Echoes from the Loafers’ Club Meeting:

My sister just got married for the third time. All three of her husbands have been named Charles.

Don’t say it.

Yup, she’s a regular Chuck magnet.

Driving by the Bruces

I have two wonderful neighbors — both named Bruce — who live across the road from each other. Whenever I pass their driveways, thoughts occur to me, such as: we don’t mind change as long as it doesn’t involve changing.

The news from Hartland

Cat obedience school closes.

Bible study group walks on their hands in order to save soles.

Martial arts center offers a senior division called the high belt class.

The shot clinic

I went to a shot clinic. It’s a clinic where they give shots that is within a clinic. I went there to get a herd of inoculations. I sat in the waiting area. Some people were there for their children. Some people were there because they had children. Babe Ruth of the New York Yankees supposedly called a shot, a home run he hit in the fifth inning of Game 3 of the 1932 World Series at Wrigley Field in Chicago. Ruth pointed his bat toward the stands, but the exact nature of his gesture remains undetermined. When I met with the doctor, she put things in terms she thought I’d understand. The shot clinic doctor was better than Babe Ruth, she called every shot.

I didn’t miss the point.

Stand Still Parade

Every May, Whalan, Minn. has its Annual Stand Still Parade.

The parade doesn’t move, the spectators do.

Whalan, population 62, wanted a parade. The problem was that the city was only a couple of blocks long, which would mean the parade would be over quickly unless it immediately formed into a traffic jam. Having no parade route can put a crimp in a parade. The spectators stand still or sit in lawn chairs before strolling around the stationary parade units. A friend told me that you know the parade is over when the color guard carries their folding chairs to their cars.

Signing autographs

I had just finished teaching a writing class when a group of students asked if I’d be willing to sign autographs for them. I responded that it would give my life purpose. I signed their autograph books, book bags, and a Kindle cover in my characteristic childish scrawl. My comment about the act giving my life purpose wasn’t meant to be snarky. I was sincere. It made me feel as if I had served a purpose and I was delighted to spend time with such fine young writers.

At a highfalutin hotel and I’d left my hoity-toity ways vat home

I worked in Scottsdale, Ariz. My employer put me up in the ritziest of places, The Phoenician, situated near the Camelback Mountain. It was a luxury resort of the kind so nifty that I didn’t even dare ask the room rate, for fear there would be a charge for asking questions. There was a loan officer on the premises. Charles H. Keating Jr. built The Phoenician. His name brought back memories. Keating went to prison and symbolized the $150 billion savings-and-loan crisis that came to a head in the 1980s. He was imprisoned after fleecing thousands of depositors with the regulatory help from a group of U.S. senators known as the Keating Five. Keating hired Alan Greenspan, who later became the chairman of the Federal Reserve. Greenspan compiled a report saying that Lincoln’s depositors faced no foreseeable risk and praised its seasoned and expert management. He was wrong. Way wrong. Keating called on five senators who had been recipients of his campaign largess, the aforementioned Keating Five — Alan Cranston of Calif., Donald W. Riegle Jr. of Mich., John Glenn of Ohio, and Dennis DeConcini and John McCain of Arizona — and they pressured the bank board to relax the rules and kill its investigation. That was naughty. Keating may have been crooked, but The Phoenician appeared both plumb and senatorial.