Musings while Mowing

If you say “Thank you” to an apple tree, the tree will assume that it’s being thanked for its apples because producing and sharing apples is what’s expected of an apple tree. But if you thank it for something unexpected… like if you say, “Thank you Mr. Apple Tree for this fine patch of shade. It’s powerful hot out today, and I’m much obliged to you for offering me this cool place of respite from my labors,” the tree will not only be pleasantly surprised, but it will likely produce better apples in the future… better than it would if it were only thanked for its apples.

Now of course if you have a particularly suspicious apple tree, it might assume you’re playing mind games with it, in which case it may drop an apple on your head rather than improve its fruit quality. If this occurs, DO NOT attempt to humor your way out of the situation by yelling “Eureka! I’ve discovered gravity!” A.) because Newton didn’t yell “Eureka!” when the apple fell on his head. Archimedes yelled that when his bathtub overflowed, and B.) because this tree is clearly in no mood for your bullshit. Trees that have been toyed with in this manner have been known to drop entire branches onto their victims.

By the way… Our apple tree is producing its best fruit ever this year, but the plum tree is scattering immature plums all over the lawn. Jeannie even found a plum branch on the ground the other day. Clearly somebody besides me has been talking to the plum tree. Jeannie denies making any insensitive remarks. The tree is remaining mum on the subject.

Oh, the title?! Yes, these things occurred to me while I was riding around on the lawn mower today. And no, my mower doesn’t have a fuel leak, but thank you for your concern. Anyway, since this is, “Musings while Mowing” I thought I’d end today’s episode by giving you a couple of my lawn mowing tips:

1.) If you have a large onion in the pantry that’s beginning to turn, don’t put it in the compost pile. Toss it in the yard instead, because nothing smells better that an onion being mulched by a Briggs and Stratton on a hot August afternoon. .. A smell so nice, you’ll run over it thrice!

2.) This next tip is more of an operational tip, but it’s an important one. If you have a riding mower with a cruise control switch, use it. I know, we men think we can do it all and we love to press that gas pedal. But when you’re mowing the lawn you’re multi-tasking, and the more things you try to do at once the less you can focus on any one thing. So, take advantage of the cruise control function if your machine has it. This will result in less spilled beer while you mow.

Well I hope you’ve found these suggestions useful. Happy mowing, and don’t forget to pass out those unexpected compliments.

Short Nonfiction

THE HISTORY OF CIVILIZATION

by R.L. Johnson (abridged version) :

Monarch underestimates the anger of the peasant class. Monarch's head ends up in basket. New leader pledges to do better, but soon falls in love with power. Head, basket, repeat.

Kayaking the Wandering Stream

The wandering stream of thought
that runs through your mind
is ever flowing,
and ever changing.
Leave it too long,
and you may not recognize it
when you return.
Its altered course,
its newly carved channels,
its deepening pools,
may cause you to wonder,
“Is this really me?”

The evidence of erosion
may frighten you.
Fond memories drifting away
within translucent ripples
my cause you to chase along the shoreline,
trying to hold the stream still in your mind.
But the stream will not hold still.
You must hold still.
Chasing the stream to its end
where it pours with all others
into an ocean of memories
would surly cause madness.

Sit instead on the sandy bank
in the calm of morning,
and observe the flow.
You will soon understand
that the stream deposits
just as much as it washes away.
It sustains life within its waters,
and along its meandering path.
It turns time with its steady current.
Oh, if we could only stop it,
but we cannot,
and we must not try.

These wandering streams of thought
that run through our minds
ever flowing,
and ever changing,
are for each of us alone
to kayak upon.
And the best we can do
is paddle in the present,
trying not to drift
too far into the past,
or paddle too quickly
into the future.

RLJ - 06/12/2015

Omni-ism

Dear Republicans, Tea Party sympathizers, and European bashers:

Capitalism lovers, especially Libertarians, and even more importantly Ayn Rand fans (who for the most part have absolutely no idea what her core philosophy, “Objectivism” actually is) need to understand that the United States of America since its very inception has always been a semi-balanced blend of capitalism and democratic socialism. They need to understand this little fact before they put all of their ideological eggs into the mythological unregulated free market basket and join in the chant, “We want our country back!” because failure to understand this will… well frankly, it will make them look a little dumb when someone asks them the question, ”Back from what?”

Now to those people whose reaction to this historical truth is that socialism is evil, I ask them to look at it this way:

Being a purely capitalist society would be a lot like being a nation of absolute carnivores. Now while I’m sure that sounds great to a lot of folks (very macho and American,) it wouldn’t be very healthy for our citizens, and it would no doubt lead to an early death for most of us (not to mention the years of gout we’d have to suffer through.)

On the other hand, being a purely socialist society would be a lot like becoming a nation of complete herbivores. Now while this might appeal to our strict vegetarian friends, it would be unacceptable to the vast majority of us, many of whom would probably stage a revolution after a just few weeks without bacon.

Therefore, just as we humans are naturally omnivores, I suggest that we should accept omni-ism as an economic model as well. A nice juicy capitalistic steak (USDA approved of course) along with a crispy green socialistic salad makes for a balanced meal, and a historically sustainable society. Yes, yes I know we Americans will keep arguing about how much meat we should eat and how many vegetables we need… and Texans will keep gorging on giant steaks while refusing to finish their peas… and Californians will continue nibbling on carrots and greens while exporting almonds to the rest of us, but in the end the value of private (for profit) enterprise, and the sensible benefits of social (share the risk, share the wealth) contracts will serve us all well... just as our founding fathers intended

  

Life is like a bag of Bridge Mix:

The other day I ate a bag of Bridge Mix. Now I’m not much of a candy consumer, and I’ve never walked into a store mumbling to myself, “Man, I’ve got to get me some Bridge Mix!” In fact Bridge Mix has never been on my shopping list (not even once) and until recently I’d have been hard pressed to tell you what the stuff was. But the other day I found a bag of it lurking in a coffee themed gift basket that I bought at a charity auction. It was a small bag among a variety of other small bags of snacks and coffee blends stuffed into a wicker basket along with a pair of Starbucks mugs arranged in a nest of mocha colored shredded paper, and shrouded in light blue cellophane.

I read the label, “Bridge Mix, hmmm.” I opened it up thinking of old people playing an old card game at an old wood table in a black and white movie. Hoping that the candy was fresher than the image it inspired, I popped a piece of the mix into my mouth. Mmmm, a malt ball. I liked Bridge Mix already. Malt balls were always one of my favorites as a kid. I grabbed a few more pieces off the top. Another malt ball, and maybe a macadamia nut or something like that all covered in chocolate. Everything was covered in chocolate. “If this is what they serve at Bridge tournaments,” I said to myself, “I might just take up the game.”

Then I gulped up another little scoop, peanuts mostly. Well, a peanut can’t hold a candle to a malt ball, but there’s nothing wrong with a good ol’ peanut now and then. Besides, peanuts make good filler. Plus, they serve to cleanse the palate in between bites of more tasty tidbits.

Undeterred, and with my palate duly cleansed, I grabbed a few more pieces of the Bridge Mix and tossed them to my eager taste buds. “Peanut, peanut, peanut,” my taste buds reported back to me. I peered into the bag searching for another malt ball. I shook the bag looking for a possible macadamia nut, or a hazelnut or anything more exotic than the common Arachis hypogaea.  But the variety of sizes was gone. The chocolate lumps were all small and nearly uniform in shape. There would be no more malt balls, or macadamia nuts. My chances of encountering a cashew just plummeted to zero. The Bridge Mix had given me false hope, and the Bridge Mix had let me down. It appeared now, that I was stuck with a bag of chocolate covered peanuts.

Now I wish I could report that that was the end of the story, but as they say, “Just when you think things can’t get worse, they do.” I dumped some more Bridge Mix into my mouth: peanut, peanut, peanut, raisin. What the… raisin?! I could have gotten: peanut, peanut, peanut, grasshopper, and I don’t think I would have been more upset. From that first raisin to the bottom of the bag, raisins ruled. Like tangerines in the toe of my childhood Christmas stocking, they were 50% of the weight, and 0% of the enjoyment. Worst of all, they were the final impression of an experience that began with so much promise.

Now this leads me to my point: You may have heard that, “life is like a box of chocolates,” and I hate to ruin that Gumpish imagery as you await some nougat filled dreamy confection that we all hope tomorrow will bring you, but realistically life is more like a bag of Bridge Mix. Yes, Bridge Mix. So live for today. Don’t lament that yesterday’s choices may no longer be an option, and don’t grab too quickly at tomorrow. Instead, join the tournament, pick up your cards, and enjoy the game…and if at all possible, learn to like raisins.

  

Old Jack

“Jack be nimble. Jack be quick,” and Jack was very nimble and extremely quick... nimble and quick enough in fact to make it to the top of the Nursery Rhyme Pop Charts season after season, but today Jack finds himself reduced to jumping over candlesticks at PartyLite® Candle Parties in and around Plymouth, Massachusetts on weekends just to make ends meet. You see kids, superstars like Jack didn’t make the kind of coin that celebrities make these days. Even in his prime, when Jack wasn’t jumping candlesticks before an adoring public, he was working the swing-shift at a local candle factory to support his family. This was back when professional baseball players had to take up side jobs during the offseason to pay the rent. Your grandfather can tell you all about it. But back to Jack: As poor ol’ Jack performs today at candle parties for ladies yelling “jump over the peach one Jack, jump over the peach one!" all I can say is that life isn’t fair, especially as we grow older. Some of us who were great in our prime don’t look like much in our later years, so as you see Jack jump (and sometimes miss) and as you walk past that old person on the street, give them a smile and a little extra respect, because once upon a time they were great too… and truth be told, they probably still are.

Happy Hanukkah.

Just a reminder that a 2,176 year old tradition begins anew tonight. So tonight in honor of all Jews living and passed who have helped to light up the world we live in, I light my menorah. I don’t light it out of a profound belief in the miracle of the Maccabees, for I don’t believe in miracles. Nor do light it out of any family tradition, for I was raised Roman Catholic. I light it in honor of the millions of Jewish families who should be lighting their own menorahs tonight; the millions of “missing families” who don’t even exist today because the men and women who would have been their parents and grandparents were slaughtered in the Holocaust. Slaughtered not because of anything they had done, but merely because of who they were.

Hanukkah means "to dedicate."  It’s not a major Jewish holiday, but it is the most well known Jewish holiday to non-Jews, so I think it’s a good time for us non-Jews to dedicate ourselves to remembering the Holocaust; a good time for the world to dedicate itself to never letting such genocide happen again. Religion aside, respecting and protecting all people is just the right thing to do, so for the next eight nights I will light the menorah for those who never had the chance. Happy Hanukkah.

Of Bottles and Diapers

  

Over the past couple days we’ve been taking care of a 2 month old little girl (the human variety.) Sure people occasionally drop off their dogs, cats and goats at my place, but seldom am I entrusted with a member of a higher species. Wait… before you panic, let me inform you that I did raise a couple kids of my own just a quarter (and change) of a century ago, so as they say it’s just like riding a bike, right?

Wrong! It’s more like riding a unicycle… on a high-wire, while juggling flaming chainsaws (Tickets still available for the midnight, and 4:00am shows.) Well to be honest, my wife is the one doing most the juggling. I’m just standing down here under the net giving her moral support, and assisting with some of the props (oh so many props!) and as I assist (safely out of spit-up range) I’m gaining a new level of respect (and sympathy) for my all grandparenting friends out there who do this sort of thing regularly.

Oh by the way, Mama will be stopping by at 4:00 this afternoon to pick up her adorable little chainsaw.

Parallel Universe

  

In a parallel universe moss and dandelions are prized, and mole hills are considered a luxury. As I walked down the driveway this morning to pick up my Sunday newspaper I accidently stepped into that universe for just a moment, and as I looked back at the house I realized that I have the nicest yard on the block.

Man Alive

  

I take my camera with me almost everyplace I go, but not inside the grocery store. After the photo opportunity I missed today however, I may have to reconsider that policy.

This morning I pulled into the WinCo Foods parking lot to pick up some Chinese mustard, sesame seeds, and dog food (No, there’s no correlation between the first two and the later item.) After parking the truck I set my camera behind the passenger seat as I always do in such places, and walked toward the entrance. As I approached, out of the store walked a white haired man who I would guess to be at least seventy five years old. He was pushing one of those big WinCo shopping carts about half full of groceries, and behind him walked a woman who I assume was his wife.

About ten feet outside the store the old man began pushing the cart faster and faster, leaving his wife behind. Then he put one foot up on the back of the cart, and gave a couple good shoves off the ground with the other foot, sending the cart and himself flying downhill between two rows of parked cars. My immediate reaction was to reach for the camera that I wasn’t carrying at the time, and as much as I wanted to run back to the truck for it, I knew the moment would be lost if I did. And so I just stood there and smiled as I watched.

The man with his thin gray hair flapping in the wind zoomed down the incline for about thirty yards, and then he and the cart gradually slowed as the parking lot tipped slightly uphill. When he stopped, he was just feet from his car, but barely within yelling distance of his wife, who continued to walk unperturbed toward her husband. What was she thinking, I wondered. “Damn you Harold! Why must you act like such a child?” or was she thinking “There goes my hero” and remembering a time when the wind blew in both of their faces. I certainly hope it was the later.

I continued to watch as he loaded the groceries into the trunk, pushed the cart to the cart corral, and returned just in time to open the car door for his wife. Yes I wished I had my camera, but the story will have to be enough. What a picture!

While shopping I realized that my new hero (the seventy-some year old kid) could have parked much closer to the store if he wanted to. There were plenty of spaces available. I bet he parks in that spot and takes that life affirming cart ride every time he and his wife go grocery shopping. And what a good wife he has. It’s not every woman who would walk that extra distance just so her husband could take such a joy ride. Leaving the store I imagine that he must have been a race car driver, or crop duster in his younger years… and yes, then I took a little cart ride of my own.

  

The Wall Street Doughboy

  
The Wall Street Journal reported that Hedge Fund Manager John Paulson earned a record $5 billion in individual income during 2010, so I got out my calculator and crunched the numbers:

$5 billion in one year is equal to $13.7 million per day, or $571 thousand per hour, or $9.5 thousand per minute, or $158 per second. But wait, those figures are only valid if you consider him to be at work 24-7-365. Hey even this guy’s got to sleep and spend some quality time with the family, so if you recalculate those numbers based on a 40 hour per week salary (including golf meetings and paid vacations) the amount he was paid for his invaluable services in 2010 was in excess of $2.4 million per hour, or $40 thousand per minute, or $667 per second.

Yes I know, most weeks Mr. Paulson probably puts in more than his 40 hours at the office/golf course/yacht club, but as all of us who've been in management know, when you go on salary you get screwed, so let’s cry some crocodile tears for poor John. Go ahead, go get your Kleenex, and when you get back I’ll show you some fun comparison’s between John’s life and ours.

Fun comparisons:
The average human heart rate is 70 – 80 beats per minute.
...John gets paid over $500 per beat.
The average person blinks every 4 seconds.
...For John that’s $2,668 per blink.
It takes 45 seconds to microwave a hot dog.
...That’s $30 thousand to wait for the ping.
If it took you a minute and a half to read this, collect $60,000.00
...Oh wait, if you’re not John Paulson collect zero.

Important tax note:
80% of John’s earnings were paid in capital gains, so luckily his tax burden will be minimal, and if Republicans get their way, soon capital gains won’t be taxed at all. Won’t that be nice? Maybe then John can go out and buy that small country he’s always wanted.
    

Pioneers

 

Sometimes when I see a jet fly over, or watch the space shuttle on TV I think “I wonder what it would be like if Orville and Wilbur could be brought back to life to witness this.” What would they think? Surely they’d be thrilled beyond belief.

And I wonder what it would be like to take Leonardo da Vinci to the Smithsonian for an afternoon to show him how far we’ve come? Would he be impressed? Would he be surprised and pleased that we remembered to credit him with inventing the delta wing, the hydraulic pump, and so many other things that we use in modern engineering today?

Similarly on the night that Barack Obama was elected I remember thinking what millions of others must have been thinking, “I wish Martin Luther King Jr. could witness this moment.” I thought of how proud and happy he would have been. Of course looking back on it now, it would have been merciful to have returned him to the grave soon after, because I’m sure that after the high of that night the amount of bigotry and racism that arose so quickly after the election from communities all around this country would have saddened Martin greatly. I know it has saddened me.

I hope that someday before I die I can once again think “I wish Martin Luther King Jr. could witness this moment.” Until then, rest in peace Martin. You’re work is finished. America’s work ineptly continues.

Modern Life

  
Living in America today is like living on a train
That’s speeding toward a distant cliff.
The scenery is going by so fast you can hardly see it,
And when you do spot something nice
Its miles away before you can get the lens cap off your camera.
Once in awhile you just need to get off.
Walk around. Skip a stone. Sit in the grass.
If you get bored, don’t worry.
The next train comes in fifteen minutes.
  

Hot Tub Owners: Important Warning Number 27

  
Whenever you go to the online parts catalog to order yourself a new 230V-1ph-60Hz-SM909-NHR662.9 circulation pump, and a pop up window says “We’re sorry. Item# 230V-1ph-60Hz-SM909-NHR662.9 has been discontinued. Please order our universal replacement pump: item# B-2” you can bet your last unscarred knuckle that you're going to be disappointed in the B-2’s ease of installation …but discontinued means discontinued so you’re options are limited:

Option #1 Call a certified repairman
Option #2 Order the B-2.

The smart choice of course is option #1.

Well the B-2 arrived today so out to the hot tub I went with 20 lbs of tools, and an ounce of optimism (I would need more of both before the afternoon was over.) Then first thing I noticed was that the pump was shorter, and the bracket was different, and the hoses didn’t line up quite right, but hey at least they both had three wires so how hard could it be. All I had to do was release the clips, remove the screws, and disconnect the wiring, and the old 230V-1ph-60Hz-SM909-NHR662.9 popped out just as simple as you please.

Popping the new B-2 in however would require moving the main control panel, re-routing some hoses, tossing out the old bracket, and cutting a new support block before it could be attached to anything, or before anything could be attached to it. Ninety minutes of Cirque du Soleil contortions later everything seemed to be in place. The deck looks like a Maytag repairman exploded on it, but I’ll clean that up when I'm sure I'm actually done dancing with the B-2. Right now it’s time to put 800 gallons of water back into the tub so I can see if this thing’s gonna fire up.

Will it run without leaking? Will it go the right direction? Will it work at all? Maybe I should have read the return policy ...or at least the installation instructions. Oh well, too late for all that now. I’ll find out in a couple hours.

~ A couple hours later ~

Well nothing exploded when I flipped the breaker switch. I almost feel giddy when that happens. Upon further inspection, the thing seems to be running perfectly. No noise, no leaks, just quite circulating water! Was there ever any doubt?
  

Sunday Morning

  
Sitting in a hot tub with a warm cup of coffee,

Looking across the lawn, and into the back woods,

Watching the creatures begin their daily routines,

Unaware that today is Sunday; a day to relax.

The donkeys turn their broad sides toward the East

To collect the gathering heat of the rising sun.

The goats chase each other around an old tree stump
Butting heads, and wagging their stub tails.
A pair of wood ducks venture down to the pond for a swim,
Scooping up a slug or bug or two along the way.
A lone squirrel darts behind them all, and scampers up a cedar tree.
Swallows swoop and hummingbirds dart, as robins toil at the ground,
All as busy as can be, as though it were already Monday.
  

Argumentatively Speaking

  
If we can’t argue with our friends, who can we argue with? More and more I see people separating themselves from those they don’t see eye to eye with. I cannot find any benefit in this trend for anyone. It seems to me that this mindset is only making us more and more certain that we’re right, with less and less information to base our rightness on. When we surround ourselves with only likeminded people, we stand unopposed. This feels very comfortable, but the problem in this harmonious existence is that unopposed views get weak. If we never listen to opposing views we are never forced to examine our own views, and unexamined views become less relevant every day. If we do not challenge our views with discussion and debate, our views languish due to lack of exercise. Views that are not exercised become rigid and inflexible, and inflexible views eventually splinter and break.

I consider myself lucky to be surrounded by people who argue ….I mean challenge me regularly.
  

Advice on Cussin’ for Today's Youth

  
Any old cuss can tell ya, shootin’ off cuss words is like shootin’ off an old air pump BB gun. The longer you pump it up, the better them BB’s (cuss words) fly, and the more impact they have when they hit something. If you (like so many young people these days) just keep pulling the trigger after each pump (of your jaw) all you’ll end up with is BB’s splayed all over the place, and you’ll look (and sound) pretty stupid doing it. On the other hand, if you keep your finger off the trigger ‘till there’s plenty of pressure in the chamber, that four letter word’ll fly straight, and put a hole clean through whatever you shoot it at. So (and here’s the important part) when you’re pressure’s in the red, and you’re ready to fire, don’t point at nobody. Instead, for politeness sake, go out to the woods and plink off a few tin cans ....unless of course someone shoots at you first. In that case you can aim right between their eyes ….unless of course there’s a lady in the room.
  

The Toaster Story

 
Today, all I wanted was a warm piece of buttered toast, and because that’s all I wanted, I wanted it to be the best warm buttered toast possible; made with only the finest toast making ingredients, and cooked in the finest toasting appliance ever made …so I went down to my local Gigantic Boxo-Mart Store and bought the best, most expensive stainless steel Oster® name brand toaster they had on the shelf. Then, leaving all the lesser toasters behind, I headed to the checkout counter.

Standing in line I could almost smell my toast toasting ...melting butter dripping ..soft peanut butter oozing. “Oh?! Yes debit, no, no cash back. I'll put it in the bag myself, thank you.” Off to the car I ran. With little Oster® safely in the passenger seat next to me we drove home. Making nearly every traffic light along the way, I reveled in my good fortune, and was soon pulling into my driveway. Through the gate, up the walk, into the house we went.

The peanut butter jar greeted me from across the kitchen, “Is that the new toaster?” it asked. “Yes,” I replied as I carefully cut through the double layer of packaging tape and removed it from its box. “Bring it over here,” the peanut butter said, “I want to have a look at it.” We both agreed it was the finest toaster we’d ever seen. Placing it carefully between the blender and the coffee maker, I plugged it in. Fighting to get to the front of the loaf, the bread slices were jostling for position as I untwisted the wire tie to free them from their plastic sleeve. Although the heel protested, the second and third slice were selected to go first.

My whole day had come down to this moment. “Ready?” I said. “Ready!” said the bread. I pressed down on the lever, plunging the bread into the depths of the hot wired cavern that would soon transform their cold limp forms into hot butter-melting masterpieces! I let go of the lever and ….up sprang the bread. I pressed it down again, and again, but the bread would not stay down! What kind of hell is this!? I picked up the shiny new Oster® and shook it. Something rattled inside. I turned it upside down, and along with two slices of not even slightly warm bread a piece of broken white plastic fell out. A piece of white plastic who’s only job in the world was to hold my bread down!

But there it lay on the counter along with two pieces of bread and some crumbs. White crumbs! Hey, I’m making wheat toast here! My thoughts began to rush! Backward through the day my mind flew. Then forward it sped until …STOP! …I could see the clues boldly italicized before my very eyes: White crumbs! double layer of tape! Those Gigantic Boxo-Mart Store bastards!

This piece of junk Oster® toaster had already been returned once by some sorry white toast shopper, and they just taped it back up and threw it back on the shelf! Now I can’t stop the rapid decline of Western Civilization, but I can help you cope with it with this simple warning: If you’re at the Gigantic Boxo-Mart Store and the item you want to purchase has two layers of packaging tape on it, don’t frickin buy it!
 

The Incredible Shrinking American Vacation

 
Once upon a time the average American family would pack up the car each summer and go on vacation. They would travel the interstate highway system to such great places as The Grand Canyon, Yellowstone National Park, Knott's Berry Farm, or even Disneyland! During the last quarter of the twentieth century Americans often flew to far away places like Hawaii, Mexico, The Bahamas, or even Europe! These vacations which once occurred annually usually lasted a full week or two. This was the reward for eleven plus months of working the All-American forty hour work week. Recently however the annual weeklong vacation seems to have gone out of style around here. The travel ads of yesteryear have all but disappeared from my newspapers, magazines, and billboards. In their place I’ve noticed a new phenomenon with all new terms.

On my radio last week I heard a local hotel pitchman tell me that I deserved a "staycation" at their fine local facility. I’ve also noticed this word “staycation” in a few print ads over the past summer. Apparently a staycation is just like a vacation except you don’t go anywhere. No passport, no jet lag, no currency exchange; just stop the mail, pack your bags, and drive fifteen minutes. Welcome to not quite home! “Honey, you forgot to pack your dress shoes for dinner tonight. Oh, that’s okay dear we’ll just swing by the house, and pick ‘em up on the way.” Ahh, this is livin’! This is the staycation the radio told me I deserved. Also, because there’s not much to do fifteen minutes from home, you can squeeze in a lot of staycationing in just two days, which is as I found out how long a staycation package lasts.

But what if a staycation just isn’t right for you? If you can’t afford a two night hotel stay because you lost your job, or if you’re working six days a week to keep your job, you might be in the market for a “daycation.” That’s right; I saw it on an advertisement just yesterday. A local spa suggested that I should spoil myself for a whole day with a "daycation" at their exotic establishment! In at ten, and out by five. I suppose I could mail off the postcards around noon. I’ll have to unpack fast when I get home. I want to catch the six o’clock news tonight to see what happened while I was away on daycation.

I remember just last year thinking that a week wasn’t enough time for a real vacation. Whenever I was on one of my week long (nine days including both weekends) vacations I’d invariably end up talking with some Europeans on holiday. The conversation would always go the same. What was my whole vacation was just a one week stopover on their two month tour of the entire western hemisphere. Oh, how I dreamed of taking a two month vacation someday. A vacation with more than a single destination. But now I’d gladly settle for one whole week (nine days including both weekends) anyplace away from here.

Well, all this writing and dreaming of foreign travel has me worn out. I think I’ll go take a nap now. No, on second thought I think I’ll take a “laycation.” Afterall, I deserve it.
 

Davenports and Naugahyde

Back when wild naugas were skinned for their colorful hides and made into davenports, and television sets had legs, we all expected to be zipping to work in flying cars by the 21st century. But today, both naugas and davenports are virtually extinct, and evolution has taken the legs from our television sets… I hear our little toes may be next! Well before that happens I have a flat tire to change (my flying car is in the shop.)

...if you're too young to remember davenports or naugahyde maybe you could give this old man a hand with that tire iron.