MY SUN DAY NEWS
February 22, 2018
Blame it on the Christmas season — and then the long, dark winter nights in the weeks that follow — but I always get a bit nostalgic about those great days of my childhood.
OK, I’ve made my New Year’s resolution.
Oh, I know, New Year’s resolutions are supposed to start in the early hours of January when the year is still new. I can hear you smirking at me for taking this long to get around to it.
I spent New Year’s Eve binge-watching “The Twilight Zone” on the SY-FY channel.
Oh, I know, that’s not what most people think of as a rockin’ New Year’s Eve. Most people want a night on the town that would cause them to wake up in the morning (or afternoon), rub their aching head and moan: “Never again” — behavior that probably involves copious amounts of alcohol and so many drinking games they could make an Olympics out of it.
Several decades ago, my father-in-law came out of a public restroom and said to me with a grim shake of his head: “Whoever put that toilet paper on the roll has no understanding of the laws of physics.”
Don’t you just hate it when you’re standing in the checkout line, next to be served, and you suddenly realize that you’re naked?
Who doesn’t long for those lazy, hazy days of their childhood? I was raised in quiet Elmwood Park, just a stone’s throw from Chicago’s Austin neighborhood, and I have always thought of my 1950s childhood as idyllic, calm, and peaceful. And yet…
Who doesn’t long for those lazy, hazy days of their childhood?
I was raised in quiet Elmwood Park, just a stone’s throw from Chicago’s Austin neighborhood, and I have always thought of my 1950s childhood as idyllic, calm, and peaceful.
And yet…
It’s autumn, and as the Halloween-and-Thanksgiving season approaches, folks in my Illinois neighborhood like to decorate their front porches with pumpkins and corn stalks sitting on hay bales. And every time I see that, I can’t help but think of Schatze, the sweet-smelling dog of my youth.
It’s autumn, and as the Halloween-and-Thanksgiving season approaches, folks in my Illinois neighborhood like to decorate their front porches with pumpkins and corn stalks sitting on hay bales.
And every time I see that, I can’t help but think of Schatze, the sweet-smelling dog of my youth.
My buddy Mike just got back from a week in France, and we took to the links for a quick nine holes so he could tell me a few lies and tales about his trip. His wife, Sandy, had been there before, and they were meeting an old college friend of hers with whom she had spent some time in France years ago, hoping to recapture a bit of the fun they had way back then.
You’re probably a complete idiot. Or if not, then I’ll bet you’re a dummy.
You’re probably a complete idiot.
Or if not, then I’ll bet you’re a dummy.
Some years ago, as I sat chatting with a young couple from the Netherlands who spoke fluent English, I took a quick glance at my watch. I had a job my boss wanted me to do, and my time was running out. “Sorry,” I told them, “but I’ve got to take care of this. You know how Ed is. I don’t want to get called on the carpet.”
Some years ago, as I sat chatting with a young couple from the Netherlands who spoke fluent English, I took a quick glance at my watch. I had a job my boss wanted me to do, and my time was running out.
“Sorry,” I told them, “but I’ve got to take care of this. You know how Ed is. I don’t want to get called on the carpet.”
OK, people, the eclipse is over. Time to come back down to earth, wipe the awestruck tears from your eyes, and stop OMGing the wonders of the natural world as you ponder your place in the universe. Let’s put the spiritual tizzy behind us, shall we? It’s all fun and games until somebody becomes a druid.
I trace my phobia of ticks back to that day in the wooden rowboat on Lake Nicaboyne in northern Wisconsin. I was probably eleven or twelve at the time, and I was spending the day as usual during our annual weeklong vacation: rowing by myself along the shoreline, casting for bass.
The United States is under attack! It’s being torn apart! Well, not the United States per se, but Florida — that wet, wacky addendum attached to the southeastern edge of the United States. But it’s still a cause for concern, because a lot of folks from the actual United States like to go there in the wintertime.
The United States is under attack! It’s being torn apart!
Well, not the United States per se, but Florida — that wet, wacky addendum attached to the southeastern edge of the United States. But it’s still a cause for concern, because a lot of folks from the actual United States like to go there in the wintertime.
I got “the look” this morning at the grocery store.
We were driving south on Route 53 through Wisconsin, making good time, when Jim looked at the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the other side of the road, crawling north for miles on end, and said: “Wow, I’m glad we’re not on that side of the road.” I gasped and said: “Jim! What are you saying!?!!”
We were driving south on Route 53 through Wisconsin, making good time, when Jim looked at the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the other side of the road, crawling north for miles on end, and said: “Wow, I’m glad we’re not on that side of the road.”
I gasped and said: “Jim! What are you saying!?!!”
Me? I’m a bird guy. I don’t know when or why I became one, but I guess everybody’s got to be some kind of “guy,” and for me it’s always been birds.
Me? I’m a bird guy.
I don’t know when or why I became one, but I guess everybody’s got to be some kind of “guy,” and for me it’s always been birds.
When I was a teenager, the radio was filled with songs about working in the summer, like “Get a Job” by the Silhouettes, or “Summertime Blues,” by Eddie Cochran. But according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, less than a third of American teenagers these days have a summer job, which means (among other things) that none of them will ever be able to write a column like this one 50 years from now.
When I was a teenager, the radio was filled with songs about working in the summer, like “Get a Job” by the Silhouettes, or “Summertime Blues,” by Eddie Cochran.
But according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, less than a third of American teenagers these days have a summer job, which means (among other things) that none of them will ever be able to write a column like this one 50 years from now.
So much anger. So much venom. So much disrespect. And at the heart of it all are the American media outlets, which both feed from and generate all the bad blood between us.
So much anger.
So much venom.
So much disrespect.
And at the heart of it all are the American media outlets, which both feed from and generate all the bad blood between us.
As I was pushing my shopping cart through the grocery store yesterday, getting ready to head to the checkout line, a strange sensation came over me. It led me to the “paper and plastics” aisle, where I grabbed a total of eight food storage containers of various sizes, but with the same size lids to fit them all.
A couple weeks ago, when I read about that 8-year-old Ohio boy who slipped out of the house while his parents slept, and then drove a mile and a half to McDonald’s with his 4-year-old sister in the car, I reacted as any typical American would.
If you’re a faithful visitor to Planet Kerth, you may recall that a couple weeks ago I told you about a magic trick I like to perform. Well, as I explained, it’s not a magic trick exactly, because it doesn’t really take any magic to turn a simple napkin into a long-stemmed paper rose with a single delicate leaf halfway up the stem.
If you’re a faithful visitor to Planet Kerth, you may recall that a couple weeks ago I told you about a magic trick I like to perform.
Well, as I explained, it’s not a magic trick exactly, because it doesn’t really take any magic to turn a simple napkin into a long-stemmed paper rose with a single delicate leaf halfway up the stem.
Call it a magic trick if you want, but it isn’t. Not really. A magic trick needs magic to make it happen, but I can do my trick without needing magical powers. But then — after the trick is over — that’s when the magic happens.
Call it a magic trick if you want, but it isn’t. Not really. A magic trick needs magic to make it happen, but I can do my trick without needing magical powers.
But then — after the trick is over — that’s when the magic happens.
Besides being a high school teacher for more than thirty years, I spent about fifteen years helping young Americans learn for themselves what it means to be an American.
As the full moon rose just after sunset a few weeks ago, I stared at it and wondered: “What if the moon happened only once? What if, in the deep black immenseness of the night sky, this pale beautiful face appeared only once, and this was the night that it happened?”
I just opened my email, and the first message at the top of the list was for a brain strengthener that is “Proven to double your IQ.” Well, that could be useful. As a writer, it would be nice to be smart enough to be able to spell IQ correctly.
I just opened my email, and the first message at the top of the list was for a brain strengthener that is “Proven to double your IQ.”
Well, that could be useful. As a writer, it would be nice to be smart enough to be able to spell IQ correctly.
Plato said: “Know thyself.” Socrates said it, too. So did Aeschylus. And although those guys were a few graduation classes ahead of me, I always believed they were talking about me when they said it. Because I always thought I knew myself.
Plato said: “Know thyself.” Socrates said it, too. So did Aeschylus. And although those guys were a few graduation classes ahead of me, I always believed they were talking about me when they said it.
Because I always thought I knew myself.
The first hint of trouble came as I got out of bed the day after Christmas at 6:30 a.m. I stumbled because I had gone all weenie-legged on the right side. “Well, that’s strange,” I thought. “Must have slept funny.” I flippered off to the bathroom.
The first hint of trouble came as I got out of bed the day after Christmas at 6:30 a.m. I stumbled because I had gone all weenie-legged on the right side.
“Well, that’s strange,” I thought. “Must have slept funny.” I flippered off to the bathroom.
I was more than a bit surprised when my wife pointed to the car just after breakfast on Black Friday and flashed me that “Buckle up, Bucko” look. After all, she knew my policy about hitting the mall on the worst shopping day of the year.
I don’t know how old I was when my curiosity kicked in, but I finally asked Mom: “Who is that, anyway?” She had given me a chore to do that I attacked with my customary zeal — which is to say that I dragged my feet and mourned my tragic station in life.
I don’t know how old I was when my curiosity kicked in, but I finally asked Mom: “Who is that, anyway?”
She had given me a chore to do that I attacked with my customary zeal — which is to say that I dragged my feet and mourned my tragic station in life.
When a century-old curse finally gets lifted, it’s hard not to look for whatever other curse might be lurking beneath. At least, that’s what a die-hard Cubs fan does.
