Dan Digs It…and That's A Good Sign

A big smile spread across his face as grandson Dan looked at the new picture of his grandma.  "She has grandpa hair.  I LIKE it!"

My wife has cancer.  Diagnosed a few weeks back with "large B cell lymphoma", Linda has begun chemotherapy and it has, on schedule, taken her hair. No big deal really when you consider the consequences of not addressing the situation.  This is the "cancer to have" friends and survivors tell us.  We have no reason to doubt this declaration and pray that it's true.  Looking at the statistics it appears that the odds are in our favor.  If determination and attitude have a part in this--and I hear they do--Linda will beat this evil bastard back to hell and live to dance on its grave.  She's tough and able to endure anything, even 45 years of me.

I share this reluctantly.  Neither of us relish revealing more than absolutely necessary about ourselves. (The blog I do mostly for laughs and my own mental health.)  Linda, before retiring, was a librarian.  She prefers books to talking about herself.   As for me,  I sought the comfort of anonymity by hiding out on the radio where I could say anything I pleased without anyone seeing me.  Bosses, however, knew what I looked like and often made me pay for my temerity with my job, precisely why I wrangled the hits for 17 different stations in 40 years.  Some guys just can't take a joke…or a kick in the nuts.

I compose this as I sit by Linda's side for her latest chemo treatment.  The bag of good/bad poison is nearly empty and we will go home.  There will be some rough days ahead and just as she begins to once again feel fine it will be time for another visit to the clinic.  She'll be done sometime in late June.

This blog will not be posted if Linda does not approve.  The last thing I want is for her to be upset or embarrassed by anything stupid I might say.  There is little else on my mind these days; so I can think of no other subject on which to bloviate.  I too feel better knowing that maybe some of you who may also be experiencing cancer up close and personal will take some comfort in knowing that others are also in the fight.  And, if necessary, let this serve as a sympathetic nod to friends and relatives who didn't receive the empathy and concern they should have from Linda and me when you needed it.  We just didn't know.

With luck Linda will be in recovery and feeling fine by mid summer and we can fulfill our dream of moving to beautiful Lake Coeur d' Alene, Idaho to live long healthy lives.  This has been our plan for quite awhile now.  Of course,  some wag--I forget who--once sagely observed:  "If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans."

Best Birthday Yet

Recently I hit the on ramp for route 66.  No big deal really when you factor in the alternative.  I'm happy to have had my option picked up for another year of life's ups and downs.  If you are also on the "senior circuit" you know what I mean.  Too many friends have missed the cut and others are dealing with challenges they never saw coming.  If you're okay, it's perfectly acceptable to enjoy the ride.  You'll be asked to get off soon enough.   No need to rush things.

For the first time in many years both kids were at home for my birthday and that was sweet.  Each daughter has done well by any measure.  They found work that fulfills them and have husbands who love and respect them.  Every parent takes comfort and pride in their childrens' happiness.  

My one and only grandson, Dan, as kids are inclined, was more excited about my birthday than I.  His mom said that he had shopped diligently to find the perfect present for grandpa.  He could hardly contain himself as he watched me open a carefully wrapped package of well petrified dinosaur poop he scored from some museum. 

 It's only the BEST GIFT EVER!

It will be a sad day when he outgrows me.

Dan shows off his new fake tattoos

Grandpa and Dan rest up after a wrestling match.

Tax Time? Deal Me Out!

Here we go again.  It's time to render unto Caesar what has carefully been determined to be the IRS slice of your fiscal pie for 2013.  I prefer to think of it as protection money.  Pay up or go to jail.  Or, worse yet, incur severe tire damage,  be forced to spend an evening with Lois Lerner, or the unimaginable horror of listening to Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi sing "Sexual Healing".    The feds do not kid around.

So, here I am once again knee deep in 1099's, K-1's and W-2's that fill my mailbox and demand to be reported to the proper authorities who, in turn, will direct me to send them more money than currently resides in my bank account.  The deadline for this extortion is April 15.   After all, politicians have a scam to run and the votes of less productive citizens to buy before the next election.

"Paying taxes is a privilege", say the clowns who have managed to spend our country into receivership.  "Flat tax?, Never happen!"  "Why would we want everyone to have a stake in the country's finances?"  "Let the suckers pay!"

The IRS operates the Big Casino of the U.S. Treasury and, for some folks, they offer the "loosest slots in town".  For actual taxpayers the IRS instead invites you to the Texas Hold 'Em table where your every bluff is called and the government deals from the bottom of the deck.  Nobody with any money is allowed to leave the table still in possession of their pants.  If you're lucky, you head for the door in a decorator barrel.

Oh, wait just a minute, I nearly forgot.  For those lucky enough to reside in a state equipped with its very own confiscatory income tax, step right this way.  There are oh so many more chances to cough up what little you have left for the local elected crooks.  "No cash?  We take Mastercard and Visa."  "By the way, where's the title to your car?"

"I think we can come up with a nice little payment plan."

Ice Fishing With Drones

Michigan is having a very cold winter.  The whole upper Midwest, thanks to the Polar Vortex, is experiencing one of the worst winters on record.  Most of the Great Lakes are nearly frozen for the first time in modern history. 

All of this weather news got me thinking, yet again, about my Michigan boyhood.   In the 1950's my dad and his pal Bud took me and Bud's six kids ice fishing on Houghton Lake in the northern reaches of Michigan's lower peninsula.  As I recall, mom and Bud's wife, Cece, came along for this four or five day adventure too,  but not to ice fish.  A cabin was rented to serve as sleeping and eating headquarters and the two women were more than happy to keep the cabin fireplace stoked and to stay as far away from the fishing as possible .  

The whole deal was amazing to me and the other kids.  We knew nothing of ice fishing and were excited to be doing something this adventurous with our dads. That we could drive Bud's station wagon RIGHT ONTO THE ICE had us dumbstruck.  It was nearly impossible to fathom how ice could be so thick that a car wouldn't crash through and sink to the bottom of that enormous body of water, but it didn't.  In fact, there were lots of other cars on the lake all   parked near  little ice fishing houses that resembled slightly out sized outhouses.   We, of course,  had our own shanty that the dads carefully situated directly over a hubcap sized hole that Bud and my dad had augured into the ice.  The ice was easily two feet thick and all that auguring had prompted more than a little snarling and cussing.  After breaking through to the water, Bud and dad retrieved two small fishing poles designed specifically for ice fishing, baited them with a couple of worms, added a couple of small bobers, dropped the lines into the water, and thereafter ignored.

Though we kids ranged in age from 7 to 12 it didn't take long to figure out that our dads didn't really care if they caught any fish.  They merely grabbed a couple of folding chairs from the car, opened a bottle of Canadian Club and proceeded to laugh, smoke cigars and tell stories until late in the afternoon.  We kids played around on the ice, slipping and sliding as we made up new games to amuse ourselves.  Every once in awhile we would open the door to the ice shanty to see if any fish had been caught only to be met with "what  the hell are you talking about" stares.  Sure it was cold, but we didn't notice.  Neither did our pops.

"Look, up in the sky!  It's a bird! It's a plane! Nope, it's a beer drone!

Late in the day we returned to the cabin with NO fish and rosy cheeks--Bud and dad's especially.  The moms seemed not at all surprised.  In anticipation of empty-handed fishermen, they had hot dogs and hamburgers ready to go.  It was a grand time.

Lakemaid, it's heaven sent! 

"Delivery for Mr. Al Coholic."

These days ice fishing has become far more sophisticated.  Now ice shanties are tricked out with heaters, wet bars, carpeting, satellite TV and fancy furniture.  Power augers drill the holes in the ice, if the "fisher persons" actually bother to bring poles. Some areas even feature local pizza delivery.  Recently some ahead of the curve entrepreneurs  devised a system of beer delivery utilizing drones.  This was truly ONE GIANT STEP FOR DIPSOMANIA, until the FAA killed the idea.

The sportsmen and women of northern Minnesota enjoyed drone delivery of Lakemaid Beer until the federal government killed this brilliant gift to American capitalism.  

Where is Spuds Mackenzie when you need him?

Maybe it's all for the best.  Real ice fishing should be BYOB.  Who wants to open the door to the ice cold reality of just one more winter in the upper Midwest?

Touchdown!