behind it again, the breaking burn for the Descent Orbit Initiation would begin in radio silence . . . .

Phrases came through the general static of the public address system. “Eagle looking great, you’re go,” came through and statements of altitude. “You’re go for landing, over!” “Roger, understand. Go for landing. 3,000 feet.” “We’re go, hang tight, we’re go. 2,000 feet.” So the voice came out of the box. Somewhere a quarter of a million miles away, ten years of engineering and training, a thousand processes and a million parts, a huge swatch put of $25 billion and a hovering of machinery were preparing to go through the funnel of a historical event whose significance might yet be next to death itself, and the reporters who would interpret this information for the newsprint readers of the world were now stirring in polite, if mounting, absorption with the calm cryptic technological voices which came droning out of the box.

Was it like that as one was waiting to be born? Did one wait in a modern room with strangers while numbers were announced – “Soul 77-48-16– you are on call. Proceed to Staging Area CX– at 16:04 you will be conceived.”

So the words came. And the Moon came nearer. “3½ down, 220 feet, 13 forward, 11 forward, coming down nicely, 200 feet, 4½ down, 5½ down, 160, 6½ down, 5½ down , 9 forward, 5 percent. Quality light. 75 feet. Things looking good. Down a half. 6 forward.

“Sixty seconds,” said another voice.

Was that a reference to fuel? Had that been the Capcom? Or was it Aldrin or Armstrong? Who was speaking now? The static was present. The voice was almost dreamy. Only the thinnest reed of excitement quivered in the voice.

“Lights on. Down 2½. Forward. Forward. Good. 40 feet down. Down 2½. Faint shadow. 4 forward. Drifting to the right a little. 6 . . .down a half.”

Another voice said, “Thirty seconds.” Was that thirty seconds of fuel? A modest stirring of anticipation came from the audience.

“Drifting right. Contact light. Okay,” said the voice as even as before, “Engine stop. ACA out of détente. Modes control both auto, descent engine command override, off. Engine arm, off. 423 is in.”

A cry went up, half jubilant, half confused. Had they actually landed?

The Capcom spoke, “We copy you down Eagle.” But it was a question.

“Houston., Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.” It was Armstrong’s voice, the quiet voice of the best boy in town, the one who pulls you drowning from the sea and walks off before you can offer a reward. The Eagle has landed.

___

And Walter said, “Wow!”

,

Trivia question of the day

(Try it without Google)

The answer will be in tomorrow’s blog.

Yesterday’s Question: What was Ozzie Nelson’s profession in the TV series Ozzie and Harriet? Sports writer for a daily newspaper

Today’s Trivia: What are anchor persons called in Sweden?

Sometimes life is good

And sometimes it’s very good.

Last year, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, the phone rang. The caller asked if I was Allen Crenshaw. I started to hang-up because this is generally the opening pitch of a cold call, but something made me stick with it. The caller said, “I’m John Daniel and we played Little League baseball together 43 years ago.”

My brain sprung into high gear and started rummaging through the memory cells. Yes, I did play Little League baseball but the name John Daniels failed to register a blip. So I probed for more information - hopefully not letting-on that I remembered virtually nothing of my early baseball days.

John continued by announcing that he was planning a reunion of the old team. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was remembering nothing of those early days. This was getting embarrassing and my recall was at the critical stage.

John, I’m sure sensing my predicament, added that “he had a picture of the team that was printed in the Times Herald” (Dallas, at that time, had two newspapers: The Morning News and the Times Herald. Currently we only have one, but that’s a story for a later date). “Would I like for him to e-mail me a copy?”

Ah Ha, I remember that picture, so I said sure, how about right now. I gave him my e-mail address and within seconds it was dinging in my inbox. Now I had something concrete to prod my sagging memory.

As we talked, I rapidly scanned the picture and identifying caption line.

The brain cells were finally coming to my rescue. I inquired about John Coker and various other members of the team. One I asked about was Tommy Hicks our sometimes pitcher/second baseman. John said, “You don’t know?” I wanted to say, “Of course, I don’t. I barely remember who you are,” but I didn’t. So I innocently said, “No. What’s Tommy up to these days?”

“Tom Hicks, you know who he is don’t you!?”

I only know of one Tom Hicks, the owner of the Texas Rangers, Dallas Stars hockey team and previous owner of the Dallas Mavericks.

“You don’t mean the Texas Rangers’ Tom Hicks do you,” I answered with a voice dripping with incredulity. I could now see him grinning on the other end of the line when he said, “Yes!”

Not to take anything away from the other players, but this put the Reunion of the Myers & Rosser Pill Rollers (I know it’s a silly name, but heck we were just kids) into a new category of importance.

To make a long story shorter, the reunion was held in the owner’s box during a Ranger home game, complete with a news story in the Morning News, exclusive tour through the stadium and clubhouse, interviews on TV, our names on the scoreboard, a visit on the field with Ron Washington (Ranger manager), a gourmet buffet, a Ranger cap and T-shirts with our 43 year old team picture on it. As if it needs to said, watching a game from the owner’s box is definitely the way to go.

Besides spending five great hours with my teammates, the highlight, at least for me, was during our tour by the club’s VP, he knocked on a blank nondescript door deep in the bowels of the stadium. A middle-aged guy cracked open the door and the VP asked him to come out and meet some folks. He did and the first thing I noticed was that his hands were covered in some kind of very black glop. We learned that one of his tasks was that of “ball mudder.” It seems that when the team’s new baseballs arrive (they go through seven dozen a game) they are slick which makes it difficult to handle, so they get “mudded.” He smears on this special mud -that only comes from South Carolina- and this gives it a grip that’s especially important to the pitchers.

He told the story of Hall of Fame pitcher Nolan Ryan. Whenever he was pitching, he’d come down to the mud room and pick up each ball and carefully weigh it in his hands. If he didn’t like the heft of an individual ball, he’d separate it from the box and ask that it not be used. Then Ryan would randomly select a few balls and autograph them. “I like to give a little surprise to some fan who happens to catch a fly ball,” said Ryan.

Life can truly be wonderful.

Trivia question of the day

(Try it without Google)

The answer will be in tomorrow’s blog.

Yesterday’s Question: What was Ozzie Nelson’s profession in the TV series Ozzie and Harriet? Sportswriter for a newspaper

Today’s Trivia: Name the previous owner of the Rangers prior to Tom Hicks? George W. Bush

Stereotype flip flops

Tonda and I have been married almost 30 years and I wouldn’t trade those years for anything. She’d probably be the first to admit that she’s not exactly Jane Wyatt and I’m not anything like Robert Young. In fact, many times Tonda is more like Robert and I’m more like Jane.

Early in our marriage Tonda discovered that I was very unhandy when it came to doing things around the house. It could be because the wallpaper I hung is still sticking to the picture window.

I have over 200 hours of college credits and not one taught me how to fix a door knob. But like most people, I took door knobs for granted. Through a lifetime of broken lawn mowers, clanging refrigerators and walking washing machines, the door knobs have always worked. After all, their task is rather limited.

Almost immediately after our wedding ceremony, my step-daughter Courtney came to me to pass the word from her Mom that the bathroom door knob was broken. I asked, “Which one?” and she smirked, “The red haired woman you married last week.” I knew then she was smart beyond her years.

“Which bathroom?” I replied.

“The one by my bedroom. It’s broken real bad. “

“Define real bad,” I asked.

“It’s sitting on the carpet outside the bathroom.”

Puzzled I asked, “So why didn’t your Mom just tell me herself?”

She knew she had me, so she answered, “Because she’s sitting on the floor INSIDE the bathroom...” The unspoken, “So there!” was left hanging in the air.

“Tell her I’ll be there in a minute,” I procrastinated.

“Mom said to tell you to take your time. This was the first time she’d been alone for more than 10 minutes since her stretch marks appeared,” said Courtney after returning from talking to her mom through the door. “What does that mean?”

I ignored her question and headed down the hall as Tonda emerged from the bathroom. I asked why the door knob fell off and did she think Andy had yanked it off. Andy, my son, was pretty rough on things.

Tonda laughed and said, from her limited perspective, he had never shut a door in his entire life.

“What did Kelly (my other daughter) say?”

“She’s blaming it on Courtney,” Tonda said with frustrated hands on her hips. “She says we should check the knob for cat paw prints.”

I suggested that maybe “we’re jumping to conclusion and the door knob died of natural causes. Maybe it’s supposed to fall off at this time of year and if we wait until Spring it’ll grow a new one.”

Tonda frowned and said she didn’t think so and “You’ll have to fix it.”

Well the moment of truth had come. I hadn’t divulged to her that I was a mechanical clutz. She just assumed I could fix things. Guys fix things, right?

After 45 minutes of fumbling, Tonda finally came to the rescue.

Backtracking a bit: Before our marriage and after checking her teeth and family background I discovered how handy she was at fixing things.

There’s a lot of reasons I love that woman. Being beautiful and smart are in the top three.

Trivia question of the day

(Try it without Google)

The answer will be in tomorrow’s blog.

Yesterday’s Question: What laundry detergent got lots of mileage out of the ad tag line, “Ring around the collar?” Whisk

Today’s Trivia: What was the profession of Ozzie Nelson in the television series Ozzie and Harriet.