I might not have 30 minutes
Published 6:36 am Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Echoes from the Loafers Club Meeting
“I used to think I was hip.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“No, not since I had the hip replacement.”
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: If you want to be a superhero, become a locksmith.
Overheard in a busy restaurant
“I’m sorry, but there will be a half-hour wait for a table.”
“I’m 90 years old. I might not have 30 minutes.”
Vive La Difference
Women buy and use cotton balls. Men have no idea why anyone needs a cotton ball and become frustrated trying to get one out of an aspirin bottle.
Talk of baseball, politics, dogs and funerals
Tom Benson of Hartland told a story about a late, mutual friend, Otto Sorenson. When attending a wake or funeral, someone would invariably comment that the deceased looked good. That’s when Otto would interject, “He should look good. He just got out of the hospital.”
How we traveled back in the day
We went down to Iowa, over to the neighbors, up to the Twin Cities, and out to the ballpark.
From the freezer
I listened to Richard Ford, author of the books The Sportswriter and Independence Day. He said that he keeps his notes and manuscripts in a freezer so he won’t be likely to lose them in a house fire.
I have no notebooks in our freezer, but there is ice cream. It gives me ideas.
Not as easy as pie
A pie was missing from the pie table. The family reunion keeps getting smaller.
The pie table was famous as the platform for award winning pies made by my grandmother, mother, aunts, and cousins. I missed the absent pie.
However, I miss the person who used to bake the pie much more.
A traveling man
I was in a state that I will not name, but it rhymes with Too Jersey. I asked a man there if he could direct me to a location. His reply was, “Do I look like a @#$%^&* map to you?”
He was probably from out of state.
The cafe chronicles
My favorite restaurant is nestled on the primary street of my hometown. It is my favorite eatery for a number of reasons. The food is fantastic, of course, but I appreciate the servers. They are prompt and hard working. While attentive, the servers wait until my mouth isn’t filled with food before asking me if everything is OK. I like that.
Birding in the graveyard
It was a quiet graveyard, except for a couple of us birders and a man digging a grave.
We were looking for birds and the man was working.
“How deep do they dig those graves?” a fellow birder asked me.
“I think it’s six feet,” I answered.
“I don’t want to be buried that deep,” he said.
I asked him why and he replied, “I like the sky better than the ground.”
I called a friend by the wrong name the other day. I called him by his brother’s name. Both names begin with the same letter. I’m using that as an excuse. My brain cramp bothers me. My mother said that when we reach a certain age, we have met too many people to remember all their names. This problem could be remedied by having a law that required everyone to wear a nametag. That would eliminate uncomfortable situations and make the identification of criminals a snap.
An Austin resident said he had seen a pair of Canada geese with 20 goslings and wondered if a goose lays that many eggs. The average clutch size of a Canada goose is 4-6 eggs. Large broods are an example of “posthatch brood amalgamation” that occurs in Canada geese and other waterfowl species. It could be a case of adoption in which a pair accepts additional young as their own. Two sets of parents occasionally unite broods and raise the youngsters in a combined effort. In other cases, a mated pair aggressively kidnaps another brood. Larger broods reduce the risk of predation as more goslings mean more eyes. The offspring of the host experience increased survival rates if adopted or kidnapped young are displaced to the brood’s perimeter. When food resources are scarce, larger broods displace smaller broods from feeding areas.
Talking to the Holstein
I was talking to the Holstein the other day. The Holstein is a retired milk cow, so she has time to talk. I told the Holstein that I enjoy opera even though I don’t understand it.
The Holstein chewed her cud thoughtfully and said, “It’s easy to comprehend. An opera is where a guy is stabbed in the back and then sings about it.”
Kindness is contagious.