Politically Not right

I have a severe disability. OK, I probably have many disabilities but today I want to expose one of them. I’m politically challenged. In the old days they’d call it politically stupid. I don’t get the idea of politics. Politics is reportedly relating to “I do something for you so you’ll do something for me in return”. Maybe it’s “Do unto others so that they’ll do unto you”. I’ve had it explained to me many times but I fail to internalize it and forget how it works.

Let me try to reason this out. I’ve had issues at work all of my life. If my boss makes a decision that’s not in line with what we’re trying to achieve, I tell the boss he’s wrong. I always do what I’m told, but my opinion is well known if I disagree. When my vocalizations are not appreciated, I’m truly amazed. When someone that pretends to always agree with the boss gets promoted over me, I’m shocked. The only answer for my surprise at getting passed over is political ineptness from being politically challenged.

So here we are in a small town. I would have been run out of town on a rail some time ago if not for my political caregiver, which is also my wife. She has developed a clever code to let me know when I’m on political thin ice. She says, “Charlie, shut up”. I take that cue and even though I don’t understand why I need to shut up, I comply.

Let’s say I live on a main street and the speed limit is 30 mph. Let’s say a car is doing around 50 on the main street whereupon I live. My inclination is to remind the driver of said car by yelling, “Slow down!” In my mind I’m reminding a dear friend or relative that the speed limit is 30. In my mind I’m providing a valuable service. I’ve been told that the subject of my reminder might take offense and tend to block my achieving something, like getting a pizza delivered or my candidate elected. When I commit the faux pas, my wife will give me a cue and I’ll stop.

I get into trouble when my wife isn’t around. I cringe when I have to go to a meeting of some sort. I find it’s best for me to keep quiet because I can’t discern what is acceptable and what is not. I’ve frequently pointed out what would be the moral course of action but I’m surprised when I’m not congratulated for my insight. I believe that I’m only keeping the organization from doing a wrong thing, but I guess I’m stepping on political toes. I’ve even been threatened with banishment and bodily harm. The threats are completely unexpected. Perhaps if the persons offended by my observations knew I have a disability they would be more tolerant.

I think we need an international symbol to denote people with my disability. Maybe we could all wear a bracelet with a big question mark on it. Maybe a t-shirt with a big “I don’t get it” would be a good cue. A telethon to provide special equipment, like muzzles, for people like me may be in order. The guy that hosted “Politically Incorrect” may want to host “Caring for the Politically Inept”. We also need an acronym for political ineptness. Then I could explain it all by simply saying, “Excuse me, I have PI”.

When Stuff Hits the Fan

When the S.H.T.F. (“stuff hits the fan” is the polite form) and society collapses, everything we trust about our daily lives will take a beating. Lots of people are spending a lot of time and money getting ready for the apocalypse.

All city people need to pay attention to this and be prepared. Folks in the country are good to go.

City people, stock up on food. During the apocalypse you won’t be able to go eat at the mall. The mall will be full of looters stealing TV’s and hair extensions. You’ll have to actually cook. There is probably a thing called a stove in the kitchen, so now is the time to familiarize yourself with it.

Country folks already have food. It was preserved from the garden. The meat probably isn’t from the deli case; it’s from the farm or hunting and fishing. Cooking it comes natural to those in the country so it can be done on a stove, grill, rock, or on the exhaust manifold of a truck. We’re good on this one too.

City folks stock up on medicines. You need to have a supply of your hair growth drugs and those little pills that keep your feelings from being hurt.

Country folks generally just need aspirin, Vicks Vapo-Rub, and duct tape. If we need something else, some of our neighbors will have it or know of a suitable substitute. For example, we don’t need pills for hurt feelings. We just take a big swig of “walk it off” and we’re good.

Some people say to stockpile firearms and ammunition for self protection. I know city people have guns. I see it on the TV every night.
City folks, get rid of your guns. You don’t know how to use them. Every time you pull the trigger you end up shooting a Grandma or a little kid. If you insist on having a handgun, don’t hold it sideways when you shoot. You look like an idiot. Hold the danged thing straight up and down just like the big boys do.

I don’t even need to discuss guns in the country. We have them, always have had them, and always will. We know how to shoot and not hit a Grandma.

I think I’ve demonstrated that we country folk are better prepared for the collapse of society than the city people are. If that is so, what’s the chance that we’ll be invaded by refugees from the cities? I think we don’t have anything to worry about. City people aren’t coming over here for many reasons.

Firstly, our counties don’t have street lights or curbs. These things are like locating beacons in the city. Without them, people don’t know what to do.

At night places with street lights are interpreted as civilized. A lack of light means danger. Nobody wants to go into a dark alley or other place that’s dark and full of boogeymen. To city people, this entire area is dangerous because it’s dark at night.

As for curbs, all city streets have them. They’re used to let people know where to drive. Without curbs, they won’t know what to do. They’ll keep edging over to the curb and never find it. If they try to come over here, they’ll all end up in a ditch within a few miles of the city.

City folks are anonymous as they move around doing business and burning convenience stores. In our area there’s no anonymity. If I spit on the sidewalk everyone knows it before the spittle lands. Anyone that doesn’t belong stands out like an elephant on an ant hill. They’re not getting away with anything.

Lastly, city folks are afraid of us. We’re unpredictable in their minds. They think we do dangerous things for fun, and they’re right. We drive in mud, dig minerals out of the ground, and shoot cute furry things. We’ve even been known to run while carrying scissors.

Almost everyone from the city has seen the movie “Deliverance”. In the movie city guys go on a canoe trip deep in the forest and things go really bad for them. City people consider it a documentary. I tell them we call it a love story. The movie is scary enough to keep the toughest city gang-banger in his jammies drinking from a juice box.

Everyone thinks society will collapse. I’m not worried. We’ll be fine. Our President said it well when he said that people in rural America are holding on to their Bibles and guns. He is correct. He forgot to add that people in cities are holding on to their TVs and hair extensions. We’ll see who survives.

Free At Last

I’m sitting in the truck watching, trying to understand it. I’m wondering how I can ever explain it. I sit and try to understand why it’s a beautiful scene.

The Grandkids are climbing on a gravel pile. It’s sizeable by any standards, but to them it must be like climbing Everest. They take turns trying to run up the side. They slide down one side and then the other. The littlest, at 4, tries going down head first. He survives, so the bigger kids try it too.

This little play date is near the last of the summer. The kids will go back to the city, and to school. They’ll be deep into the morning rush to catch the bus. There’ll be homework and a plethora of after school activities and events before falling into an exhausted sleep.
But for now, it’s “The good Ship Summer” and Grandpa is the cruise director. The kids can’t imagine it, but Grandpa has painfully few summers left in him. He’s starting to feel the urge to make the most of the ones he has.

Maybe it’s really a grasp to catch a little of life in the moment. The kids have no thought of civilization or rules or responsibility. They’re purely in the moment. Their universe consists of their comrades, the sky, and the mountain of rock.

The previous days were spent camping, if that’s what you call it when you take your air conditioned comfort with you to the country. There were butterflies to admire, hills to climb, and frogs to chase. There was the creek, oh yes, the creek.

All the rules were broken. The slide down the muddy bank into the unpasteurized water stirred up billions of germs and other foul things. Hands weren’t washed or feet wiped. Maps were useless in the uncharted meandering stream bed. Every curve held a surprise and a new obstacle. I followed the little explorers and for a moment became 8 again, seeing this for the first time. Tomorrow could bring itchy insect bites and allergic sneezing, but not this day. This day it was just the eternal creek and its treasures.
The sun started sinking and I led the explorers back to the world.

We threw caution and common sense to the wind. After brief instructions the kids each split wood and emerged with all of their limbs intact. Their parents would never allow it, yet we ventured on. They learned about matches, and used them to light the fire. No one died, and another memory was fused into the little brains.

Our being completely out of control exhilarated us. Rules are made to be broken, and we complied. I let the kids ride in the bed of the truck, which was so alien to them they thought they’d gone to heaven. I even left my seatbelt off in disobedience to everything we’ve been taught for the last 40 years, and it felt wonderful.

The natural culmination of our civil disobedience resulted in each child, in turn, taking the wheel and driving over hill and dale. The conveyance was permeated with the fear and joy of piloting a real truck in contradiction to everything parents and police enforce.

We grew into wild things, and charted our own destinies. We had no fear of anyone or anything. Rules of etiquette and safety were alien and indecipherable. Each of us was truly free. Each of us survived and thrived without the ever present, debilitating rules against everything fun. We wore no helmets, no shin guards, and used no sanitizer. We survived. More importantly, we really lived. For them, they really lived for the first time in their lives. For me, it was the first time in decades that I’d really lived.

The sky is showing red streaks and the pile of gravel in noticeably shorter and wider. It’s time to go back to the grind of school and practice and homework. Maybe in half a century they’ll each come back and lead their Grandkids down a creek and up this very mountain of rocks. Maybe in half a century they’ll each throw caution to the wind and live free for one last summer. Maybe I’ll somehow be there with them, watching. We’ll all be truly free for just a while.

Dessert Detective: The Case of the Caloric Car Ride.

An envelope slipped under my door. It could only mean one thing. It could only mean I need to fix the weather stripping. A guy could get a draft and get sick. Even the toughest guy could get a chill. The cold could even affect the “Dessert Detective”.

I’m the famous “Dessert Detective. I can find any lost dessert. In a snit over a snatched snicker doodle? I’m your guy. Perplexed about a purloined pie? No problem. Why, just today I solved a big case.

My wife yelled from the kitchen. “What happened to the cookies I made for the kids?” she implored. “I ate them”, I replied. Another case solved, and solved right. It’s what I do.

I walk over the envelope two or three days. I was on my way back to the recliner and another envelope slithered under the door. I really need to get that weather stripping fixed, and I will, as soon as Food TV gives me a break. Non-food related commercials were on, so I picked up the envelope. Something was in it. I shook the envelope over the coffee table and a note fell out. It was a paper note, not the musical kind.
I noted the note was annotated. Printed on it was “Open the other envelope, you idiot.”

I opened the other envelope. Printed on the contents was one word. It merely said “Horace”. I tossed it on the table and settled back to watch the show about diving into a diner. That guy really needs to do something about his hair.

Early the next morning I was slathering Nutella on my jelly donut when the phone rang. I answered it with my sexiest “Dessert Detective here, what do you need, sugar cakes?” A voice whispered one word, “Yellow”. The caller hung up. I was curious. I was intrigued. How could I get Nutella inside the donut? How?

I went upstairs to shower and shave. There, written on the mirror in lipstick was one word, Nuevo. That was curious. Why is someone doing Spanish homework on the mirror? The kids must be out of paper.

After a refreshing shower I went to the bedroom to get dressed. My wife was packing a suitcase. “Where are you going, to see your mother? Tell her I died, that should make her day.” I said.

“We’re going. We’re going to follow the clues.” My wife replied.
Clues, what clues? I ain’t got no stinking clues.

The wife started in on a lecture. She droned on like a ceiling fan with a bent blade and a bad bearing that screeched on and on.
“The clues are Horace, for Horace Greely. He said go West. Yellow in Spanish is Amarillo, which is a city in Texas. Nuevo is Spanish New, like in New Mexico. So we’re going West to Amarillo, and then on to New Mexico. I can’t believe you didn’t even know they were clues to a mystery.”
“Maybe I missed it, but I have a bigger mystery. Where are we getting lunch? I’m hungry.”

We got the snacks and suitcases in the car and drove west. We moved west like the first pioneers that braved hot deserts and violent natives to bring baked goods to the far reaches of the continent. We drove on into the night. We drove into a night as dark as a vegan chef’s soul. We drove ever nearer to dangerous gluten-free lands.

I dozed off while the wife drove. She shook me awake. I jumped up ready to do battle. I jumped up ready to do battle and stop at an IHOP for breakfast.

At first, I thought I was dreaming. I awoke as confused as an ant at a sugar-free picnic. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I looked at my smirking wife and then out of the windshield. I opened the car door and stepped out. I felt weak. I dropped to my knees. It was so beautiful. It was just perfect.

My wife leaned over. “Happy birthday, you pie detective. Welcome to Pie Town, New Mexico.”

I went to heaven, and it’s west of the Mississippi. It’s Pie Town. Many are called; few are chosen- for Pie Town.
Tune in next time for Dessert Detective: Ganache me not.

Aborting Our Future.

I’ve been advised not to write about abortion because it’s a very emotional issue on all sides. Before reading this let me tell you that I am strongly anti-abortion. If this offends you may want to move on to the funnies or want ads. If not, please follow this chronicle of the war on our future, the war on our young.


Planned Parenthood is all over the news, so you undoubtedly know what has been going on lately. A group has filmed executives of that organization apparently negotiating to sell “fetal tissue”. Selling this tissue is illegal.

If you had the stomach to watch any of the videos you may agree with me when I say the films were horrifying. These people are monsters. I can’t even fathom the inhumanity these people wallow in every day.

As a result of the apparent transgression of Planned Parenthood lots of people are up in arms. Certain Congressmen and women are investigating the outfit, and others are trying to take away their federal money.

The Department of Justice is investigating the people that made the films to determine if they can be prosecuted for revealing an inconvenient truth. I’m not surprised that they are pushing against the truth to save a political agenda I don’t want to understand.

I’ve found that Planned Parenthood does deal in abortions. They say that they don’t sell tissue; they just recover their costs for processing, and perhaps shipping and handling. Their press releases say that abortion is only a small part of their business, which is about 3%. It doesn’t sound as severe if you phrase it that way, but if you think about it, it’s still severe. If I’m the model citizen 97% of the time but rob banks 3% of the time, I still belong in jail. If I’m the perfect husband except for 3% of the time I will still have a lot to answer for and home will be a chilly place indeed. Saying Planned Parenthood is involved in abortion only 3% of the time is like saying the Nazis only spent 3% of their time exterminating Jews. It’s not a valid argument.

The best thing about this is it brings the abortion debate back to the forefront. Legal abortions have been available in this country since 1973, and in that time we’ve killed about 56 millions babies. Fifty six million lives are too many for me to fully understand. That’s twice the population of Illinois, Indiana, and Missouri combined.

We don’t talk about these abortions as lost lives. We manipulate the language to make abortion prettier. We call it “women’s health”.
Instead of talking about killing babies we talk about terminating pregnancies and dealing with fetal tissue. This technique is the same one we use to justify killing adults. To be able to kill, we have to dehumanize the enemy. During the early settlement of this continent, Puritan leaders rationalized that Indians were children of the devil, so they could be killed without remorse. Like genocide, we separate ourselves from the subject of the termination to soften the implications of what we’ve done.

You’ll know that this is true if you notice the news reports when a pregnant woman is murdered. The criminal is accused of murdering the woman and her unborn child. It’s never reported that he eliminated fetal tissue. Humanizing the unborn baby serves the purpose of those involved just like dehumanizing serves other interests.

I believe we’re hard-wired to have strong affection for and a strong need to protect infants. It makes sense that to survive as a species we have to love our young. This makes the fetal tissue language necessary.

Almost anyone that can see a life form that closely resembles a baby can’t bear to see it harmed. If I were wrong on this point then deceased infants would appear on weekly TV crime shows along with the gory remains of adults. That is not done because it’s too horrible to see. That is, unless you are without normal human feelings.

I could go on and on about abortion being a war on minorities or that we are aborting our own futures with every procedure that stops a beating heart. Perhaps that is a discussion for another time. For now, I’m just glad that so many are talking about this. I hope we stop this war on babies. They are not our enemy.

Road Trip

We just completed another memorable family adventure. It was every bit as harrowing as bungee jumping into a burning vat of ravenous rattlesnakes. We took a trip to Chicago.

A normal family would fly to Chicago or take a train or drive any of the hundreds of modern expressways. A normal family might forego Chicago and go to anywhere else on the planet. We are not that normal family.

After extensive research consisting of watching “Chicago Fire” and a musical named after the city, I decided we’d save 3 or 4 dollars staying in the camper in Indiana and driving to the city. We’d get the city experience and wind down in the pastoral countryside. That sounds almost sane, doesn’t it? Wait, there’s more.

To make this a perfectly memorable trip, why not forget the Interstate and drive up old US 41? We did just that. I know now why they made interstates.

It takes a while just to get to Highway 41, as we all know. In the southern part of Indiana, it’s a good 4-lane on which you can make pretty good time if you make it through all of the 8,000 traffic lights some sadist installed. After Terre Haute there aren’t any more stop lights for a long time because the road turns into a 2 lane winding goat trail laid out by a drunk. Dragging a 6,000 pound trailer around tree infested hairpin turns makes this an especially remarkable experience.

Eventually the 4-lane unrolls again and you’re off to the next red light, and the next, and on and on.
Our destination of Cedar Lake scrolled past before we knew it. I had the pleasure of turning into a dead end alley and backing a trailer between a light pole and a covey of gang-bangers so we could turn around. After some swearing and screeching brakes we got on the right track until we got lost again.

Our RV Park claimed to be on 137th Avenue, which didn’t really exist. I later learned the address was implied and everyone else knew exactly how to translate the address to English.

While I’m thinking about it, no self respecting town needs 137 streets. Ten numbered streets are quite enough. If you exceed 10 streets, you need to make it another town. I can say Bob lives in the same town as Bill, but if they live 15 miles apart that’s not really true. They live in different places. If your town is that big, and you say “I’m going to the store in town” and you disappear, nobody will know which store you went to. Keep towns small. It’s safer.

So after 5 phone calls and 3 threats by other drivers, we found our designated RV spot. It was nice, so it was worth the effort getting there.
Not having learned anything the previous day, we continued up Highway 41 to Chicago the next morning. Without the trailer, how hard could it be?
Being an old road, 41 takes a lot of turns but is well marked every once in a while. Somewhere on the South side, a sign is missing. I didn’t know that at first but I figured it out.

I learned a sign was missing and I’d missed a turn after about an hour on 87th Street. To the uninitiated, that is a bad South-side street. The neighborhood got exponentially worse as we drove. I wasn’t sure where I was at. I could have gotten my bearings from the sun but it was hiding due to the bad neighborhood. My wife turned on the GPS but it just kept saying “You’re an idiot”. The thousands of people on the street looked angrier and more dangerous the more I drove. I think some of them were zombies hungry for my meager brains.

We finally asked directions which directed us to drive in circles for a while. After seeing the same gang graffiti on a wall over the same wino 14 times we turned against directions and eventually found a major road. The GPS said, “That was luck” and then directed us to downtown where we got lost in a much better neighborhood.

We decided to go to the Navy Pier because we couldn’t find any of the other attractions. We found a parking garage too small for a truck but paid $43 to park there anyway.

The rest of the adventure wasn’t nearly as exciting or dangerous. We learned to be as rude as the natives and managed finding the truck at the end of the day. The sun frequented the area of the city we were in, so we found our way back to the RV on the mystery avenue. It ended up being a good trip.

The next time, I think we’ll try Route 66. Want to come along?

I Forgot to Remember

By Charlie Melton

I sit down on the loveseat and turn on the TV for some midday viewing. I notice the seat doesn’t feel right.

I turn the loveseat over and see a spring is broken. I can fix that with some wire. I think I have some in the junk drawer in the kitchen.
I go into the kitchen and open the drawer. What a mess. I start digging through it hoping to find some wire.

I start emptying the disaster of a drawer. I toss nasty wooden skewers in the trash. Odd paperwork goes into a zip-lock. Odd change goes in the piggy bank. I scrape the hundreds of screws and bolts into a jar, and I’m done. The drawer looks fabulous. I make a sandwich and go back to the living room.

Wait, the loveseat is upside down. What happened in here? Then I remember I went in the kitchen to get wire to use in a repair. It’s a good thing I’m home alone. Nobody will ever know that I forgot what I was doing.

A faulty memory is a scary thing. Every lapse brings a little thought that this is the sign that we’re losing our minds. For me, it’s a harbinger of eventual inability to control my mind. I picture myself wandering aimlessly around town in my bathrobe unable to remember where I live.

Have I told you this before? I don’t remember.

I don’t know about anybody else, but the eventual loss of control of my faculties scares the heck out of me. I’m a well documented control freak and I often say I won’t ride a roller coaster because they won’t let me drive. Control issues also have made my work life what you could call “chaotic”. It’s the same issue with impending memory problems. They mean I won’t have control.

I really became concerned when I overheard an Alzheimer’s patient doing an oral test to determine his level of dementia. He was asked several basic questions about the year, where he was, the name of the President, and other simple things. He got a higher score than I did.

Being a control freak with a big fear of not being able to control my mind or memory I work to overcome or delay impending dementia. The internet is full of techniques to improve mental agility and memory. I’ve probably tried them all at one time or another.

First up is nutrition. Reportedly if you eat certain things your memory will stay and even get better.

Certain oils like olive oil, coconut oil, and fish oil helps the brain. I didn’t notice my memory getting better when I ate the oils, but my bowels noticed the oil intake and kept me well informed.

If you eat lots of berries, nuts, and seeds your memory will improve. Those worked well because I definitely remember they were very tasty in the cakes and pies I put them in.

Certain foods reportedly harm memory. Two of these are coffee and sugar. Let’s just forget about them.

Next, mental exercise is supposed to help the brain. This method is more to my liking.

Reading is good for you. I kind of dig reading, so I do all I can get away with. Recently, I even started reading instruction manuals for items I buy. It helps my brain and keeps me from breaking any more new appliances.

Puzzles and games are good for your mental agility. Crossword puzzles and Sudoku are good. Chess is a good game you can get for free and play on a computer or smart phone. It helps you think systematically. In chess you have to think several moves ahead, which for me is the mental equivalent of running a marathon.

My wife plays those games where you have to find microscopic things in a hodge-podge of unrelated scenery. She’s very good at it, and it must help. She remembers everything I ever did to make her mad.

I try to stave off the imminent loss of faculties, but what if it sneaks up on me? I work in a nursing home. To be honest, I think I work in a nursing home. I could be a resident in a nursing home. I learned a little technique from a family member. It helps me know the difference.

Every day when I get ready to leave work I check to see if I have my car keys in my pocket. If they are, I work there. If they’re not, I no longer drive because I’m a resident. This works for me, except for the day I left my keys on my desk. I had a few minutes of panic until I located them, but I’m good now.

Oh, and don’t ask to borrow my keys. You’re not getting them. I will play chess with you, though.