Stray Thoughts

By

William D. Dannenmaier

This morning, I proudly announced to by bride that I was successfully buttoned and zippered.  In response to her muted applause, I told her, “Growing older is a day by day achievement.”

I belong to the Cardiac Club at our local hospital, reporting for punishment two mornings a week.  This is not its official hospital name, which I believe is Cardiac Rehabilitation, but I long ago decided none of us would put up with the torture, called rehabilitation, that the nurses put us through if we didn’t enjoy the comradeship, which out weighs the suffering we endure. 

Anyway, viewing my fellow members the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, it occurred to me that we all know how to eat.  We might not be gourmets, who enjoy wafer thin slices of food served as delicacies, but we would all qualify as gourmands, who know how to stuff it in.  Even a casual observer would agree to that!

I ran out of tobacco this morning.  Finally, desperate, I asked my bride if she had a package concealed.  When she asked me how I wanted her to answer, I said, “Truthfully.”  A few minutes later, sitting on the porch watching the rain with her I said, “You know, when I die you might slip a pouch of tobacco and my pipe in the coffin.  I don’t expect to need matches; no doubt the fire will manifest itself.”  I don’t recall her answer.

When I brag, I only succeed in entertaining myself and boring the listeners.  My bride is much better at it.  Her brags are much more useful.  I thought about this the other day while making bean soup.  She is always telling people, in my presence, about the wonderful soup I make.  It is true.  I make soup.  I use a three or four gallon pot and when it is finished Sheila freezes it in the empty gallon ice cream containers we save (and of which we have plenty).  Then, when she doesn’t feel like cooking, out comes the soup.  For the last two days, for example, we have had chicken soup for light meals.  It was from the second last container of frozen soup, so it was time for me to make more.  Since the batch before the chicken had been pork and barley, it was time for bean soup.  All the time I’m working, of course, she tastes and brags about me.  It makes me proud and I cook on. Notice now nicely these soups fit into her cooking plans.  Notice how useful her brags are. 

Talking with Andrew the other day, somehow the physical fitness of our congressmen arose.  His first suggestion was to do a study comparing the fitness (physical) of congressmen to people in general.  Then, on reflection, he said, “But you should compare otherwise equivalent groups, and everyday people aren’t equivalent.  Maybe we should compare them with convicts.”  I replied that this wasn’t fair either.  Convicts spent their days working out in gyms to increase their strength so they would be more effective criminals in fighting law-abiding citizens and police when they got out.  On the other hand, congressmen had to go to all these expensive parties and do all of the drinking.  Just think, at present Senator Reid is taking an all taxpayer paid tour of South America.  Consider the parties he will have to attend: the meals he will have to eat and the cocktails he will be required to drink.  It is not fair to compare congressmen with other, convicted, criminals.”   He agreed.

I would like to suggest that any reader click into Townhall.com/columnists for November 28, 2007.  There are a slew of excellent articles, the best in several days in my opinion.  I was particularly impressed by Kathleen Parker, Walter E. Williams (as always), and Michelle Malkin.  For just plain fun, Mad Mike (Mike S. Adams) is his usual self.  He makes one wonder what California taxpayers are getting for their money as every organization he mentions uses university facilities and had faculty sponsors who are paid for their time – probably by released time from teaching real subjects.  As a combat veteran who despises Kerry (I never before knew of a Purple Heart recipient who didn’t spend a night in the hospital) I also liked Michael McBride. 

I believe that the local song birds have my number.  When I go out on the back porch to smoke my pipe, the bird feeder will be empty with not a bird in sight.  As soon as I light the pipe, a bird arrives.  Not wanting it to go away hungry, I fill the feeder while it watches from a nearby branch.  As soon as I finish, before I even return to my seat, he is at the feeder.  By the time I have the pipe smoking, birds are arriving in droves: chickadees, tufted titmice, song sparrows – they know that my smoke indicates food is on the table.