Nursing Home Miracle

Miracle Man

By Charlie Melton

Miracles are all around us. One of those miracles just walked out of our door. We’ll call him Hank.

In April last year Chasity and Roas went to screen him at the rehab facility. Hank was alone as often happens. Other nursing homes had turned Hank away. He had no hope.

Hank had a stroke in January. He could move his eyes. He could move his left hand slightly. He had no other functions. He couldn’t eat. He couldn't communicate. He was just an inanimate shell of what he’d been 4 months before. In those 4 months Hank made no progress.

Chasity says Hank not having health insurance was an issue. Even when a person has health insurance, it’s hard to pay the bills when giving long term care. Hank obviously needed therapy, but even if he had Medicaid they only pay for outpatient therapy. With the decreased payments in 

Illinois, even with Medicaid it would be difficult to provide his care.

Roas tears up a little when she talks about Hank. Roas saw something in his eyes that compelled her. Roas took Hank’s hand in hers. She told him they work in a small home in Enfield, not far from his town. She asked if he wanted to come to Enfield and he cried. Hank tried to kiss her hand but couldn’t. The deal was cemented at that point.

Chasity and Roas brought Hank to the home in Enfield. They went about the business of providing for his needs, as they do for every resident.

The consensus is that Hank had no will to live. He thought he had no value. Hank gradually learned that he was wrong.

Darlene provided the restorative care for Hank. She hung a red balloon over his bed. Darlene told him to hit the balloon. He couldn’t. She didn’t give up on him. She became his coach and sometime nemesis. One day, probably to make Darlene shut up, he hit the balloon. That was the first step on a long journey. Hit the balloon. Such a simple but profound act forever changed everything.

Three weeks after coming to Enfield Hank spoke. In the 4 months at the rehab center since his stroke he’d not progressed but in 3 weeks in a nursing home he spoke.

Hank had been unable to eat, but after 4 weeks in the nursing home he was able to eat. His feeding tube was removed.

Jennifer was one of his nurses. She’s from the same town as Hank, and knows some of the same people he knows. She used this as common ground to talk to him. Jennifer learned about his family, especially the Grandson he adores. She engaged him in small talk. She, and many others, helped him see that Enfield had a support system for him. He’d never had one before

He cried, he got angry, he laughed. Every day with Darlene he would mouth the word “Why?” Darlene told him they just have to try. Just try. He mouthed “I hate you” every time to Darlene but she kept coaching him. When he could manage holding his hand up he’d give Darlene the finger but she still persisted.

Hank began to care.

Whether willingly or unwillingly, he worked and ultimately followed Darlene’s directions. Hank went from immobile to sitting and then walking. From blood, sweat, and tears he walked.

At first he couldn't even lift a 1 pound weight. He mastered and surpassed the weights. From heroic efforts and supported by the love of his caregivers he grew stronger and functioned better.

Hank worked for a year. He made friends. He got his sense of humor back.

Hank walked out the door to his own home.

Joyce was one of many aids that cared for Hank. Joyce says, “He worked so hard. He came so far and did so well. He is a miracle.”

Amy is another of Hanks nurses. She also tears up when asked about Hank. “He came here a compete invalid and walked out” she says. “He makes me feel I succeeded as a nurse. I think Hank is a miracle”.

None of us know how miracles work or why. Occasionally we all get to be a small part in a divine plan. Though impossible to explain or quantify what happens in a miracle, it’s incredible to see one.

Hank, your caregivers are thankful for the miracle that is you. Thank you for coming into our home. Thank you for walking out the door.

Earth Day Exposed

Exposing “Going Green”

By Charlie Melton

I really intended to write a nice, feel good piece on Earth Day, which is the 22^nd of April. A key tenant of this is “going green”. Going green is good for the earth. I really want to do that because I like the earth quite a bit. I've lived on it most of my life, and it hasn't killed me yet. I really want to do that but I can’t. I can’t because I did my research and I won’t lie to you.

Earth Day was started in 1970. Though I didn't find anything that said so, I assume it is an outgrowth of the hippie movement of the 60’s. That gives it a “coolness factor”, which I like. It also coincides with Vladimir Lenin’s 100^th birthday, which I don’t like. For you youngsters that don’t know, Lenin is the guy that brought Russia a revolution and communism, and the rest of the world a cold war. He was known as the leader of the commies, also known as “reds”. It’s probably just a coincidence that Earth Day is on his birthday. It would be paranoid to think otherwise. My research just made me paranoid.

Earth Day is an international event endorsed by the U.N. We all have opinions on the U.N. and for most of us it’s not favorable. I think they’re just another group of egomaniacs intent on telling me what to do.

The focus for this year’s international Earth Day is “Green Cities”. That seems like a good idea on the surface, because most of the cities I’ve been in could use some greening up. What could be so bad about that? City people growing gardens have to be a good thing. I looked up a green city in Virginia. They have more rules than a maximum security prison.  They’re green because green is good for you and you’re going to like it or else. When you build you pick one of 5 exterior finishes. There are a plethora of 7 materials to pick from. You don’t get to pick the atrium garden because you’re going to get one whether you like it or not. . Hooray, it’s Earth Day.

Do you have the curly compact fluorescent light bulbs? They use less energy than other bulbs. They’re “Earth Day” compliant. That means they’re “green”, so that makes it OK paying ten prices for one. They’re green unless you break one. According to the EPA if you break a CFL bulb you have to evacuate the room, turn off the ventilation, and do a lot of other things. Hooray, it’s Earth Day.

While we’re on the subject of electricity, hybrid cars are green. We believe that they’re energy efficient and good for the earth because “they” say so. I've found it requires more energy to make a hybrid car than to make a regular car. You make up the difference in gas, though. You’ll save about $300 a year on gas, and after only 7 years you’ll offset the higher cost of the hybrid. You’ll offset the cost unless you have to buy a battery pack for several thousand dollars. Hooray, it’s Earth Day.

The E.P.A. really made up my mind on the “Earth Day”-Lenin connection. They’re heavily into the Earth Day/Green Cities. One of their key indicators for a green city is equal distribution of wealth. For us familiar with communism, this is their thing. I couldn't believe I found this in the literature from our own government but I found it and many other troubling statements. Hooray, it’s Earth Day.

To sum it up I found that the United Nations likes Earth Day. They like “going green” as well. Going green means I use the things they want me to use, live the way they want me to live, and share my money with people who don’t have any. Am I paranoid, or is green the new red?

 Hooray, it’s Earth Day.

Smart Phones Are Destroying Families

Technology You Shouldn't Dare Use

By Charlie Melton

We baby-boomers are embracing new technologies. We've gone from a dumb old crank phone to a very smart phone. We gave up vinyl records for 8-tracks, then cassettes, then CDs. Our TVs are flat but hold hundreds of channels somehow. It’s hard to keep up. Even if we study new technologies we don’t really understand it. Let’s have a look into the seamy underbelly of one of the new gadgets.

Let’s start with the “smart phone”. It’s a computer. It’s a music player. It’s a camera, although frequently a fuzzy one. It is pretty good at just about everything, except functioning as a phone. If it was really a phone, wouldn't it look like one? Wouldn't it be ergonomic enough to actually hold to your ear? Using a smart phone feels like you’re holding a brick to the side of your head.

The ungainliness of using it as a telephone is a clue. I believe the unknown purpose of smart phones is to prevent communication instead a facilitating communication.

Smart phones are great to send text messages, but text is a method to communicate when you don’t want to commit to a real conversation. The messages are as obscure as semaphore on a foggy day. Typing a message requires use of a virtual keyboard with virtual keys the size of a grain of rice. You can barely see where you have to press. Being able to hit the correct spot 2 out of 10 times is about as efficient as it gets. The net result is that the recipient gets information totally unrelated to what the sender intended. Couple this with the devilish “autocorrect” and this can go very badly. An attempt to relay good cheer may result in getting beat up or fired from your job.

A smart phone is full of “apps”. That’s short for “Ain't Pertaining to People”. Many of them are games designed to make you obsess over something stupid, like crushing little candies.  Do you think I’m wrong? Try to talk to someone in a waiting room. Try talking to a teenager anywhere at all. You can’t do it. They’re totally engrossed in the game or whatever the distraction is.  Some apps show where your friends are in relation to your location, but I’m sure that is so you can avoid them so you can continue crushing candies.

Most smart phones come with “social media” programs on them. Social media is a means by which you lie about yourself so you can communicate with others that are lying about themselves. If everyone is lying is it really communication? Communication implies some sort of relationship. I would think that relationships require a genuine person on at least one side.

What is the point of making a phone that prevents communicating with others? It’s just like when you have a jealous spouse. It’s to isolate you so it’ll own you. If the phone thing consumes all of your attention it feels secure. More accurately, the company that makes the things feels secure. When a little plastic brick is your best and only friend, you’re a customer for life. That means you’ll continue to buy and upgrade and download forever.

We've learned what it means to embrace the technology associated with the smart phone. It gradually sucks you into a relationship that supersedes all normal human relationships. It will cut you off from the rest of humanity. It’ll make you a mind numbed drone. Beware the wiles of the smart phone.

Our next topic is Bluetooth: Evil speakers or colorful dental option? Just let me finish the next level on my game and then I’ll be ready.

Tax time is the Right Time

It’s Time to Pay Up

By Charlie Melton

It’s that special time of year. It’s not only the time of year we stare in disbelief at a stack of Christmas bills. It’s also that most patriotic time of year. It’s tax preparation time.

Paying taxes has been a highly revered ritual since time immemorial. Wait, I chose the wrong word. Paying taxes is a highly reviled ritual since time immemorial. Reviled is the word I’m looking for. We despise paying taxes, even though we reap many benefits from this civic duty.

By paying taxes, we get all sorts of benefits. Some, like procuring nice digs for elected officials, are readily apparent. Other benefits are harder to spot.

We pay taxes so that our trusted elected officials have nice places to hang out. Who wants senators or congressional representatives to be uncomfortable while doing what we overpay them to do? We can’t have them uncomfortable like our military is uncomfortable. That just wouldn’t be proper. They have to have those nice leather chairs and polished wood desks to sit at while sending others into discomfort. If we didn’t pay taxes, the legislators might get a splinter or pressure sore from less plush furnishings. Do you want that? I know I don’t. They also need the congressional gym to relieve the stress of spending our money. It’s all very necessary.

We pay taxes so that the less fortunate don’t have to, well, do whatever. I personally feel great going to work under the influence of a soothing balm and ibuprofen so that an able bodied male half my age can go fishing with his buddies. His value is so much greater than mine, I’m glad to pay for his numerous benefits.

If we didn’t pay taxes, protestors wouldn’t protest. There’ll be no time to loot, pillage, and plunder if they have to work to pay their own ways. What would become of our country without the violent and agitated rabble to keep us straight? It could be very bad.

We also pay taxes for prisoners. Judges say that lawbreakers have to be confined. They never say they have to be uncomfortable. If a judge sentenced a person and said, “Ten years in the state prison and no free dental care or college classes”, we’d pay fewer taxes. Would the discount on taxes be worth contending with really unattractive mug shots from a lack of dental care? I just saw an Illinois lawsuit demanding hearing aids for prisoners. I’ll be the first in line to pay for that. Elderly residents would probably agree if they had the appliances available so they could hear the proposal.

I’m being sarcastic, of course. I don’t think any of us would mind taxes if they were spent in a way that resembled sanity in any way. Thoreau felt the same way. He refused to pay his taxes because he didn’t approve of how they were spent. He went to jail because of his refusal, but he saw that as an adventure. They finally released him but he remained unchanged in his opinions.

We fought a revolution against taxes, and we won. I constantly remind British friends of this, but they are unimpressed. They still line up to pay their TV taxes, road taxes, and even taxes on the privilege of an outside faucet.We’re currently not far behind those British. Our legislators spend incredible amounts of energy taxing everything they can get their greedy little hands on. The rock song “Taxman” explains it best: “…If you try to sit I’ll tax your seat….If you take a walk I’ll tax your feet…”

It occurs to me that if politicians served like the military serves, we’d be better off financially. Put up some barracks in D.C. for congress and let the military stay in the capital building. I don’t have a problem with a young corporal having a nice chair and a deluxe gym. Perhaps if congress serves like the military serves we’d have a little more prudence in government.

Grandsons Rule- Literally

A Guide To Church

Papaw can't write today. He needs a little rest. Last time I looked, he had a cool rag on his head and was talking to himself.

My name is Charlie. I'm five years old. I'll write to you today.

What to do at church:

If your grownups make you go to church, like mine do, I can help you get through it. Just follow these simple steps.

1. If you stay close to your grownup when you go in the foyer, it will feel confident and start talking. Count to 3, then move away real quiet. Look for any tables, shelves, or drawers. Sometimes these things hide candy. Try to find a paper that grownups sign their names on. They use these to volunteer to do important things. There is only one copy so wad it up and put it in your pocket to color on later. This is a good place to stick your tongue out at a girl. Don't get too close because they have cooties.

2. Follow your grownup to the pew. Try to get an aisle seat in case you need to escape later. Sit quietly until church starts. Now, it's opposite time. When they stand, lay down. When they sit, stand up on the pew. When they sing, try dancing on your seat. When the grownups pray, count to 5, then drop a song book from real high to the pew. Watch for people to jump. It's funny.

3. Look for a little old Grandma. Get her attention. Give her a big smile. If she smiles back, run to her pew and give her a big hug. She may smell like old people, but you'll get candy or some money. On your way back to your seat run into the aisle and do a little dance.

4. Crawl. When the mood strikes you, get on the floor and crawl away. This causes a big uproar. Nice.

5. Look at your grownup. If it has a red face and bulging eyes, say "I love you." and give them a big hug. Sit quietly until they relax, then repeat steps 2 through 5.

I hope this helped. If you follow these simple steps you'll learn to love church as much as I do.

The State of Illinois is Ill.

The State Is Unwell

By Charlie Melton

Illinois has a disease.  We’re number 1 or near that in everything undesirable about a state.

Illinois is the only state that has an A- credit rating. We’re the worst. The states on our borders are AAA, which is good.

Illinois is bad for job growth. Our neighbor Indiana is near the top of the list but Illinois is near the bottom at number 40. While we’re similar to Indiana in geography and culture, we are way below them in job growth. This really doesn't make sense if you see that the average education level in Illinois is higher than the level in Indiana. We were all taught that education leads to better jobs, but Illinois defies that idiom.

Curiously, the rate of obesity in Illinois isn’t very bad. I can only assume that in Illinois most of us can’t afford to eat enough to be obese. Maybe so many of us are out of work and able to exercise daily it keeps the obesity rate lower.

It doesn't make sense we’re a dysfunctional state. We should have everything going for us. We’re in the center of the continent. We have one of the largest cities in the country. We have 2 of the largest rivers in the country and all of the commerce these rivers can possibly bring. We have use of the Great Lakes. Major air hubs are at our disposal. We have lots of interstate highways for numerous trucking enterprises. We have minerals and an ocean of oil. We can, and do, grow enough food for millions. Our universities are excellent. We have talent and drive and desire to succeed. We have all these things going for us and still can’t get our collective act together.

I think our state is sick but I can’t accurately diagnose it. Perhaps a multidisciplinary team of diagnosticians can come up with a diagnosis and a treatment plan. A couple of psychiatrists, an MD, and a social worker could get together and devise an intervention.

Maybe Illinois is bipolar. When the state is in its manic phase it starts a lot of projects it can’t afford and throws a bunch of money out the fiscal window. The inevitable depressive phase comes and the state locks itself away from everyone and covers its head with a blanket waiting for the sky to fall.

There’s a possibility Illinois is schizophrenic. While we don’t see a lot of officials walking around talking to imaginary friends, there are other indications of this disease. The state is completely out of touch with what the normal among us call “reality”.  Another indication is speech that doesn’t make sense. If you've read or heard the official gobbledygook in press releases out of the capital you know what I mean. The State having hallucinations would explain a lot of their behaviors.

Perhaps the great State of Illinois is psychopathic. The state lacks fear of repercussions for bad behavior. The state lacks any real human emotions like affection or responsibility for actions. Its pastime is torturing people; in this case its citizens.

I’m not a diagnostician but I know nuts when I see it. The state needs some intense therapy or a big injection of a mood altering medication in its rear end. After the State is subdued somebody smarter than me can devise an effective treatment plan.

Whatever the specific diagnosis of our State, we can all agree that it’s just plain nuts. It’s not the endearing “flowers in the hair dancing in the rain” nuts. It’s the scary “chainsaw and leather mask” kind of nuts.

The good news up is that when you’re at the bottom the only way you can go is up. I just hope we’re not chain sawed before then.

Life of a Hobo.

Hobo in the House

By Charlie Melton

I strut into work. I tried sauntering into work but it’s hard to appear busy when sauntering. Marching doesn't work well because it makes you look stupid. Slinking into work makes the boss suspicious, so I choose to strut. Strutting works for me.

So I strut into work and Mary looks up. Her eyes squint a little and she wrinkles her nose like she smells something overripe and distasteful. “Where did you get that shirt?” she asks. I reply I bought it for a quarter at a garage sale. “Do you like it?” I queried. “No. You look like a hobo” she retorts.

I’m devastated. Well, not devastated. A better word would be irked. I spent a good 5 minutes and good money for a barely used shirt. I don’t think I look like a hobo. 

What the heck is a hobo anyway?

Traditionally hoboes ride trains. I rode a train once. I rode Amtrak to Vegas. My compartment wasn't very comfortable and the shower had low water pressure. The food in the dining car was really overpriced for the quality. The trip as a whole was way overpriced and slow by travel standards. I can’t imagine why a hobo would want to go through that disgrace.

Hoboes are itinerant workers. They’re not bums, which don’t work. They’re also not to be confused with tramps, which travel a lot but don’t work much. Hoboes travel to work. I’ve traveled for work. I went to a conference in Boston for work. It was a really boring week. I’ve also filled in for a guy in McLeansboro while he was on vacation. I travelled 18 or 20 miles twice a day for work, which made me an itinerant worker. I didn’t like it much, but I did it because I have what I fondly call “bills” that I have to pay. I assume hoboes travel for work to pay their mortgages and truck payments.

Hoboes are often unwelcome in communities. I know how they feel. I’ve been unwelcome. I never felt welcome in my Mother-in-laws house. I wore a “Proud Redneck” shirt in Ferguson, Missouri and felt very unwelcome. Maybe hoboes suffer the same indignities.

Hoboes have a secret code. They mark symbols in diverse places that are decipherable only to other hoboes. You can see these in any city. The ones I saw were done in spray paint in large bubble letters. Some people call it “gang graffiti” but I guess it’s the same thing. I tried to decipher it but was unable to. The very large tattooed gentlemen socializing near the symbols were not interested in interpreting the symbols and threatened to “bust a cap” in one of my unmentionable body parts. I guess the spoken language is as private as the written symbols.

Hoboes have conventions. For some reason they hold these in Iowa instead of a convention center in Orlando or Southern California. They hold a big election and choose a King and Queen. They spend a lot of time around the camp fire telling stories and visiting. The convention sounds to me like it is part senior prom and part visit to the local diner. I wonder if they have a liars table like some cafés have.

Hoboes have a code of conduct. That’s one thing they have over most of society, which doesn’t seem to have a code of conduct anymore. They vow to respect others, look for work, and to help those in need. The hoboes should probably mentor our representatives in national government and executives at some of the larger corporations.

As I learn about hoboes, I’ve decided Mary was complimenting me. Hoboes travel, they work, they have a secret language, and they convene every year. They live by a code. I haven’t found anything that would cause me to dislike them. On the contrary, I’ve learned to admire the hobo. I may even aspire to be a hobo. The life seems quite romantic and fulfilling.

I like everything except the train travel. Perhaps I can be a hobo that flies. Does the airport have a hobo waiting area? I’ll have to check it out.

Oh, and thank you Mary. I’m flattered to be called a hobo.

Hacking Household Appliances

Hacking Household Appliances




Appliances can do more things than you think. Here are a few "off label" uses of everyday appliances. Feel free to comment with your own hacks.

Washing Machine: Having a party? Needs lots of cold drinks? You don't want everybody in and out of the fridge all night getting drinks and eating all of your food in the process. Coolers are unsightly and leak water everywhere. Buckets are cumbersome and heavy to move

What's the answer? Fill the washing machine tub with ice and beer, soda, or wine coolers. The drinks stay cold and handy. When the party is over and drinks are all gone, just put the washer on spin. No muss, no fuss, no mess.

Dishwasher: Talk about a multi-use appliance. The dishwasher can do lots of things. Sure, anyone can use it to wash dishes, but can you hack it?

Working on your car? You can spend hundreds of dollars on chemicals to clean it up, but why would you when you have a dishwasher. It's perfect to clean hubcaps, oil caps, even PVC valves. Painting the valve covers? Clean them up in the dishwasher. Just spray them liberally with engine cleaner, and put on the long cycle. To keep your food free of a gritty oily taste be sure to run the dishwasher 18 or 20 cycles before washing dishes in it.

Wait, thats not all. Instead of putting hot dogs in a pan of water that takes forever to heat, stick them on the metal prongs in the dishwasher. It cooks them nicely, and there's nothing to clean up when they're done. Don't forget you're cooking and accidentally put soap in. The soap ruins the hot dog flavor.

Microwave: It'll cook, it'll reheat, but did you know it'll dry clothing, and do it fast? Stain on your favorite shirt? Rub it out and then pop the shirt in the microwave to dry it. the same goes for socks, but not a wet cat. You've got to be smart here. No pets in the microwave. When drying clothing or other items in the microwave stay close by and monitor the smoke detector. Your results may vary, so be prudent.

Have others ideas? Comment and share them.

The Care and Feeding of an American Male

The Care and Feeding of an American Male

By Charlie Melton

It’s 1826. The fierce and grizzled mountain man leads his horses through the deep snow into the rendezvous. It’s bitterly cold in the steep terrain. One horse carries the year’s bounty of furs. The other carries his Indian bride. She rides as he walks.

He exchanges furs for money. The mountain man trades and negotiates for the items he wants. He ends up in debt by the second day, and heads back to the mountains hoping to trap enough to pay off his debts.

As he leads the horses up the trail, his bride rides high in the saddle and is a vision of beauty. She is wearing gold, silver, and the finest silks. He’s spent everything on her. He spent all he earned and hasn't yet earned. He did this because she knows the secret of being his woman. She knows what he needs.

***

Ladies, this story is for you. I was asked why men are so complicated by young ladies at work. They say they get mixed signals from their guys.

The truth is that men are simple. We don’t do signals. We have no long term plan of any kind. You guys can back me up on this. Nothing could be simpler than to know the mind of a man. That mind revolves around a central theme. Everything else is a subtext to that theme.

Men want to be the alpha male. Some call it “king of the castle” or “Neanderthal mentality”.  

When your guy comes home to you ladies, he wants you to be ecstatic he has returned from slaying dragons, welding nuclear weapons, and saving the world for democracy. This want can be filled by meeting his primal need. That need is for you to admire him as your alpha male.

A nap is also a primal male need. The nap need is near the top in the hierarchy of man needs. Some people call it self-actualization. That’s just a big word for a good nap. He also wants a full belly and an operational remote control.

The last three items are self explanatory and easy to accommodate. The “admiring your alpha male” thing requires instruction.

So how can a woman make her man a happy alpha-male? Compliment him. Say things like, “Honey, I really like it that you’re wearing your favorite Aerosmith t-shirt to my sister’s wedding. It’ll mean a lot to her”. Tell him leaving the toilet seat up is charming. You can also try, “The deputy gave you a speeding ticket because he’s jealous of the man you are”. Try it, it’ll work wonders.

Now don't let this powerful knowledge go to your head. I don’t want to hear any ladies saying something like, “Honey, I went shopping all day because I love you and you’re such a good provider.” Another unfair thing is the old, “I was so sad you were gone to work I just couldn't make dinner.” That’s not fair to do to your man. Guys fall for it, but that’s just wrong.

Many ladies do just the opposite of what I've advised. We all know that when women get together they make fun of their men. Come on, you know you do it. If no man can hear the run-down, no harm is done.

Never denigrate their man in front of other males. That is a big no-no. How should you ladies act around other men? Make sure you stay close to your man. Clutch his arm. Maybe whisper in his ear, “Her husband is so weak. I’m so lucky to have you. Who would want to marry Brad Pitt anyway?”

Watch an action movie together. During the movie you can swear the hero falls short of your male’s driving, fighting, and shooting skills.

You could also imply all other women admire your man’s judicious choice of bib overalls for all social occasions.

In keeping with the alpha male theme, you may never loan your man’s truck or tools to another man. If the President’s plane accidentally lands on the lawn and he needs a screwdriver to get it going, tell him to talk your husband after he wakes up from self -actualizing. Make him wait outside far away from the truck and toolbox until naptime time is over.

See, men are simple. Make us feel like we’re the center of your universe and we’ll be happy. In return we’ll make you happy by doing stuff and buying sparkly things.  Just be careful not to abuse him with this new knowledge. You’ll be tempted to do that because women are so complicated.  Your signals are all mixed up.  

Now, it’s nap time.

Breaking Up

By Charlie Melton

Question: Why is divorce so expensive?

Answer: Because it’s worth it.

I was coming out of my favorite gas station balancing a big soda and I froze like a deer caught in headlights. My ex-wife, obviously just escaped from the nether world, was standing in my path. I probably muttered an oath, but I don't recall. I pushed past her and made a beeline to my truck. All I am sure of is that she repeatedly tapped on my truck and demanded I talk to her. I refused, and sped off. I have no intention of talking to her, and would rather rabid rats eat my eyes than to speak to her. 

For all I know she won the lottery and wants to give me half, but I don’t care. It’s not that I’m bitter, unforgiving, and resentful. Now that I think about it, I am. I’m that and more. What I am sure of is the gas station is now contaminated and doesn’t hold the same attraction it once did.

I bet I'm the only one in the county with an ex-spouse they want to avoid. Wait, what was that? There are others? Are you saying there are one or two? More? How in the world does this happen? How do we end up with an “ex”?

We get the urge to merge, and we pick a potential spouse. OK, the girl picks a potential spouse. Spouse picking is more a girl thing. It’s part of nest building ladies are famous for. Guys allow themselves to be picked, and eventually buy into the idea of nesting. Whoever is the architect, both parties more or less agree to become a couple.

The couple is all encompassed with each other, building a life together and an eventual empire of some sort. They can't get enough of each other, right up until they can't stand each other. I say virtually every married couple starts out madly in love. Over half of those that can't live without each other end up divorced.

Nobody, other than divorce lawyers, knows how this happens. They have irreconcilable differences as a cause. They have mental cruelty. They even have “no fault” which was invented by auto insurance lawyers. I guess that makes sense. A divorce is sort of a wreck. I suppose that both parties cross the figurative center line and have a head-on of sorts.

Maybe attorneys are the problem. Maybe we should get lawyers out of marriage dissolution. We could get other specialties to take care of marriages. I can think of lots of skilled trades persons that could repair or replace a couple.

Doctors should consult on marriage. They may find that the wife develops an allergy to the husband’s manly scent. That allergy could cause general dissatisfaction and the urge to shop excessively. An antihistamine twice a day and the family unit is saved. Maybe he has a blind spot and can’t see his socks on the floor. A little eye surgery and boom- happy couple.

How about the trusted mechanic? Take your marriage into the shop and Mac can put it on the tester. He'll reset the “put the toilet seat down” module and the couple runs just fine. Maybe one of the couple has a bent linkage that causes one of them to end up at the horse track or gambling boat repeatedly. A vigorous rap with a mallet cures the problem.

A grocer could also consult on marital discord. “Not getting along? Maybe you need more fiber. We have cereal on sale for $2.98. No one can be unhappy with fresh broccoli for $1.29, today only”.

When you look at it logically, we’re doing marriage completely wrong. We are getting it backwards. We should marry the person we hate the most. We can fall out of love. I say we can fall out of hate as well. The guy may meet a girl that he can't stand to be around. He'll walk over and say, “You disgust me. Want to get some coffee?” She’ll say, “You're gross. I bet you're self centered and inconsiderate. I'd love to get coffee with you.” They'll get married and gradually learn to tolerate each other, and someday fall in love.

That’s the real happily ever after. Start out despising each other and fall into love. Everyone wins. Everyone wins except divorce lawyers. They can become grocers or mechanics and do some real good for families.

Lost My Marbles

By Charlie Melton

I talked to my daughter the other day. She works in Indiana, is raising 3 kids, and studying for something important and time sensitive. She doesn’t know if she can get off of work to come down for Thanksgiving. I gave her my usual “I’m getting older and may not live until another holiday” speech, but she’s developed immunity to the “guilt trip”. I brought out my new and improved “Marbles” theory. Stick with me and I’ll try to explain.

You’ve heard someone has “lost his marbles”. Back in the old days before social media and political correctness it was a term to describe someone was mentally unbalanced. It equates marbles to degrees of sanity. Fewer marbles equate to decreased sanity.

I have a different take on “marbles”. Here’s the marbles theory. I figure we’re each born with the same number of marbles. For illustration, let’s say 12. OK, we all know someone that maybe has only 8 or 9 marbles. I worked for a guy I swear had no functional marbles at all. For this, let’s agree most people have a dozen marbles.

Facets of your life are like slots on a board. One slot may be family. Another is career. Yet another slot may be music, or art, or dancing. There may be lots and lots of slots on your life board.

So I take my marbles and put them where I want them. I can spread them all out and be pretty average at everything. I can be a good family man, be acceptable at work, play a little guitar, and watch dance shows. I can show due diligence to all of these areas and be a pretty average Joe.

Let’s say I want to be really good at music. I can put a few extra marbles in the music slot and may be successful at music. Since I only have 12 marbles total, I’ll have to take them from other places. I may choose to pull marbles from the career slot, or family, or both. The more marbles I put into music, the less I have for other things and life gets out of balance. I think the disastrous lives of many pop music and movie stars prove the theory. The “King of Pop” was a music legend, but his life was so wacky it was like a really bad cartoon.

There’s also the stereotypical absent minded professor. We picture him as disheveled and unable to even remember to tie his shoes. All of his marbles goes into his research, at which he’s brilliant. He’s not even aware of the existence of other aspects of life.

I can use this for my own life. On my board of life I have no marble in a slot relating to sports skills or anything else that requires hand-eye coordination or the ability to say, “Go Team. Rah.” I had those marbles left over, so I put them into nerdy pursuits. Because I used those marbles as I chose, I know more useless information than the other nerds. I also dropped an extra marble in the locale for an affinity for tasty treats, but that’s another story.

So what’s the moral of the story? If you put too much into one area of your life, other areas will suffer. The puritan work ethic notwithstanding, too much work makes for a bad home life. Too much music makes for a bad work life. Too many tasty treats make for a bad doctors visit and an inability to see your shoes. Out of balance is bad, even if someone pays you a lot of money or respect for being out of balance.

So how does this relate to my daughter? She forgot to put a marble in the “visit my aging parent” slot. I’m just reminding her to be balanced and not end up unbalanced like a moon walking rock star with a one glove and a pet chimp. For her well being she needs to balance out and come to Thanksgiving. Besides that, she makes really good pie, which helps me balance out as well.

Unforgettable

By Charlie Melton

I talk from time to time about being remembered when we're gone. I think that being forgotten someday is the worst. I've found that for me, someday is today.

My wife and I moved here after my 33 year jaunt around the world. We spent a lot of time getting reacquainted with old haunts and former associates. This coming home thing is something I’d anticipated for a long time, and it’s very gratifying.

I’m in Norris City and a lady comes in that I recognize immediately. It’s my girlfriend from high school. I think that this is going to be awkward. I try to recall if we had a bad break-up. I wonder if she still has my class ring. I speak out and greet her by name. She looks perplexed, because I’m now bald and a lot older. I introduce myself. She still looks perplexed. I describe my car, my favorite jacket, and everything that might jog her memory, but nothing works. The poor thing must have dementia. I persist. I say, “I hung around with my cousin Craig.” Her face lights up. “Craig?” she asks. “I remember Craig. He drove a tan Cutlass. He liked denim jackets and vanilla Coke. He danced really well. Who are you again?” I wonder whose class ring she really wanted to wear.

We take our Grandson Charlie to ball practice and I see people I recognize. It’s my former preacher and his family. I introduce myself, but he doesn't remember me. I mention he mentored me and taught me about the bible. He looks confused. I tell him he baptized me, but he doesn't recall. I remind him I worked for him all through high school, but I might as well be from the moon. “I hung around with my cousin Craig.” I say. His face lights up. “I haven’t seen Craig in years! How is he? I remember his Cutlass. Who are you again?”

I just found a Facebook group for people I was stationed with in Germany. They are chatting back and forth about some of the more memorable events I was involved in. I pipe in. They respond by asking my identity. One of my old comrades asks why he doesn't remember me, so I describe myself including where I’m from. He replies, “Southern Illinois? I knew a guy from there. Do you know Craig? He drove a tan Cutlass.

I don’t like this being forgotten thing. Maybe I need to ask Craig’s advice on how to be memorable. I guess I can find a tan Cutlass but the dancing thing isn't possible. Perhaps I can get my obit to start with “Craig’s cousin.” Maybe then I’ll be remembered.

Last Request

By Charlie Melton

My wife is shakes her head at me and mutters something about me being weird. She’s doing this because I say we should put the fun back in funeral.

Here’s the thing. I’ve been to a lot of funerals lately. My increasing age is directly proportional to an increase in visits to the funeral home. All of the visits are quite sad. The funerals get to me emotionally, just as they are designed to do.

I want my funeral to be different. I want my funeral to be happy. I want the fun in funeral. Come to the funeral, have a glass of Ouzo at the door, and loosen that tie. This funeral is going to be quite a ride.

Firstly, let’s talk cheerleaders. Nothing lightens a mood more than peppy cheerleaders stirring us into a happy place. Professional NFL cheerleaders are best, but college cheerleaders will be OK too. A rousing cheer and some fancy pom-pom shaking will send me off in a most joyous manner. You should discourage them from doing that pyramid thing. Someone could fall, get hurt and ruin my funeral. My wife threatens male cheerleaders, but that’s just wrong. Oh, and for the pom-poms I prefer blue.

Secondly, music and dance would be a good idea. Something snappy, like some 60’s rock and maybe a little reggae would be memorable. Electric Avenue is a good one.  Techno would liven up the place as well. A conga line would be appropriate, and will get everyone warmed up for the funeral procession to the cemetery.

All of this drinking and dancing will take some time, so feel free to bring a picnic lunch. Out of respect for the departed, pie of any kind is recommended. There is no bad pie, so be creative. While you’re at it someone had better put some of those little individually wrapped pies in my coffin. Who knows, the afterlife may be all tofu and sprouts. It pays to be prepared.

So we've all had fun and it’s time to commit me to the earth. I always liked the New Orleans band thing for the procession. It’s a long way to the cemetery, so you may want to intersperse the brass jazz thing with some Tijuana Brass selections. That should inspire some dancing.

When at the graveyard be sure to toss a handful of dirt and any unneeded cash into my grave. The latter will insure quite a spectacle when the guys come to cover me up. “Hey Joe, there’s a twenty down there. I’m going in to get it. Wait, there’s a five.” It may take days to finally cover me up. As for you, you may want to go take a nap. It’s been a busy 3 days.

This is all sounding pretty fun to me. Maybe I shouldn’t wait to have a funeral. Let’s do it before I die. How’s a week from Thursday sound to you? Just help me convince my wife it is not weird. I’ll bring the Ouzo. We’ll put the fun in funeral.

The Most Dangerous Magazine

By Charlie Melton

In my normal meandering trek over reading material I came across a pretty little magazine catering to would-be psychologists. The cover was so compelling I jumped right in. If you know me at all, you won't be surprised that I became obsessed.

The first thing that catches my eye is “Stop Being a People Pleaser”. The behavior is ultimately self destructive. There are several examples of people pleasing. I don’t want to disappoint the author or publisher so I read the articles and referenced data. I read it over and over again in case I run into the aforementioned professionals and they quiz me on the facts as presented.

One article discusses being unable to say “no” to other people. It moves me to the core. I can’t say no. I don’t really want that piece of pie, but when the waitress asks if I want it I say yes. I don’t want to disappoint her. I don’t want to disappoint the person that baked it by not eating it. The same goes for the second bowl of chili. Darn this people pleasing. Darn it to heck. I even agreed to give half of my stuff to another person. It’s my wife I gave the stuff to, but I’m sure the writer of the article counts that as being unable to say no.

Another facet of people pleasing is taking on too much responsibility. I’m guilty of this as well. All of my life I've taken on excessive responsibility. Early on in my career I accepted the unreasonable responsibility of showing up for work almost every day. I know I really don’t want to do that, but I’m a people pleaser. It pleases my boss and coworkers, so I do it. It pleases my landlord and the bank that financed my truck because they think it helps me pay them. They’re right, I do pay them. That’s what people pleasers do. I’m so bad I spend most of my time at work and most of my money is spent to please others, including a grocer and the electric company.

As a people pleaser I want people to like me, and it’s horrible when someone doesn't like me. I do everything to insure people like me. Take for example parking at the store. I can’t park over the yellow line or someone may be upset and not like me. I pull in and out correcting the angle of my truck. I get out and gauge the distance from my mirrors from the edges of my allotted space. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m sloppy. You may think it’s from OCD, but it’s not. That’s unless you want it to be OCD, and then it is OCD.

I read on and on. It’s not good at all. I've got to break the cycle of people pleasing and do something else with my time. The task seems insurmountable, but I feel I have to. It’s a divine mandate. Where do I start? How do I stop people pleasing?

The first thing I have to do is say no. It’s a simple word, this “no”. I don’t want to say it, but I have to for my own well being. I have to accept the sick feeling I get from saying “no” and learn to deal with it so one day I’ll be a better, happier person.

I begin by telling my landlord and creditors no. I tell them I’m getting mentally healthy and they can’t take my money anymore. I feel guilty and worried but I deal with the anxiety knowing it will diminish. I refuse to help the repo man tow my truck away because it’s not my responsibility, whether he likes it or not.

I move on to my work life. I tell the boss when I want to work. I tell him I have stopped people pleasing and I’ll let him know when I can work and what I want to do at work. I feel a little better about myself.

As time has gone on, my life is much better. I have time for myself. By eliminating the need for people to like me I don’t have to do many of the things I felt compelled to do. My former workdays are now “me days”. I don’t have a truck so neat parking for others is not an issue anymore. The only detriment is that I gave up the remaining half of my stuff due to a judge giving it to my wife.

Mental health is a process. Baby steps will get me there.  I’m getting back to work on it after I read “What is your phobia?”

Case of the Purloined Pie

The building passes as a nursing home where I pass as the maintenance guy. I see it for what it is. It’s a city full of intrigue and deception. It’s a city full of tasty treats and donated baked goods. It’s a city and I’m its protector. I’m Charlie Melton, Dessert Detective.

I’m making a chain of paper clips when she walks into my life. She has fiery red hair and dangerous shoes. Shoes that could sprain a girls’ ankle and sprain a guys’ soul. Shoes that make good girls go bad.  I lean back in the chair and put my feet on the desk. She strolls in the office and looks me in the eye. “Why are you in my office? Get to work.” she growls.

I stand up and ease past her. “The kitchen is missing a blackberry pie. It’s for a fundraiser. Do you know anything about it?” she breaths in her best big girl voice.

“A missing pie, eh? I’ll take your case. I get $100 a day plus expenses.” She slams the door. That dame is playing it hard. I’ll find her pie. I’d find her pie and finish the paper clip chain. The case will be solved by me,  the Dessert Detective.

I pull my cap low over my eyes to fight the glare of the dining room lights. Making sure I’m not being followed, I stroll over to the nurses’ station.  I take a seat next to the brunette bombshell writing secret nurse words in an official looking book. Maybe she knows something. Maybe she saw something. Maybe she has cookies.

“What about the pie, sugar cakes? Have you seen a missing pie?”

She turns and looks at me with big brown eyes; eyes that are like pools of hot fudge waiting for a bowl of ice cream. “I’m charting”, she said. “I don’t have time.” She seems scared or really irritated at being interrupted. This case is getting deep.

I give her my card and instructions to call if she remembers anything or gets any cookies. I glance at my watch and see it’s time. It’s time to go to lunch and take a quick nap. I stroll through the door and out of her life forever, or maybe an hour.

I come back in the building with a full belly and red eyes from a nap haunted by images of disappearing pies and irate nurses. I come into paradise gone wrong. I come into a room full of guilt.

The room is full. Everyone is seated at tables and looking down in shame at undecipherable coded cards. They know something, and they’re ashamed. Maybe they’re afraid. One guilt ridden pie purloining suspect is standing. I march over and turn on the drill sergeant voice. “Where’s the pie? You know something.” 

She can’t even look me in the eye. “B-11”, she says. “B-11” It’s some kind of nefarious code. What does it mean? “N-42”, she says. I fade back to think. I’m not getting anything out of this crowd. They’re too afraid, or ashamed. Maybe they’re bored, I don’t know.

I walk around, thinking. I think about who has motive to steal a pie. Who has opportunity? Who has change for a five so I can get a soda?

I go to my maintenance shop to search for change and there it is. It’s the smoking gun. It’s the gold at the end of the rainbow. It’s the payday. On the desk is an empty pie plate with crumbs and a partial blackberry. Then I remember.

I ate it. I thought they brought it for me. Darn this senior forgetfulness. Darn it to heck.

I quickly cheer up. I solved my case. I got my man, even if it was me. I earned my fee. I’m still good, very good.

Tune in next time for;”Dessert Detective, The Great Cake Caper.”

Plagued by Bats

Battle for a Safe Home

By Charlie Melton

I’m busy inventorying left over Christmas goodies. I lose my count when my wife yells from the bathroom. She knows I don’t like talking to anyone that’s in the bathroom. It’s just gross. She yells anyway and probably propels bathroom germs all over the house. No, it’s not weird. It’s scientific.

“There’s a bird in here!” she yells. Just then it flutters out of the bathroom. It flaps erratically near the ceiling. It’s living proof that talking in the bathroom is dangerous because it’s sick already. It must work like a canary in a mine. It’s more sensitive to bathroom germs. It’s sort of an early warning system for diseases spread by talking.

The bird continues to flap around so I open the door. I and my Grandson man towels and brooms attempting to shoo it out. It’s really fast and erratic. All we accomplish is to look like idiots.

As the plague ridden fowl swoops I notice the wings are devoid of feathers. They look a little leathery. Great, it’s a sick bird with mange. My hair will probably fall out. That is, if I had any hair it would fall out.

Wait, it’s not a bird. It’s a bat!

Bats are supposed to hibernate in the winter. He shouldn’t be out. He must have missed the “hibernate in winter” memo. Maybe he has a pregnant bat wife. She probably woke him. She had a craving for some bat-wurst.

I yell bat and start ducking as it does a fly-by. I pull out my phone and Google bats in winter. I find vague references to winter bats, but volumes on bat induced diseases. They are just little flying Petri dishes with sonar.

Great, now we’ll get Rabies. Wait, we’ll get Ebola. We may even get histoplasmosis.  I don’t know what histoplasmosis is, but it has many syllables. It has to be bad. I get lost in Google trying to figure my life expectancy. I look up and the bat flutters out of the door and into the winter sky. I should feel relieved but I’m not.

Now the search begins. The bat had to come from somewhere. They’re like kids, if you see one there is a whole unseen flock close by. We searched all of the ceilings for a penetration to the attic, but there’s nothing. We checked the basement. The internet said to look for guano. I don’t know what that is but I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen any.

I call exterminators. Are you aware that those folks want money, and lots of it? That’s ridiculous. I’ve got this. I do a little thinking and have the perfect solution.

You know those mouse traps? Not the spring ones that’ll break your finger. I’m talking about the glue ones. They work really well. I’ve put them out and caught several mice, a cat, and a toddler. I and my mini-me go to the farm store to pick some up. Just so you know, they’re not cheaper by the dozen, or by the gross. I buy a mess of glue traps and head to the bat infested house.

Glue traps on the floor won’t catch bats. They have to be higher up. We tinker around and come up with a perfect method. It’s really genius. I may patent it, so don’t tell anyone.

We string glue traps from coat hangers, and then another level of traps from the first ones. The contraptions are hung from the ceiling using a generous amount of duct tape. We get a little carried away and have to shorten the rig to keep from getting stuck to it when walking by. About 9 hanging mobiles per room look pretty good. They’re called bat-mobiles. Catchy, isn’t it. If a bat starts his erratic flybys he’ll get stuck. I’ll put him in a biohazard bag and send him to a certified landfill so he won’t infect anyone else.

The good news is the bat-mobiles work. Bats have completely avoided my house. My taller friends avoid my house as well, but that’s just collateral damage. It’s to be expected. 

Small Changes the World

Small Changes the World

By Charlie Melton

Small inputs cause spectacular changes. The people that study such things say that in a flock of starlings each bird tries to get to the center of the flock as they fly. A starling sees a hawk, and tries to move to a safer position. This causes his neighboring starlings to move. The movements are telegraphed throughout the flock. To an observer, it appears to be a carefully choreographed swirling and spinning motion of the entire flock that is beautiful to see. The aerobatics are really just a response to a small movement of individual starlings on the fringes of the population. While it’s truly chaotic, it looks incredibly well planned.

Most are aware of the “butterfly effect”. The butterfly effect is commonly understood to mean that a butterfly moving its wings in Brazil can cause a hurricane in the Atlantic Ocean. The real meaning is that the causes of the hurricane are so chaotic and unknowable that even the butterfly could have affected it. It’s impossible to know if the butterfly, or any other small action contributed to the hurricane, but the hurricane exists.

I think that our lives are like that. You may do, or not do, a small insignificant thing that contributes to an immense occurrence. Let’s reason this out.

You see a car along the highway with a flat tire. You stop and help change the tire. The driver drives off to make an important appointment with the doctor. The doctor performs a test that shows the person has the early stages of cancer. This person gets the treatment and recovers, and eventually has a child. That child becomes a great leader. You can’t say that your small input gave rise to a great leader. You can say your small input had a corresponding effect. The end result of many small inputs from many places was the great leader.

You see the same car with a flat tire and don’t stop. The person misses the appointment and eventually dies of the disease that wasn’t caught early enough. They never have a child to become a great leader. You didn’t cause the lack of a beneficial outcome, but you perhaps contributed to it.

We could go on and on with infinite possibilities as the outcome of a single input. It’s impossible to know what effect actions have in the scheme of things. Even scientists that study complex systems can precisely duplicate all inputs and get diverse outcomes.

The point is that everything we do has an effect. We can never know what that effect is, but it’s significant just the same. When we drive by the car with the flat tire, we’ve made a choice that has long range and profound consequences. Stopping to help also has consequences. We’ll never know this side of heaven how the act plays out.

We don’t go about our lives in a vacuum. We touch lives, and ours are touched, everyday. We’re part a grand chaotic dance, just like the starlings doing aerobatics over the fields. What we do matters on so many levels we can’t come close to comprehending all of the ramifications.

We’re not alone and we matter in infinite ways. We have profound effects on others. Always remember that.