Echoes from the Loafers' Club Meeting
What do you think?
You know what they say about that at MIT?
No, what?
How would I know?
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: Why does bad traffic happen to good drivers? When you buy a car, you see one like it everywhere. You are special if you think everyone else is.
The cafe chronicles
It was sugar-free, gluten-free, fat-free and lactose-free.
In other words, it was an empty plate.
I told those assembled at the table of infinite knowledge that a friend, a policeman in Canada, had paid for a class on plants for me as my birthday present. It was botany on the mountie.
Another loafer said that whenever he suffered a slight cut as a boy and called it to his mother’s attention, she’d look at it and say, "Get a spoon."
He was as bald as a doorknob. His wife reminded him all too often of that fact, as if he weren’t aware of it. He didn’t mind not having hair. He didn't miss all the combing. He’d learned, that a wise person uses what he has. She was fond of reminding him that her father had a full head of hair until the day he died. Her father was an unpleasant fellow, prone to laziness and accomplished little in life. He was completely lacking in social graces. The only good thing about his father-in-law was that his mother-in-law was even worse. He told her that grass didn’t grow on a busy street. He insisted that God made few perfect heads. The rest He covered with hair to hide imperfections. He wanted to tell his wife that having a full head of hair was the best thing her father could do. He wanted to tell her that, but he strived to be the kinder of the two of them. It wasn't difficult. And yet, he loved her.
Winner, winner, chicken dinner
I enjoy ringing the bell for the Salvation Army. I've done it for years. The Army used to have a friendly contest to see who could raise the most money. I’d won a few of the annual competitions.
I played competitive sports for years. I wanted to win. It was the object of playing. After I retired from the sports scene, my competitive juices flowed away.
There was an older woman who rang the bells often and expressed a desire to be the number one money raiser. A noble goal. She’d also won a number of the yearly contests.
One year, a snowstorm hit. What a surprise, a snowstorm during the Christmas season. Who’d have thought it possible? The woman was unable to get to her bell-ringing appointment due to the storm. I was in town, so I took her place. I rang a few hours in her name. The kettle was surprisingly busy.
At the annual volunteer appreciation dinner, she received the award for fundraising. I finished a few dollars behind her. She was happy. She’d helped others. She was a winner.
I was happy. I’d helped others. I'd helped someone win. I never told the woman. I’d never felt more like a winner.
From the family files
My grandson Crosby is a kindergartner. He plays baseball. His team bats against a pitching machine. They won their first game 3 to 0. I asked him if it was fun. Crosby replied, "I have good people on my team."
My brother-in-law, Doug Bushlack of New Richland, asked for a German potato salad recipe that he’d enjoyed at a high school graduation. His only concern was that his wife, a good cook, tends to leave anything she doesn't like out of recipes.
My mother drank coffee most of her life. There was always a pot simmering on the stove. By the day’s end, the coffee was strong, bitter and as thick as 10-30 motor oil. She moved onto tea in her later years. She drank whatever kind of tea was sold by the local grocery stores. She could get three cups of hot tea out of one bag. The last cup tasted like water, only weaker.
Mr. Softball, Mr. Action, Mr. Excitement
Greg Bartsch of Geneva has retired. I think I join all those who know him in saying, "Who?" Besides retiring as Scott Groth’s partner in crime, Greg (fondly referred to as Mr. Softball) retired earlier from an illustrious career as Geneva’s Fire Chief. Greg is a good man who does good things. I wish him happy trails.
Nature notes
Mark Tollefson of New Richland asked about the tail colors of red-tailed hawks. Adults have rufous tails. Juveniles have barred, brownish tails that don’t turn red until the molt of their second summers.
Meeting adjourned
You don’t need a reason to be kind.