Monday, April 19, 2010

The return of the demented savage.

Living alone, without the civilizing influence of a proper lady, I am devolving to my native state: that of a savage.

I burp like Shrek and, you know, do the other thing even louder, practice leaving the toilet seat up, swear with impunity, wear ridiculous old sweatshirts, fail to get dressed for hours in the morning, chew with my mouth open and, occasionally, have a beer at 3 in the afternoon!

I amuse myself so readily that I often laugh out loud for no apparent reason. I sing loud nonsense songs about big bums and, well, other large body parts. I listen to loud rock & Roll music and play air guitar like a mad man.

My treadmill is right in the middle of my family room and parts from remote-controlled cars cover the kitchen table. There are tools and paint brushes drying everywhere.

I think I may eat several hot dogs for breakfast and not brush my teeth at all today.

Friday, April 16, 2010

Put your thinking caps on!

Does it seem odd to you, in this day and age of IPADS and digitalization, land rovers on Mars and men in space stations, that we are still putting high rise building fires out with water and people are still dying in coal mines?

Both of these approaches are hundreds of years old. In all that time am I to believe no one ever had a better thought?

Recently there was a fire on the eighth floor of a ten story condo building in Boston. The fire damaged that particular unit but the water used to douse the flames ruined everything on seven other floors of the building. No one has thought of a better way to handle this?

People died in coal mines in China and West Virginia. Poisonous gases exploded. A real cynic told me the deaths didn’t cost the mines anything. New approaches would surely cost more. I can’t believe that is our only motivation. How else could we get coal efficiently and safely from underground?

Monday, April 12, 2010

How could this happen...

I want you to know that I eat sensibly, exercise regularly, keep my pacemaker tuned up and clean out clogged arteries as required by the warranty, so I do not know why this indignity has befallen me:

I set out on my daily walk this morning, a two mile trudge along the Bass River, when I felt something I had never felt before. I stopped. It dawned on me immediately what was happening and I was staggered. I turned around, returned home, sat down on the couch and cried. Finally, I gazed down upon my lap and then slowly raised my head toward the heavens. “Why God? Why now?”

The tops… of the inside of my thighs… are touching!

Monday, April 5, 2010

Hey, Buddy. What are you wearing?

There used to be a lady at my house who, catching me heading out the door, would say things like, “You’re not going to paint the boat in those jeans, are you? You’re not going to cut the grass in your new sneakers, are you?”

Now-a-days, I sometimes find myself painting the boat or changing the oil in what I suppose might be my newest blue jeans. I don’t do this intentionally. I don’t think, “Hey, I’ll cut the grass in my new sneakers and turn them all green!” I just decide to do a small job and I don’t stop to think, “What do I have on?”

Then, suddenly, I’ll look down and find myself surprised to realize that I have jeans on that didn’t have spots of paint on them before this very moment. Then I feel guilty, so the next chance I get I buy another pair of jeans. I now have six pair, all with some sort of stain, paint or tear.

The other side of this coin is that I no longer throw out old shirts and pants. In the past, that same lady would appear in the kitchen holding a shirt or sweatshirt or pair of pants that was too small, too torn up, too stained to ever wear again in her esteemed estimation, and she would say, “These need to go.”

A fellow who has been married for decades knows enough to agree with that suggestion even if he can see situations, changing the oil, painting the boat, where such a garment might prove invaluable. But now, when I look at certain articles of clothing I think, “I could wear that gardening, painting, digging, cutting.”

The only problem is I never do.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

I dream of...

For months after Martha died in July of 2007 I didn’t dream of her even once. I thought this was odd, to say the least. In my grief class that fall, people were always talking about seeing their late spouse, dreaming of him or her, talking to them.

Now, going on three years after her death, many nights I do dream of Martha. Well, the whole dream could be about something else entirely but she appears and plays some part in it. We even talk from time to time in these dreams although she tends to keep her part of the conversation to words of one syllable or so.

Sometimes she is running away or saying goodbye. Waking up the other morning I realized that I had to tell her something that occurred to me in my dream so I turned in the bed to her side. I actually thought for one tenth of a second that she would be there to hear it.

I’m probably regressing if that’s the right word. My grief doesn’t seem to be following a logical path. But it wouldn’t be the first time something in my life defied logic!