Roll call....

 I once was lost, but now I'm found..  Was blind, but now I see.

Yes, well aware of the meaning of this song, as well as the history.  In this particular case, I'm talking about folks awakening later in life. Sure, about/with God, but also awakening to the realm we live in, emphasis on the live.

As with any blog, writing, opine, it is just that. This is my take, not asking you to agree or disagree, just felt like giving you the view from my stinky shoes. I assure you my shoes are stinky.  For years, I NEVER wore socks.  Now, Doc says I gotta wear these compression socks, eh, all well and good.  Getting back to stinky, I've ordered the same shoe three consecutive years.  Basic blue sneaker, slip on. It's all I wear, thus, stinky.

Where was I... oh yea, lost.

In this hourglass affair called life - I think we are mostly lost (head down, not paying great attention) until the damn sand is about all on the bottom. We spend daily attention to getting up, getting going, scurrying home, only to rinse and repeat the next dadgum day.

We don't catch the fact of, nor admire, that cute little bungalow at the intersection of Main and Oak. We don't sit back and stare at the Pavlov's on Interstate, mindless in their commute - we ARE them too.

Along the commute of life, we're asked "How are you?" Oft times, we're walking South, the ask-er is walking North, they ask, and before you know it, they're past us, we didn't have time to answer, and of course we couldn't ask them either due to the hurry-up-and-bury-your-head life we carried with us in our 30's, 40's, 50's, etc.

"I'm OK."  "Not too bad."  "Same old, same old."  "I'm good." "I'm well."  All of the above answers don't tell Jill, jack about Jack.

Yes, 20, 30, 40, 50-something we have more energy, we look better, feel better - but, my take, where most of us lack is in PAYING ATTENTION TO LIFE (not too mention appreciating it.)

Victor, this specific blog is pretty boring. Oh contrare scrambled-egg-breath... you are retired, you're reading this, it's your choice, you probably don't have a bra on, nor makeup, you still have bedhead, and your socks don't match.  THAT.  That's why it ain't boring. You are choosing to be here. Just like we now chose darn near everything we do.

We drive.  We notice.  We talk, visit, we pay attention.  We've always seen other's smiles, but now, we appreciate them, pay closer attention to them... and sure, wonder "geez, I bet he/she is having great sex..." or, "wow, musta got a letter in the mail from the IRA trustee announcing all the interest they've accrued this month."  "Life is good for them," I NOTICED!

We, our class in high school, Liberty High School, class of 1970, have a site on Facebook dedicated to us.  Twice now, Covid has 'stolen' having our 50th Anniversary Class Reunion. We just cancelled, and now it's set for June of 2022.  In preparation of this delayed reunion, a kajillion and four pics were posted from the 40th Class Reunion.

Happy people.  JUST starting to notice, appreciate, life. It was old well and good until I clicked and the next picture was two smiling, very happy faces - who no longer grace us with their presence on this Earth. It makes one stop and think.

It makes trivial crap just that. It makes us say things like "I love you" when we useta couldn't.  It makes us hone in on that smile and REALLY appreciate it. It prompts us to say "How ya doin.?" AND we REALLY listen to the answer.

We touch, because we can. Our eyes, while size 10 type is no longer in our wheelhouse - we actually SEE better than ever before.  We remember, "well, I recall the time you and I were 'sideways'," but that's gone, forgotten and replaced by love and a thankfulness we're both still on the planet.

We maybe never shared a car ride, calling "shotgun" or, asking for a buck to help with gas - but by golly, I remember you, and when I do I smile. Cliques have long been replaced by 'click', as in, we really do regardless of how well we knew each other in the past.

Those pictures.  Those pictures of those gone - oh how we all wanna run up to the person and say "I wish I'da told you...." how sweet you were... how envious I was of how you played the flute..how gorgeous your eyes were..  how much I appreciated you being my friend and having you in my life."  No can do now.

That.  That's why we pay attention now.  We have an appreciation for everything, in particular sunrises.

That's all folks.  Well wait a moment Porky. Until 'that's all', we're gonna pay greater attention, appreciate the little things, and sure the big things too.

Roll call:

"Victurd"

'Here... thank God."  And I'm so glad you are as well.

Jose can you see......

I'd like to be... under the sea...      huh uh, that's not it....

People are strange when you're a stranger...   well, mebbe, but it ain't the gist here....

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right...    hmmm.. so, holier than thou eh Victor? Now wait justa gol durn minute...

On my 7th cup of coffee... my ashtray overflows.. (crap, he's 68, if he ain't quit by now, he ain't gonna.)... I can't paint, but I'd loveta... And no, not the Nelson Art Gallery kinda paint...  paint, as in paint the world.  Junk that at least we'd like to see as we churn thru the remainder, en route to the urn.  Churn to the urn.

I'd like to teach the World to live, in perfect harmony.  Twisted lyrics, but, you get the idea. Dream on Victor.  I am.

I'd like to see the only tears coming from a child be those of immense happiness.  A mom and a dad for every child - if not, then at least one Golden parent (or replacement parent when impossible for the natural parent to be there)...  Someone that could be 'the catcher' when a child occasionally in life turns and runs to safety - that catcher would always be there for them.

I'd like it if there's any way God could realign the lifespan of a pooch.. insteada  one year equalling seven.. perty please make it 1 = 1.  They are so more deserving than us humans. Cats too if we must. (JK, I love cats)

It would be wonderful if somehow the transformation of all the aged into the beyond could be painless...accompanied by daily visits from family members.

I'd like it if someone would invent a SMTWTFS pillbox... Victor, they already have those.. I wasn't done, tyvm.  A SMTWTFS where, not only are we reminded to take the meds to keep our body sound..  but, for instance, when you open the 'S':

You are magically taken to stageside of a live music show.

M - you'd be in the woods, perfect temps...the sounds and sights of nature abound and around.

T - you're expressed to a theatrical mancave (or womancave) - where for the next several hours there are videos of you in your youth, running, playing, laughing with neighbor kids, school chums, and of course, youthful parents.

W - off to the beach.  It somehow seems to be life's tonic everyone refers to.  All the answers.  You'd have a body that would allow you to hop the breakers. A big ole towel to keep the grains of sand away.. and shades enabling perfect sight with no strain.

T - you find yourself in a car with your BFF's from over the years.. you land at a buffet.. and every single delicasy of your taste buds is laid out before you, an appetite to match, and your favorite liquid to wash it down is in huge decanters at the end of the line.

F - would find you at a timeclock, punching out for the day, week, year, forever - you go to get in your car and there in the parking lot is every single coworker you've ever had.  Chairs aplenty. The first few hours there would be mandatory "ROTATE" calls so you wouldn't miss a single person..  then at the end, you hover with your favorites from over the years, for however long you wanna hover.

S - family.  You'd awaken at whatever age you wanna awaken, and all around you will be family, at whatever age you'd like them to be.  There are no 'have to's' (set bedtimes, kid's ballgames, church/community meetings, yada).. you stay..  they stay..  you thank God for the woods, the videos of life past, the blues (as in color, not as in sadness) of the beach.. the fruits of being with BFF's whilst filling your bellies.. the timeclock, taking this job and shoving it (or, loving it, whichever be your case). a plethora of former coworkers).. to alit with family.  Chairs that have been presently emptied - now full again.  Remember what you said you wished you'da said?  Here's the opportunity.

Then, we all get a note in the mail.. it reminds us.. the aforementioned doesn't say squat about who is President.. whether we drive a Bentley or an old Rambler.. whether or not our abode has one bathroom to pee per person (or not).. The size of our IRA, or not.  It's ok to have monikers like PHD, MBA, BS, or, simply a lifetime of BS - but it doesn't define you, the person - or, the other person.  It's all about heart.

It's ok to live.  It's ok to dream. Kinda like peanut butter and jelly (I always preferred banana insteada jelly)..  why can't we do both?  Live and dream.. Much of the above is still possible.  All possible, with eyes closed.

Once the pillbox had been emptied.. the wonder of it all taken in.. you'd find an escalator... as you rise up, you'd remove the backpack that contains worry, regret, self doubts, former bad moods, mislabeled things you thought were important, yada.

The Beginning,

Love, Victurd

Po', but didn't know it......

We are the world.... no, that ain't it, but I do like that song...

We are the children, mebbe grandchildren of folks who lived thru the Depression.  Kinda like the verbiage God awful and awfully good, 'twas also known as The Great Depression.

This ain't an expose' on how it happened, why it happened, or any kinda comparison our present pandemic economy takes on... Heaven knows there are enough Social Media postings (both ways/sides) for that.

This is more about working, finding a penny, to turn it in for a nickel... today's equivalent of Chucky Cheese... "ya gotta penny kid?  you can get anything on the bottom shelf... oh, a nickel?  Next shelf up" and so on and so on.

Today, most kids, by the age of 12, have a cell phone.  It it's an iPhone, the average cost, if bought upfront is $758.  Ha.  Hella lotta pop bottles!

Times were easier (rougher?) then.  I remember affixing the baseball glove to the handlebars, setting sail for the City Park Ballfield ("it's ok mom, the term pedophile won't even surface for another 35 years,") and there we went.

A mostly friendly game of Indian Ball, interspersed with "Fair!", "No it wasn't, it was FOUL"... "Nuh uh, you were out!"  "Was not!".. "Were too!"  And of course, it was all solved by a thread with 47 posts on Facebook and whomever was the most influential won.

No, that ain't it.  It was solved by one huckster gripping the bat with one hand around it, somewhere around the middle.  Huckster #2 (the other team) would then place his/her hand just above Huckster 1's, and one by one they'd work their way to the top and the last possible person to be able to grip the bat at the top, won.  God awful, or, compared to today, an awfully good way to settle a dispute.

"Mom, can you hook me up with $10?" just didn't happen.  Be for real. En route to riding the bike to the City Park, one would scour the ditches along the way in the oft chance someone had winged a Pepsi bottle outta their Station Wagon.  There was the thrill of Victory (*"YES! Got one!") and the agony of defeat (Dangit! It's broken!")

Our economic era consisted of.... swinging by the water fountain after we were all Indian Ball'ed out... then, one by one we'd climb under the bleachers to see who could come up with the first shiny dime.  No street corners with cardboard signs begging for us...we earned those dadgum 'holy' jeans on our hands and knees. We were 'fashion-eske" before Christian ever came outta the Dior.

Hungry?  "Mom, please take me for onea them $9 Five Guys juicy Cheeseburgers." Ha! If it wasn't close to dinner time, we'd force the best climber up the mulberry tree for a nifty snack for us all. If the tree was mature enough, we'd all climb it.

If we ever did find enough pop bottles to load on our wagon to take to Safeway, or, we'd somehow managed to find a dime and three pennies from under the bleachers, or on the path to/from the concession stand - we'd go buy either those stupid (I hated them) Nik-L-Nip wax bottles, or mebbe some blue chewing gum, Beechnut.. the chicks dug the candy necklaces... my personal fav was the Pixy Stix, purple in fact.

"Dad, can I please have one of those fancy $399 metal baseball bats all the boys are getting?"... we were realists. If our wooden bat cracked, we'd head for dad's toolbox in the garage where we could use a nifty screw to close the crack, followed by wrapping a mile and a half of electrical tape around it to make it "good as new."

We kids, going, playing, on our own, giving mom/dad time to do whatever mom/dads did... climbing the darn mulberry tree rather than "mom, can you bring me a snack", entrepreneurs, gathering our own 'funds' to run to Mattingly's to buy  goodies..  FOR THE LIFE OF ME.. we were good kids!  WHY, the birth control pill was invented in 1960 I will never know! 

That's about all the thrifty stuff we did... well.. that and, using a magnifying glass to start a fire... blowing up stuff using vinegar and baking soda... two empty cans of corn and a long string for our own 'walkie-talkies'.... ballcards affixed with closepins that would VROOM on the spokes of our bike... tiddlywinks... dominos.. monopoly... hula hoops... hopscotch... (and we haven't even mentioned bluegill or crawdads)...

Life was easy, hard.  Po', but didn't know it.

Now that we've had a class reunion or ten, it's fun (kinda I guess) to peek back at all the years, eras, as the creek flowed.

5 year.... are you sure he/she is the right one?

10 year.. In school, we got June, .July and August for vacation.. I get two weeks now? This stinks!

20 year... Now I'm beginning to understand why The Pill was invented.

30 year.. Listen... shhhhh... listen... there ain't nobody else besides you and me in the house! Let's chase each other 'round the room tonight.. and play the games we played on our wedding night"...not tonight Mr.. my back hurts.. I pulled my groin when my 7 iron thudded insteada followed thru...the grandkids will be here soon, nope... we just did that a week ago Tuesday...

40 year..  99 throttles of commuting to work, 99 throttles a year, take one down, car in the garage, 98 throttles of commuting to work... are we there yet?  Can you see what my SS paycheck would be if I quit now? I've got an aching, weak back.  When'd ya get it? About a week back. Tell me again why we bought this two story house?

50 year...what the heck was the names of those kids we played with in the neighborhood?  Dangit, I dropped a dollar bill.. oh well, I'll wait until I drop anudder, then scoot it over with my foot and pick'em up at the same time. Two birds, one fat belly.

Life before the streetlights came on was awesome. Life was simpler. Fun. Fun was had. The family life we were able to experience set the table of life for years to come. Roles.  Role models.

Red Rover Red Rover, send nineteen-fitty-something back over.

Love, Victurd

Papa's gotta brand new bag....

Sometimes I'm happy, sometimes I'm sad. Sometimes life sucks, most times, ain't bad.

Sometimes simply agree to disagree, can't they plainly see?  But, I've got lens implants, maybe it's me.

I've memories too big for Piggly Wiggly bag... would overflow even tall kitchen bag..  also too large for lawn and leaf, and that's not to brag.  I needs me onea them bigass ones, the kind kids fundraisers sell, for a lifetime of memories is really huge and also really swell...  right Beav'?

Fit...fit?  Closet fulla clothes, they no fit. I still dream, that could be typo, worst case scenario, maybe lipo.

My cup runneth over with friends and fam... Intro, extra, loud, soft, happy, sad, funny, silly, quiet - they run the gamut, from nerd (said lovingly) to ham...

They pick me up when I am down.  Gained me some weight, please pray their muscles are sound.

Some no like me, that I've found.  Ok with that, unfriend, 30 day vamanos, boot me the heck out, block me. The loss of a brother, I may pout, but I'll make another, it's a lifetime figuring out.

We open our mouths, say stupid stuff.  Apologize, say sorry, spray with cologne, write letter, beg, plead, forgive me... all well and good, but we also know, it just fluff. After that, it never the same, but then halitosis breath, who to blame?  Worry, fret, sweat, try to sleep, insomnia-ize, too late, they run like they did on Little Bo Peep. And I know I know, it like some bi folks, it go both ways. Sorry. Not sorry. I guess I lose. It not cussword, but I'll put quarter in jar if you so choose.

Life fulla worry, hurry, it get kinda blurry. Go to beach, it solve. Grab beach chair, kickback. Me, all I get is red on my shoulders and sand in my crack. Try Vegas or Venice, Cozumel or Cancun - nah, no extra bucks now, will be better soon.

This blog sound like been down so long look like up to me. Nah, life excites me, I climb to see view from a tree.

I see you, I love you. I see her, look at that smile. I wear shades to block out the sun, but moreso, to see you have fun. I see kids, play all the while. Kids can fluster some codgers, they get in a rage... me, I just say "quit acting your age." And smile.  And laugh.  And enjoy. And, mebbe I wasn't talking to kids, maybe to codgers. Some run to fun, and sadly, some are fun dodgers.

So keep on keepin on, life's really a trip. Yes, sometime we slip, but usually justa  blip.

Be happy not sad.  Make more great memories, we'll buy a big ole bag from Glad.

Accept difference, diversity, weirdness, unique - yes even, the really really odd, cause no matter, life's grand, this sidea the sod.

Porky say that's all folks, Ed say life really big show.. Pinocchio say that point, I know. Life happy, fulla fun, not sterile..ain't that right Mr. Pharrell?

By Henry Gibson. forward by Victurd. (<-- he know this, he, weird, but he ok with that.)

Fore sight......

 A long drive to Fulton, MO... and then to O'Fallon, MO.. early next morning, straight to Wrigley Field for a 1:20 pm game.. .. brief respite in Wrigleyville, ballgame.. traffic hell leaving Wrigley... it was as if we'd GPS'ed our way home and punched 'walking' insteada 'driving.' Two hours after the game, we finally reached the City Limits of Chicago.  OK, a stretch mebbe, but I'll be darned if it wasn't an hour and fitty-nine minutes.

Where was I? Oh yeah.. on the road again, reversing the drive above. Just as dark had come upon us, we were 20 miles North of Honest Abe's hometown, in the middle of scenic (jk) Illinois. "A HILL! I swear I saw a hill!"...  Oh yeah again, winds fitty to seventy-five MPH, rain, sideways.. road construction, sorry, one lane.. "careful, we ain't poured the concrete yet, if you move over too many inches, it's a 14" drop." Plan B, Red Roof Inn...thanks to our cousin for his amazing driving, patience.  The entire hour it took us to go 20 miles to Mr. Lincoln's town - we envisioned a semi rear-ending us, only to see us land somewhere around Cape Girardeau.

Basically, trip likened life, WONDERFUL, with baby respites of fingernail biting yuck. Enough about that.  A stroll thru FB this morning.  Good stuff, great stuff, really sad stuff, cute stuff, ads for grocery stores, lingerie, people listing $99,000 homes for $249,000... A $900 used sofa (hark, not to worry, it comes from a no smoking, no pet home.) Twenty 'Biden sucks', twenty 'Trump sucks' posts. Patooey, gimme the newspaper instead.

Well, on second thought, nevermind.... problems in Haiti, opines about vaccine obstinacy, shooting over there, wrong way fatal car wreck, "rent soars", man guilty of shooting wife, wastewater plant sends untreated water into Blue River..........

HELP, I need somebody, HELP, not just anybody.. HELP, you know I need someone:

Baseball Ray.  Not this time James Earl Jones, we're talking golf, right Arnie?

Ahhhhh golf. No, it ain't for everyone, but if you happen to enjoy it, you will understand getting away 'from it all', camaraderie, the sounds and sights of nature, laughing at your buddy whose putt comes up two inches short and in a millisecond you hear every curse word you've ever learned. Victor, that's frustration. No, it's about laughter (internally) for the rest of the foursome, ain't near nuttin' like car wrecks, shootings,  Biden/Trump, forlorn folks on FB crying out for help, yada.

For women, I presume golf is like Bunco on wheels. Gossip (sorry, but we men do it too.) Laughter about spouses, kindheartedly. My kid did this (bite fingernails), my (transmission, power window, alternator, tierod) went out, woe is me, BUT, I'm golfing. For the hours spent out in glorious nature, it's all AOK, life is good, even if by the 6th hole your or I have hit one in the drink and two in the forest.

For men, the testosterone is tested, and the longest drive person struts. Drive for show, putt for dough - peanut butter breath. Sure sure sure, there's competitiveness, but in the end, no one really gives a rat's ass who wins. Blessed are we who gather. Good friends, good laughs, good times, stories shared (some, for the 4th or 5th time), Amazing sights, birds, rabbits, squirrels, deer, muskrats, geese...

For one entire month, a momma and daddy geese, or is it goose, protected the tee (their nearby nest where eggs will turn to babies) on #18. Squawk squawk squawk they did, until one day, there they were, mom/dad, and 9 little bee-bops walking behind them in suit.

My buddy, he was getting ready to swing.. I said "Stop" loud enough for him to hear, but not real loud.. You don't do that, but I had reason. Enter name here of person who hates FB - as he was prepared to hit, "slowly, turn around."  He did.  There was a doe, no more than twenty feet directly behind him, stopped in her tracks staring at him. Goodstuff..  Truly a God moment.

Then there's August 1st, that's when all the little copperhead babies appear. Cute? Eh mebbe, but baby copperheads don't know their own strength and they will chomp ya and give you twenty times the poison mom or dad would give, 'cause they don't know any better.

A foursome of age 60+ golfers with bulging prostates will unzip, find a tree an average of five times per round. Seven if it's really hot and they are downing water like it's going out of style. (Actually, the proper order is find a tree, then unzip.) A time or two a feller will remark about the weather, "It's nice out", and perfectly timed, the guy at the tree will respond, "yeah, I think I'll leave it out." (sorry, kinda.) Women, on the other hand, will drive to find the nearest ORI, or, return to the clubhouse to tinkle. (Speakin' o' women, we men, er, some men, will take bets about how they place the ball on the tee.  There are squatters, and there are bender overs.  It's mostly easy to forecast.)

"Ouch" he says as his iron hits the ground two inches behind the ball, stopping it, while the remainder of his body/flab continue on. Pinched nerve in neck... war stories about knee replacements, hip replacements, sometimes even old football injuries come up.  Doesn't sound fun eh?

It is. It's relaxing, be damned the score.  It's beautiful, again, thank you God. It's mostly quiet, except for the banter, conversation of you and the three others who would not rather be any other place during the time it takes to play golf.

Golf is basically competing against yourself.  That's a lie, but it sounds good. Eh, you might lose a few bucks to your buddies, but that's ok as usually the tide will turn somewhere in the future.  You hate the guts, silently, of that guy that ALWAYS pitches or chips the ball from off of the green to within 6'.  When you (me) pitches or chips, the goal is simply to get the ball on the damn putting surface. There is handicap, and I am definitely handicapped in golf.

Ok, some of my favorite moments.  There are various color tee markers where you tee off. The blue ones, 'way back there', are for young sprites, the white ones for middle age dudes, the gold ones for us old farts, and the red ones for the ladies. If any of the blue, white, gold dudes tee off and the ball doesn't make it to the red women's tee, you will be subject to "Does your husband play too?" Basta's.

Anyways, the course we were on this day had very hard, 6" round, ball shaped tee markers.  Buddy tees off.. a wormburner never getting more than three inches off the ground, it hits the red women's tee marker and at a hunnerd plus miles per hour it makes a beeline straight back at the head of our buddy who hit it.  He drops frantically to the ground, we laugh... and laugh.. .and laugh.

Nudder time.  Buddy tees off.  It's slicing (which is a common affliction of us really crappy golfers and it means it's curving very fast in a mostly sideways motion, ie, not a good thing.) This course is lined by houses as many courses are. The ball is headed for a house atop the hill.  Midflight, the garage door starts opening, the ball is getting nearer.. a lady in an SUV starts backing out (OH NO!).. soon, she pushes the remote button to close the garage door, and just as she does the ball disappears into the garage and starts bouncing off walls, the ceiling, like a game of Pong, and, door closes. Lady never even saw it. It was as if it all happened in memorable slow motion. The guy who it the ball, flabbergasted, cusses, and we were by now rolling hysterically on the ground with the realization "he will never live this down." Actually, my favorite golf moment ever, and, I couldn't have handpicked a better guy for it to happen too.. a dude that is very much well loved by us all, and due to that, he is frequently the target of good natured teasing.

After. After golf, we gather.  Sometimes you can almost hear Springsteen's Glory Days in the background, as war stories of sports when we were skinny are talked about. Some guys recall is tainted and they get better and better every year. We talk about 17 year old women (when we were 17).. walking to school prior to being 16, going to so and so's house.. a mom or a dad coming home unexpectedly. MAJOR tease about girlfriends of the past (particularly enhanced in a class reunion year). 

We talk about everything except all the aforementioned yuck from FB, newspapers, news, yada. We come happy, we play (mostly) happy, we visit, very much happy, we fist bump or shake hands, and we can't wait to do it again...after we go to WallyWorld and replentish our golf ball supply.

Golf. It's better than any anti-anxiety pill I've ever taken.

Fore sure.

Love, Victurd

One hand on the wheel....

 Aging is... can be... should be... fun.

One memento my grandkids left at my house is one of the old time metal lunchboxes, this one however, adorned with pictures from Pokemon. Within it, all the pill bottles I've accumulated from the very many $20 copays to my Doc - One pill makes me larger, and one pill makes me small, and the ones that mother gives me don't do anything at all.

Sorry, slipped into song. Within what should be, capsules full of the recipe to make me a 'right person' - is one that's a potion for combined stopping smoking (ha), depression and anxiety.  On a side note, I originally spelled 'potion' incorrectly, Googled what I thought was correct...nope, that ain't it.. changed a letter or two.. huh uh, not that either.

My phone is acting weird.  But, as I type on the laptop, I use my weird acting phone for help with anything that runs through my brain.  My phone is like a conversation with an 89 year old person.  When I use the speech feature on Google, it gives me this "huh?" like answer.  "I didn't understand." So, I said "dammit" to myself, and I guess it was still listening, because 'dammit' it understood and searched for it.  Dammit. I mean 'potient', however in the hell it's spelled.

So... my brain went straight to "I took my troubles down to Madame Rue" because I remember in there, somewhere, somewhere after relating she's got a gold capped tooth and pad down on Thirty-fourth and Vine, she sold bottles of, Love POTION # Nine. Jualah (if that's how you spell that)... my answer.

The reason I even include this - I've sat here for hours today, and maybe two days ago, and last week, and I'm having trouble coming up with anything that resembles happy, fun... for me, a goal in writing is for me to key some words that I, maybe pitifully patting myself on the back, that I envision you, the reader, reading.. then smiling at the computer.

Simple goal.  Happiness.  Should be anyways.

Today, as I sat getting sleepier and sleepier, once again trying to come up with happy, a lightbulb came on.  At first, I thought it was the light in my dining room.  There are two bulbs in it, one is on the fritz, blinks on sometimes, most times not. I am of the "when they both go out, I will replace them", ie, lazy.

The lightbulb was, yesterday I hadn't taken any of the pills within the 9 bottles residing in the Pokemon tin, "that's why I can't think happy."  I know 9 is a lot, but in my defense, one is a multiple vitamin, and another is a specific vitamin I bought one time for I can't even remember why.

Bottom-line:   Pill = happiness.

I ain't smart.. really I'm not. In high school once, the election for Student Council was coming up, no one had signed up to run for President, so my father told me he'd give me $50 to run. I did, I ran, I won. Kinda like Pat Paulsen without either Nixon or Hubert Humphrey running.  Anyways, the members of The Honor Society in our class (those with grade points at least a full point higher than my grade point) were allowed, when there was 15 minutes left in class, to stand, grab their stuff, and walk the halls until time for the next class. Good grades = reward.  So, I always got up, roamed the halls.  Teachers thought "well, he's STUCO President, he must be smart." HA, if they only knew.  Where was I...oh yeah:

If aging has taught me anything, it's that happiness cannot be completely achieved by a Pokemon lunchbox.

Given I ever find myself being in an unhappy environment, I leave, don't read the article, turn the channel, don't speak if I'm at a table with others...etc... (Example, people raved about the TV show "Ozark", so, I grabbed a beer, plopped my too big body in the used recliner I recently bought for fitty dollars (and tied to my trunk 'cause I didn't wanna ask buddies with trucks to help) and prepared to watch Ozark. Very first scene, hardly before any words were said, a lady was shot and killed. That was enough for me. I know, I know, I probably should have given it more time - but, aging has, thankfully, taught me to not allow unhappy center stage, or any stage for that matter.

Recently, I drove 506 miles (one hand on the wheel... damn, we were trying to figure out why you used that as the title) with two beautiful grandkids in tow. Bias, it's certain on the adjective beautiful, but it's certainly my take.

To attempt to keep the mood positive (the kids, age 8 and age 10, really do get along well, but come the moment they don't, it's like walking barefooted on a wooden floor and you get a splinter between your big toe and the toenail that sit's above it. That ain't positive.  Where was I?  Oh yeah:

I Amazoned two car games for kids. One was Bingo. A piece of cardboard with 26 squares that resembled Hollywood Squares, or, a 2020 Zoom meeting. This one though, didn't have the monotony of Zoom, nor did it contain Charlie Weaver, George Gobel, Rose Marie, et al. It had:

Pictures of a barn, a horse, a bridge, a police car, motor home, etc, etc, and as the kids were looking (positive.. no noise, fighting) they attempted to find all the items, 'close the window' to be the first one to say BINGO. The other game was similar... we were headed from Liberty, MO to Eureka Springs, AR.. and the games got us happily down to Joplin, MO. Oh crap, 89 miles to go. Thus:

Happy went to not happy. One of the grands, who shall remain anonymous, started getting grumpy - and this only happens once or twice a month.  When it does, it ain't fun, but it happens. Questions, negative questions..  statements.. negative statements... spewed.

I felt like I'd just grabbed a beer, turned on Ozark and that lady was shot. Twenty years ago I behaved like the beginning teacher I was, and flipped out. Raised my voice, my blood pressure, demonstrated certain stupidity.. and I threw gas on an already aflame negative situation. (My first year of teaching, playground duty, one of the snotnoses pushed another kid down... I called his name.. he didn't come.. so I walked toward him.. he ran... so I ran.. yes, sheepishly I did.. he ran in the building.. I ran up to the door.. he grabbed the bar thingy to keep me from entering...we're having a tugging match.. . finally, it donned on me, the reflection in the glass of the door, was a complete idiot.)

If there's anything positive among aging (I'm fatter.. I'm wrinklier.. I'm slower.. I now watch mostly documentaries.. my pillbox has gotten fuller) I've learned, it's I'll be damned if I'll focus on the negative in life.

So, as this rant of (enter normally wonderful grandkid's name here) went on from Joplin, to Cassville, to damn near the Arkansas border.. I collected myself (usually NOT me).. said his name (oops).. and.. calmly (usually not me) said, "I'm going to concentrate on the positive.  I won't reply to anything negative."

I squeezed my shoulders and prepared for, crying, yelling, beating on the seat his sister was in just in front of him, tossing him out around Beaver, AR (just kidding)... Instead:

Quiet happened. What?  Yeah, quiet.  It was perfect. Perfect the remainder of the three day trip. In fact, this cute little turd had a ziplock sandwich bag fulla quarters he'd saved up. He donated much to vending machines, but hey, we're on vacation.  I was sitting under and umbrella in the shade next to the pool at the hotel, he took his bag to the vending machine, ran towards me, handed me my favorite - Starburst, and happy immediately happened. He's truly a neat, neat kid (8 years old..)

So, the message to me, for me, you're welcome to ride along:  Pills won't do it, attending church weekly is wonderful, but that alone won't do it... the path to happy comes from within. We spend most of our life reaching for happy... better job, bigger car, three story house, cottage in the country, this town, that town, jogging, swimming, pills, even the ones from Alice when she's ten feet tall.. ALL won't make one happy.  Happy is simply a choice.  Like my grandson silently thought about it, and said to himself "Yep.. I got it now."

I can't drive with two hands on the wheel. I know you're supposed to.  You're lying to me if you say you always do. With one hand on the wheel I was able to turn slightly and see a beautiful, HAPPY kid, for 343 more miles.

Life is good, and, it's happy if we let it be.

Love, Victurd