In Geezerville, we all watch the evening news on television, and those of us who are fortunate to live in a community that still has a morning newspaper, we, more or less, read it cover to cover.  And that does not mean that we don’t read the news on the Internet, either.

The broadcasting and newspaper industries, of course, know all of this.  In fact, broadcasters promise prospective advertisers that the median age of the evening news watcher is 61.6 years.  “Median” is the key word here—half of us are over 61.6 years old and the other half is under.  It also means news-addicts as a group probably have more disposable income for cars, trucks and foot long sandwiches.

And, they vote.

As a once-upon-a-time radio/TV guy sitting in front of the tube at evening news time, watching a half hour of local news and a half hour of network national news, I reached for my yellow pad and scribbled information about the 42 commercials I saw and heard during the 60 minutes of “information.”

Five of the 22 commercials broadcast on local news were political—about climate change legislation or health reform, the remainder devoted to furniture, cars, trucks, banks, carpets and, you guessed it, the $5 foot long thing.

Surprisingly, the network news avoided political advertising.  It was more interested in your health—promoting everything from inhalers, mouth wash, pain killers, multi-vitamins, calcium additives and toothpaste. A friendly dog also talked about baked beans, and a national restaurant chain bragged about its shrimp.

So, what does this mean and how is it important?  Well, it means that you’re getting about 45 minutes of news instead of 60.  But that isn’t important.  I consider information like this, and even the news itself, to have value since it exercises the gray matter.  The uncurious brain corrodes and the older you get, the more you realize that you aren’t here forever. The news helps you think.

We must choose.  We are something like old cars; we can run out or rust out!

Tell friends and family, “Put away the WD-40 and catch me if you can. I’m watching the news and laughing at the commercials!”

I’ve finally figured it out.  When you are a kid, you are a “dult.”  Jump above 20, and you become an adult.  If you are lucky enough to pass social security, you are an olddult.

Through all of my years, I’ve remained fascinated by trains.  When a young dult, my younger dult brother and I wandered to the tracks that carried passengers from a nearby town to a larger town nine miles away.  We didn’t call them “train” tracks, though.  We called them “traction” tracks.

And we didn’t go there to see or get on the traction car. We wandered in the sticker bushes to pick blackberries and get chiggers.  Of course, we didn’t want the chiggers, but a bucket of fresh picked blackberries delivered to our mother meant blackberry cobbler for desert that very same day.

We were careful not to walk on or too close to the tracks because the traction car could show up at any time, it seemed, and we knew it was dangerous to get close. Yet, seeing it flash by as we plucked the blackberries created a desire to ride. It never happened. Before we were old enough to earn the money to buy tickets, before we graduated from dult to adult, it disappeared.

But I was inspired by those early years and between adult and olddult, I began traveling the rails…never for business purposes, always for pleasure.  Trips though the Rocky Mountains, through the deserts, along the Pacific Ocean and down to the Southlands.

Recently, I was one of many olddults on the Canadian Rail adventure from Toronto to Vancouver. I enjoyed spectacular scenery, great food, friendly and professional Canadian rail-folks and the olddults like me that relish the click-click on the rails that can only be made by a fast train.

Try it sometime. And when you get on the train, ask the conductor when they are going to make the rooms (compartments) a little bit bigger.

The New Progressive Party nominated Henry Wallace as their candidate for the Presidency, and Harry Truman was President of the United States.

It was 1948, 387 students graduated from Bosse High School in Evansville, Indiana, and I was one of them.  The only thing we remember about that year was graduating. We spread out across the country to the biggest and smallest colleges and universities, or to jobs, skilled and unskilled, to take our places in society.  Yet, most of us have never forgotten our four years together.

So it follows that when a former classmate says why not drive back to your hometown and join old friends for lunch, I go.  I didn’t know that I knew that many really old people.  When there was hair that you could see, it was gray.  Some of my friends were so old they didn’t even recognize me.

We older folks do forget, you know.  The old boys seem to forget more than the women do. Perhaps it is because the men don’t talk quite as much.

Andy attended.  Most of us hadn’t seen him in years. Handsome, debonair, good posture and poise, he was the guy all of the girls wanted to date back in high school.  I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, I suppose, but I was nearby when Tom went to him and said something like: “Andy, I can accept the hair, but those perfect teeth aren’t yours, are they?”  With a slight snarl, Andy retorted, “They sure as hell are, and I’ve got the receipts to prove it.”

We all laughed.  We laugh at trouble, because we have seen it in all of its forms and we are still here to laugh about it.  And we’ve learned a bit about the way the world now works.  Hell, we must have, because everyone was trading email addresses—although one must wonder how some of the arthritic fingers manage a keyboard. Yep.  It was a lot of joy.  But I wish they would forget to sing the school’s song.  That’s one of the many things we just can’t do very well any more.

I’ve often wondered if there is an established time when you begin remembering things, a time when your memory kicks-in and deposits experiences that you will remember for the rest of your life.  I think I know when mine did because there are a couple of outrageous things I did around four or five years of age that I still haven’t told anyone about.  And won’t.

It goes like this.  I was a little older than three and already knew enough words to make my opinions known.  My wonderful mother had another child, another boy, and only days after his birth, I met him.  Mom said something like, “Come over here and meet your new brother.”

As the story goes, I waddled over and carefully looked at him and as I did, he began to cry as only the newly born can.  I listened for a while before offering this: “Take him back.  He can’t talk or play or anything.  Mom, take him back!  Please take him back.”

You know how mothers are; they don’t pay much attention to the demands of three-year-olds, especially those who talk too much.  And the older I got, the more I talked, until I began to believe that “Shuddup!” was my nickname.

Seven or eight years later, I was sitting with my grandfather in front of an old console Crosley Radio listening to Amos ‘n Andy, (or maybe Fibber McGee and Molly). Gramps said, “I want you to listen to this commercial. It will only last one minute.”

I don’t recall the product, but when the commercial ended, Gramps asked me to tell him what the commercial was about.  I did so, and he said, “Very Good.”

Mystified, I asked, “Grand Dad, why did you want to know that?”
I don’t remember his exact words, but I’ll never forget the message: If you want people to listen to you, say what you have to say in a minute or less. Otherwise, no one will remember what you said, and they certainly won’t care.

At the end of your minute of chatter, say something that requires a response from your listener.

And then listen to what they have to say.

Now, if I can just teach this to MY grandchildren …

I have two very small and vivacious granddaughters who live next door.

That, however, is a mis-statement. Their parents live next door, the grand children seem to prefer my living room. Proof of this can be found on the floor (132 crayons) and on a fantastic round brass cocktail table I purchased many, many years ago. It boasts approximately 34 large refrigerator magnets which, using their own intrinsic power, flew from the kitchen to this cherished and somewhat valuable piece of furniture.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, they do not stick to brass.

So, what if I do raise my voice to ask, “Who is watching the kids?” And what if I do smile when the eldest (3 years old) can’t find her shoes?

Yet in the evening when they are normally home and perhaps sleeping, I sometime regret my grouchiness. Not often, understand, but sometimes.

Tonight while watching one of my favorite television programs, the phone rang and it was my next door daughter-in-law, mother of the two beautiful and destructive vixens.

She asked me if any of us had seen/found any pacifiers around the house today. It appeared that the daughters of my son had lost these valuable tools—somewhere. I asked everyone in this house and the response was negative. No pacifiers. Not anywhere.

So, feeling somewhat remorseful for my constant complaining, I jumped in my car and quickly drove to the nearest CVS and purchased a pack of two pacifiers. I sped home, rushed to the front door of my son’s home, pushed it open to find son, wife, and one year old Jill nestled on a couch.

I pitched the package into the room and made some comment . . . I think it was, “’Hope this fits the mouth!”

The reward for this good deed occurred at the drug store. The charming check-out gal scanned the pacifiers, said “$5.29” and I gave her a $10 bill. As she was handing me the change, she looked at me—an old guy creeping up on 80 years buying pacifiers. She carefully gazed, and remarked with a sly grin: “Hmmm. Proof that you are never too old.”

I thanked her and left. Smiling from ear to ear.

Long ago, I lived near a farm in southern Indiana and was helping a farmer friend by picking up supplies. For my work, I was paid 35 cents per hour. I stopped at the hardware store to get a bucket and anvil, a small one. Then I went to the livestock dealer to buy a couple of chickens and a goose, all quite small and very young.

A strong young man, I still didn’t know how I would carry all of my purchases back to the farm. Kids didn’t have cars in those days and even if one were available, I was too young to drive. The livestock dealer said, “Why don’t you put the anvil in the bucket, carry the bucket in one hand, put a chicken under each arm and carry the goose in your other hand?”

“Hey, thanks!” I said. His idea worked. While walking with my awkward load, I was approached by an interesting-looking older woman, who said she was lost. “Can you tell me how to get to 1514 Mockingbird Lane?”

“I live right next-door,” I said, “at 1616 Mockingbird Lane. Follow me. Let’s take this shortcut and go down this alley. We’ll be there in no time.”

The woman retorted, “I am a lonely widow without a husband to defend me. How do I know that when we get in the alley, you won’t hold me up against a wall, and … and … and ravish me?”

I was flabbergasted. I’d never done that to any woman before, let alone a strange older woman! Not knowing what to say, I exclaimed, “Holy smoke, lady! I’m carrying a bucket, an anvil, two chickens and a goose. How in the world could I possibly hold you up against the wall and do that, whatever it is? I mean, even if I knew how?”


The woman said, “Well, you could set the goose down, cover him with the bucket, put the anvil on top of the bucket and I’ll hold the chickens.”

I’ll never forget that day.

Thoughts & ideas scribbled in a notebook in the summer of 1994  . . . fifteen long years ago.

There are two kinds of people…those who look good with their clothes on and those who look better with their clothes off.  I know which kind I am.

I am continually amazed at what some women do to their hair. Gray should be gray, not blue.  A friend tells everyone that if you visit Florida in the wintertime, you should seek out the “blue-crested snowbird.”

And since it appears that this is about women:

I am so old that I can remember when the airlines required stewardesses (That’s what they called them before they became ‘flight attendants’) to be young, a certain height and weight, and generally all-around gorgeous.  That has all changed now that we have equal rights for the non-gorgeous. Airlines now seek attendants with personality and character.  However, I did see a female flight attendant a few weeks ago who was probably recruited during the gorgeous years.  It was the first time I was ever served coffee by a woman using a walker.

Recall how the flight attendants remind you that “all carry-ons must fit under the seat in front of you or in the overhead compartments”?  If you have ever been seated next to or near a screaming child, ask the flight attendant if this child was carried on.  And, if so….

I’ve just discovered that in addition to Chiquita bananas, there is now another national brand, Rosita bananas.  Competition is good, but why are bananas always named after women?

June 6, 1994. Rancho Bernardo, California.

I was in a “salad and bakery buffet restaurant” for lunch today and saw a young lady, about 18, in a designer sun suit completing a job application with a Mount Blanc ballpoint. I watched her drive away later in a new Ford Probe sports car.

Unemployment is hell in Southern California.

June 8, 1994

At the same salad and soup buffet: I sat near the soup tureen. A young man stacked soup bowls for customers.  He cupped the bottom of the bowls, placing them lip down on a tray.  He did this two-handed.  Palms up, grasping bowl bottoms, he reversed his hands and placed the bowls on the tray.

So there he was, standing with palms up and two smooth, cup-shaped objects in his hands, when a well-endowed 17-year-old walked in, wearing a low-cut halter dress.  Unconsciously, he bounced the bowls up and down in his hand until he saw me watching.  Red-faced, he went back to work.

From women to the word-world:

There is a gun in my house, disassembled, with the parts in various places.  I don’t really believe in guns, but if I hear one more person say “Give me a break…”

Has anyone discovered a way to stop the younger generation from using “you know” and “like” as conjunctives.  I rather prefer the established “errrrrr…” or “uhhhhh” as a thinking pause when the mouth is racing past the brain. And, As, and But also work.

If you have a teenager near you, bet them some outrageous sum if they win, versus a task they would prefer not to do if they lose. The challenge: talk on the phone to any friend for a half hour and not use either “like” in its misuse mode, or “you know” in any mode.  You’ll win, and a dirty and difficult task will finally be done by a teenager.  I’ve done it.  It works.

Even on some adults.

(The old Flayed Fox writes books about our forgotten history. To learn more, visit historynerds.com)

As a long-time occupant of “Geezer Village” in Florida, I can guarantee you that the elderly men and women walking in the early evening are not exercising.  Well, they are getting exercise, but they are walking to reassure themselves that they can still do it.

So, yesterday, after a good dinner I slowly slothed out the front door to begin my half-mile journey around the neighborhood.  First the fountains, then around the cabana and pool to the end of the street and back home.  But last night I took a different route.  I stopped at the small fountain pool because there was a recent model car parked in the center of the exit street.  The fountains were off, and a young 20-year-old woman gazed at the water in the fountain pool.  I walked to the pool and instantly became as fascinated as she was at the Mother Duck and five very small two-or-three day old ducklings.  I retreated quickly to my house to fetch a camera. When I returned,  she said, “I’ve gotta figure out a way to get them out. The mother can jump or fly, but the little ones can’t.”  As we watched, the mother-duck jumped from the pool and walked around the ledge.  The ducklings tried, but couldn’t make it.  So, momma jumped back in and they all swam around some more.  It happened three times.

Foolishly macho, I told the young lady to forget about it, and promised to phone a friend who would help me rescue the ducklings.  I pulled out my cell phone and called John, who was fortunately at home, so he zipped to the fountains in his golf cart.  As I had expected, he had a ready solution.  Together we walked back to my house and grabbed a folding plastic lounge chair that every Floridian keeps by his pool.  They are awkward to carry and the dratted thing pinched me more than once, but we made it.

We dropped it in the shallow water at one corner of the fountain and adjusted the back so it became a ladder for the ducklings to use as an escape from the motherless pool.  Momma duck was flying in tight circles 30 feet over our heads, quacking as if to say, “Touch my babies and I’ll peck you to death!”

Almost instantly, two of the smarter ducklings paddled to the chair, wiggled onto the arm, and jumped to the ledge.  The rest walked up the wet plastic back, but wet and plastic translates to “slick” in duck-talk, and they slid back into the pool.  John instructed me to run back to the house and find something that would eliminate “slick.”   I came back with an old workshop towel, and two more ducklings escaped.  They fled into the bushes to the nest where momma and the other ducklings were waiting.

Duckling Number Five – if you are reading this, please tell us how you escaped.  Since you disappeared we thought you may have drowned.  We net-scrimmed the entire pool, and your body is not there.  My email address is loveaduck@wackoo.com,  And my cell phone number is 450-0506.

–The Flayed Love-a-Duck Fox,   May 17, 2009

After talking about it for years, we finally decided to do it. Me, Charlie, Dave and Ron plunked my old pontoon boat into the Ohio River a little west of Evansville, Indiana, and aimed for New Orleans. It was a great adventure, but we didn’t make it all the way there. Engine problems, lack of ports, facilities and fatigue stopped us at Memphis.

We docked at a marina, paid a deposit and promised to be back in a week with a trailer to haul the old log-dodger back to Indianapolis.

We got four rooms at the Peabody Hotel and each of us spent most of the afternoon in the shower. The next day, we were on a plane headed for home. Of all the memories we shared, none was as exciting and pleasurable as the evening we spent in Cairo, Illinois, with Duke Washam at Smith&Groves Tavern and Restaurant.

Ron went to Ireland, Dave played golf and Charlie and I scheduled Thursday, July 16 as the day to drive toward Memphis and pick up the Log Jammer. Of course we did not intend to make it all the way there in one day. We pointed the Ford 150 toward Cairo, Illinois, and Smith&Groves. We aimed past the Relax Inn and hit the Days Inn off Interstate 57. As soon as the motel phone in room 111 was activated, Charlie called Duke and asked him if he had ribs that night. Lucky for us, he did.

I was mildly apprehensive. The memories of our evening with Duke, Steve and the rest of the gang at Smith&Groves, the stories we heard, the stories we told, the food we ate, the friends we made, and the beer we drank might – just might – have been a one-time-only experience, that rare mix of good people and unique circumstances that cannot be duplicated.

It wasn’t the same. It was a blast.

Our first surprise was seeing Helen behind the bar. Helen, fair Helen, had not been at Smith&Groves during our first visit since it was her day off. Trim and tanned with sparkling eyes and a quick wit, she was the perfect antidote for the overpowering maleness of the place. There was no coquettishness, no phony femininity, just a real woman, tolerant and unfazed by four-beer language and the often sophomoric antics of her clientele.

A fresh breeze in a dark bar.

We were greeted as regulars and grabbed stools. Duke served 20-ounce goblets of draft beer for $1.50, and before the evening was over I had spent $4.50 on beer and I-don’t-know-how-much on a full rack of barbequed pork ribs, French fries and coleslaw. In the middle of the night, my stomach complained that my mouth was trying to destroy it. Not that the food wasn’t somewhere up near fantastic; it was just that my digestive system had not yet developed the required calluses to accommodate such a greasy feast.

Sometime, a little before nine o’clock, Charlie and I decided that given the impending immensity of the following day’s trip to Memphis to retrieve the boat, plus the hassle of getting the boat on the trailer, the time it took to off-load the contents to the truck and the long drive back North, we were justified in returning to Cairo the next day, instead of hard-driving all the way home. When we told Duke of our plans, he said, “When you get here, I’ll take you out to Ouida’s…about all they serve out there are hamburgers and pork chop sandwiches, but I think you’ll like it.”

We happily agreed, returned to the Days Inn and ruffled through our luggage to see if we could find Tums or Rolaids to prepare for what was ahead.

We were greeted at the Memphis Yacht Club the following morning with the news that the key/ignition switch had broken on the Log Jammer when one of the Club employees attempted to move the boat. We solved the how-to-get-it-on-the-trailer problem by having them tow it to the ramp and cranking it up manually. It was easier than it sounds. We then went on our way to Cairo.

We hadn’t checked out of the Days Inn the day before, so we returned, showered and napped to prepare ourselves, especially our stomachs, for the evening ahead.

True to his word, after a re-greeting and a beer we piled into our respective pickup trucks and headed toward Ouida’s on Horseshoe Lake. (We had wisely disconnected the trailer at the motel.) Horseshoe Lake at sunset is a beautiful place—calm, shallow water bordered by majestic cypress trees, a tree I often see in Georgia and Florida, but never expect to find in Illinois. Ouida’s was smaller than Smith&Groves and noisier. We edged to the bar where cans of each of our favorite brands were put in front of us – and we hadn’t yet ordered. A man who appeared to have been at Ouida’s bar for days walked unsteadily to Charlie as the jukebox roared with some rock-dance music. Charlie went along with it for a while, then, stopped abruptly. “Why?” I asked. “He insisted upon leading,” Charlie retorted.

The food came, again unordered. Duke had asked us what we planned to eat before we left and put in the order by phone. Each time we turned our heads, another beer appeared. Our brains were fogged-in, but we knew Duke was paying for everything. I tried to get Duke to accept a $50 bill, but he refused. I attempted to stuff it in his pocket, and he took it out and put it in mine. I knew then he wasn’t joking. The party was on him. And it wasn’t just Duke, me and Charlie – he was picking up the bill for all of his regular customers who followed us out to his biggest competitor. I was totally, absolutely, flabbergasted.

Before we reached designated driver time, we left the charming Ouida and drove back to Smith&Groves.

Recalling odd bits of overheard conversation, remembering the quips and antics I laughed at and enjoyed hearing, is outside the boundaries of my ability. As best I can remember, however, here are a few of the most memorable quotes:

On marital relations…
…if the bitch ever leaves me again, by damn, I’m going with her…
On drinking…
…they accused me of being an alcoholic. I ain’t an alcoholic. I’m a drunk.
Alcoholics have to go to meetings. I don’t go to meetings.
On politics…
…it ain’t that complicated. Democrats do it for sex, Republicans do it
for money…
On fishing line…
…skinny stuff, as fine as frog hair…
On golf by a fisherman…
…but you can’t eat those little white round things. I even tried it once with corn meal and it tasted like s–t…
To a messy, somewhat drunk eater…
…make up your mind. You want to eat it or you want to wear it…
On policemen…
Charlie: “Did you ever notice that the smaller the town, the larger the police car?”
On the girl at Ouida’s who worked in a gym…
Charlie: “I was just feeling her muscles.”