To Mudgeon or not to Mudgeon?

    My wife has accused me of being a curmudgeon. She’s even gone so far as to buy me (and insist I wear) a t-shirt captioned “Captain Curmudgeon” with an amusing (snort) caricature splayed across the front. But am I really a curmudgeon? I decided the first step would be to consult the folks at the Oxford Dictionary as to the actual definition. 

cur·mudg·eon /kərˈməj(ə)n/ noun 1. a bad-tempered person, especially an old one. 

YOU KIDS GET THE %$#&^ OFF MY LAWN!!!

Okay, okay, I’ll own up to the “old” part of the definition. I have been around the sun 76 times. (And bought a souvenir key chain at the gift shop.) I’m admittedly no spring chicken. 

    

But “bad tempered”? I beg to frickin differ!!! I think I’m perfectly even tempered. After all, I made no attempt to burn Mar-a-Lago to the ground when “he who shall not be named” finagled his way into the White House a second time. And no matter what egregious muckery Elon Musk has perpetrated on any given day, I have yet to spray paint the words “Sieg Heil!!!” on anyone’s Tesla. 

    I do confess, as the years stack up, little things that shouldn’t raise my temperature annoy the hell out of me. Such as:

• The guy in front of us in line at the recycling center, as we waited to turn in one expired cell phone, felt it necessary to carefully exacto knife all 79 cardboard boxes he had transported there in the back of his pickup. A glance back would have alerted him that he was holding up the line. But did he? Not on your life. 

• The fact that I have to learn yet another song in Latin for my community chorale concert. “Laudate eum in timpano et choro.” Or words to that effect. After two choir concerts with Latin lyrics, I feel supremely confident I could go back to ancient Rome and confidently order a McCleopatraburger. 

• Since we’re on music, pet peeve 3 is songs where the title appears nowhere in the song. Examples? “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen. “Baba O’ Riley” the Who, “A Day in the life” by the Beatles. And worst of all the Jefferson Airplane’s “3/5 of a mile in 10 seconds” in which they sing the entire song and then, at the end, Marty Balin shouts (for no apparent reason) “3/5 of a mile in 10 seconds.” I don’t know what drugs they were using but I’ll take a hard pass. 

• Young women (with the occasionally male exception) who croon “purrrrrfect” after taking your order at a restaurant. As we all know, pobody’s nerfect. 

• Guys who equate their manhood with how badly they need a muffler job on their “tricked-out” little Mitsubishi. (Or insert your favorite noisy, smelly rackety car here.)  

• Pedestrians who hold a cell phone 3 inches from their face while they cross the street mid-block. The last thing in the world I want is for someone to plow into a screen-junky slacker. Which is why I shriek “pay attention future corpse” as I drive by them.  

• People who can’t remember their PIN number when paying for stuff at the supermarket with a debit card.  

Oh, wait, that’s me. Never mind.

 

The Norovirus Diet

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

On the plus side, catching the norovirus is a sure way to lose weight. I’m down three pounds in two days—just in time to get into the summer wardrobe.

 

A bout of this virus can also make you lose your appetite for some of the favorite foods you ate in the hours before you found yourself doing the tight-cheek tango to the bathroom. In my case, those were foods I should steer clear of—cake and cookies and cream cheese, fried shrimp, creamy salad dressing, and all manner of chips in crackly packaging. Yes, cheesy snacks.

 

And if you’re looking for a clean-out similar to that achieved before your last colonoscopy, here it is.

 

On the minus side there’s the nausea, sometimes only a vague feeling and sometimes a full-body, full-on experience.

 

There’s also the uncertainty. Do I lean over that porcelain bowl? Or do I sit? From sad experience, I’ve concluded that either choice can be the wrong one. But I see an opportunity for an inventor to create a bit of bathroom “furniture” that would somehow allow a norovirus victim to do both simultaneously.

 

And then there’s that strange stomach symphony of sounds, a clash of rumbling and grumbling playing at a pitch never before heard in my lifetime. At times I’m concerned I’ll set off the sensors monitoring for volcanic activity from Mt St Helens. And if I were to submerge myself in the Columbia, there’s a good chance that migrating gray whales off the coast would pause and try to decipher the gurgling message from my stomach as it works to expell the virus.

 

Unfortunately, there’s no magic bullet to cure this crap. (Pun intended.) Fortunately, the worst of it lasts only 2 or 3 days. Days, I might add, which seem to stretch on endlessly as I swill electrolyte-balancing drinks and nibble an occasional cracker.

You Should Talk!!

 The other day, while exchanging texts with my emoji-prone sister, I began thinking about the roots, development, and deterioration of human communication. Hey, I’m retired and have way-too-much time on my hands.

It must have started with a cave couple gathered around the campfire, waiting for that triceratops haunch spinning on a spit to reach exactly the right degree of dripping, bloody perfection.

She, gesturing back toward the cave, issues a series of grunts, clicks, and keening sounds that translate to “That thing you drew on the cave wall. The one that shows you chasing down the triceratops and slaying it with a club?”

He, blinking frantically, a stegosaurus-caught-in-the-headlights look in his eyes, offers his own series of grunts, sniffs, and jowl sounds that offer his retort. “Uh, huh. What about it?”

Grunt, chitter, squawk. “Everybody knows you came across the beast already dead.”

Grunt, grunt, grunt. “Deadish,” he insists. “Possibly expired.”

“Anyway,” she continues with her insistent cave woman exasperation, “I don’t like it on that wall. I want it on the other wall.”

Mankind progressed rapidly from there of course. Soon developing grunt-free language. Nouns, verbs, and metaphors soon rolled from the lips of people through the ages. Useful terms like “zounds” (Gods wounds) “ostler” (like an Elizabethan parking valet) and “Hey nonny, nonny,” (a verse from a medieval pop song “Land of a thousand prances,”) were created, used, then discarded.

And then the idea occurred to someone. What if we could talk to someone who isn’t even in the room? The technology soon leapfrogged from rudimentary two-soup-cans-and-string devices to smoke signals, semaphore flags and then, miracle of miracles, the telegraph. 

Now the most complex messages could be sent hundreds, nay thousands of miles, via a series of dits and dahs through a wire. That no one on the other end had any idea what the dits and dahs meant was an obstacle that took a while to overcome.

After that, it was Katie bar the door. Pony express, wireless radio, the printing press, and poon-shazam Alexander Graham Bell invents THE TELEPHONE! You could now hear the actual voice of a person on the other end asking you if you needed aluminum siding.

Fast forward a century and a half (give or take). From Gilligan’s Island on TV to Spice Girls music videos and movies featuring multiple car crashes, explosions, and snarky super-heroes, we have perfected the art of human communication.

Or have we? With the advent of cell phones and the internet, we can carry on conversations without actually seeing or even knowing who we’re talking to. No longer is it necessary to type actual words to transmit the meaning. “Hw R U. I M fn.” Before long we’re be text-grunting at one another. And emojii’s, those little cartoony hearts, faces and animals will eliminate the need for even the animalisms.

Well, I’m about done ranting. Time for dinner. I think the triceratops should be roasted to perfection about now. 
 

Night Noises

 

Carolyn J. Rose

A few nights ago our dog exploded from the “bunker” of blankets between us and ran to the door barking. This was unusual behavior for a ten-year-old mutt known for sleeping through the night with only an occasional grunt as she changes position. Since she’d never been concerned about the sounds of neighbors coming and going after dark, we flipped aside our blankets and, with much creaking of joints, trudged to the window.

What dire threat was bearing down on us at 3 AM? Terrorists? Insurrectionists? A pack of possums? House flippers wanting to buy our home at a deep discount? Evangelists? Aluminum siding salesmen? Librarians coming for those overdue banned books?

None of the above.

Instead, we saw a young man checking recycling bins for cans and bottles. No threat to us. Just a sign of our sad and chaotic economic times.

There was nothing for him in our bin and he moved on quickly. We returned to bed at a slower pace. With a final growl, Nikki joined us.

Before I fell asleep, I thought about other night noises, sounds from my childhood carried on sultry summer air. I recalled the faint bark of a dog from a farm perhaps half a mile away as the crow flew. Two miles if that crow followed the roads. It was a more a bark of affirmation than warning. “I’m a dog. I’m here. I can bark. Listen.”

The next memory is of a screech owl, the sound almost like the whinny of an injured horse, and so unusual and frightening—to my young self—that I woke my father. He assured me the bird was the size of his fist and no danger to me. But until the owl flew off to hunt elsewhere, I could not relax into sleep.

The next summer another sound woke me, a scream that came again and again from the wooded hill behind our house. It sounded like a woman. A woman gripped by pain and terror. I roused my father, but this time he had no ready explanation. He seemed puzzled and even concerned. Definitely concerned. He pulled on jeans and shoes, grabbed a flashlight, and then loaded his rifle.

Naturally he told me to stay home. And naturally I slipped into my sneakers and followed his bobbing flashlight beam across the lawn and up the hill. The scream got louder. We emerged into a clearing and the flashlight beam slid across a brush pile. The next scream came from deep within the heap.

​My father shouted. “Who are you? Are you hurt?”

The scream gave a twisted echo of his call.

I scooted up behind him. There were bobcats in the Catskill Mountains. And I’d heard stories about panthers. Panthers screamed. Didn’t they?

My father shouted again. “Answer me. Who are you?”

The next scream was followed by the crackle of breaking twigs.

My father handed me the light and shouldered his rifle, aiming at the source of the sound. I shivered and cowered behind him, images of teeth and claws and blood filling my brain.

The crackling grew louder.

A final scream morphed into a yip.

A beagle pawed its way from the brush pile and ran off.

My father waited a few moments, then lowered the rifle, made a noise that was half laugh and half sigh of relief, and turned for home. “Probably chased a rabbit in there.”

I’d never seen the dog before and never saw it again. When winter came we burned that brush pile. A few days later I poked through the ashes looking for signs of a rabbit burrow. I found nothing. 70 years later, awakened by other sounds from the darkness, I remember that night and wonder what became of the dog. And the rabbit.

 

More dribblings from the deep end.

I know there are some around me who will claim I’ve gone totally off the deep end. Not true. Okay, okay, I have my doolalley days but for the most part I’m mostly, kinda, sorta, possibly all there. Or somewhere nearby. 

I do enjoy my exercise routine in the deep end of the community pool at the Marshall Center. Despite Carolyn’s claims that I am just “mucking about in the water ogling the lady lifeguards,” there is serious intent to “build up my core.” Whatever that may mean. Ogling? C'mon. Really? Ogling a definite no. Appreciating. An innocent yes. 

Earlier, I wrote about the Deep End Divas who circle in the middle of the area like baby sharks chumming for minnows and talk about all manner of important topics like their hair, their nails and their bitch of a daughter-in-law. Occasionally, I hear them giggle and even laugh out loud and I’m tempted to paddle close to overhear what’s so damn funny. (Satan, keep thee behind me)
Today, as I was mucking about ogling the lifeguards (oops, I mean building up my core) I saw a young snorkel thrasher, semi-intent on swimming some unrealistic number of laps from my end to the far end and back. Before long, the open area in the middle of the lane I was M . . .king about in was occupied by a not unattractive young woman, also swimming laps. (albeit in a much more relaxed fashion)
    Now, I should admit that “young” is a rather liquid term in my codger vocabulary. It basically means anyone without grey hair and washboard wrinkly skin. Anyone who thinks "the sixties" is the temperature range between "the fifties" and "the seventies." The two principals of this anecdote were probably mid to late 30’s. Or possibly 40’s. Or even early 50’s. I’ve gotten very bad at guestimating age.
To make a long story short, (too late, I’m thinking) they stopped and talked at one end of the pool, smiling, gesturing and laughing. It was evident they’d just met. Soon, they were paddling back and forth alongside each other, the length of the lane and back.
    I felt like I’d just watched the opening “cute meet” episode of a Rom Com. Or the beginning of "The Love Boat." Funny, sticky sweet and predictable. Next thing you know they’d be living together, buying an espresso machine and talking about how many kids they wanted to have. Or maybe they’d just hook up. Who knows?
People watching is an added bonus when building your core. An observation about lap swimmers. There are two basic kinds. Gliders, who stroke silently and powerfully for extended periods of time and use a narrow alley of water and Thrashers, who yank their arms and legs out of the water and after throwing them to the side, slap them back down on the surface. Or onto another swimmer, whichever is closest. Their philosophy is “Hey, I’m swimmin’ here! Get outa my way!!!” One of those attractive lady lifeguards will one day have to referee a fistfight.
        One other note on a totally unrelated topic. (A distasteful dripping from my leaky brain pan.) The information age is a wonderful thing. Except when the information is something you really didn’t want or need to know. Like the latest thing the drooling eedjit in the White House has said or done for example.
        I’ve become addicted to googling anything that triggers my curiosity. For example; after cooking up a batch of my favorite New Mexican recipe for a red chile pork and hominy stew called posole, I began wondering what it’s roots were. So, I did what I always and searched online.  
        Its beginnings were with the Incas who revered the food as having spiritual significance. Traditionally, after one of their periodic human sacrifices, they’d whip up a batch to consecrate the ritual and celebrate the life of the late sacrificee. (If you’re squeamish you may want to skip the next part). The meat they used was not pork, as in my recipe. They used (ooh, ick) whatever was close at hand. Waste not, want not.
        Well, that’s about it for now. Time to crawl out of the water and go muck-about on the official curmudgeon recliner. With luck, maybe a lifeguard will pass by.

Early Learning Back in the Day

 Carolyn J. Rose

 

If you can remember the early 50s, cast your mind back as you read. If you can’t—if you’re too young, or your memories are blurry, or you’ve spent decades trying to forget and have finally succeeded—that’s fine. But here we go, here’s my take on education in those days.

 

 

Oddly—perhaps because of the dearth of options, my grandmother read to me from a book of stories by Nathaniel Hawthorne, stories like “The Great Stone Face.” Did I understand what that was about? Nope. Thinking back, I doubt she even briefly considered moving on to his novel, The Scarlet Letter. And I’m relieved. If she’d attempted to explain adultery I think she would have blushed so intensely her face would have blistered.

Unfortunately, the kinds of books kids learn on now weren’t around; we grappled with the so-called adventures of bland and mindless characters like Dick and Jane. Sure, there were exciting stories and books, but they contained long words and complex sentences. We needed adults to explain and unravel as they read tales like Treasure Island and Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. In an age when TV was black and white and kids’ programming sadly lacking, this was great stuff, even with only a few drawings to supplement the text. We used those as springboards to “fill in the blanks” with our imaginations. Those tales became fuel for made-up games and occasional nightmares about pirates and giant squids.

 

But, moving right along. With literary experience under my belt, and with a Hopalong Cassidy lunch box in hand, I set off for the one-room schoolhouse a mile away. There were two of us in the first grade, no one in second, one girl in third, and a sprinkling of kids in the grades above up to high school level.

 

I looked forward to finishing lessons and being allowed to draw along the bottom of a chalk board gray from years of use, to bang chalk dust from erasers, and play with the View-Master or look through the older kids’ history books for maps and pictures of pyramids and the Founding Fathers in their wigs. I also looked forward to lunch—I still do—and recess and the days Mr. Hearn brought his dachshund along. I can’t recall the content of the lessons, but I know they were of the bare-bones variety—drawing numbers and letters with thick pencils on cheap wood-chippy paper, sounding out a few simple words printed in a worn book, counting pictures of apples or cats. Bored between lessons, I’d scooch up toward the front of the room and listen to older kids reading and answering questions about history or math or science.

I see kids now watching videos, playing with fascinating educational toys, and reading books brimming with action, colorful characters, and loads of drawings or photos. I envy them. But I wonder if my imagination would be as powerful if I hadn’t had to work it so hard in order to “fill in the blanks” of my early education.

 

Eggs and Attitude

 

Carolyn J. Rose

In the early 50s in the Catskill Mountains we got our eggs from a farm on the next ridge.

I remember my mother wiping each one with a cloth dipped in a bleach solution. I remember asking why and being told, in a cleaned-up kind of way, about other things that come out of a chicken. I remember not wanting anything to do with eggs after that, not realizing they were in cookies and cakes and the cheese souffles I loved.

Later, we purchased eggs from the nearby general store or from a supermarket farther away. I remember my mother complaining once that the price of eggs had gone up—to a whopping 60 cents a dozen. A nickel an egg.

I chuckle about that now when I’m considering the four eggs left in the carton in my refrigerator. Should I use them for waffles or cookies or sell them and buy a blended coffee drink or a new set of tires?

What I wish I could chuckle about are the people who believed the current resident of the White House could make those prices go down overnight. I could say “I told you so” to several people I encounter regularly, but I won’t. I could ask “How’s that working out for you?” but I won’t. I could bring up bird flu and supply and demand and the size and scope of the economy and all the factors at play. But I won’t. Instead I will pass them by, walking on eggshells as I do.

I don’t know what a carton of eggs costs right now at supermarkets around here. I do know many markets are taking losses to keep shoppers coming. But how big a loss are they willing to take? And for how long?

In the meantime, I have those four eggs in the refrigerator. Until they ease too far past their best-by date, I consider them an investment.