Today's thoughts

Category: Tinker (Page 14 of 15)

Our first schnauzer

Retirement is not without Hassles: Sweet. Home. Sweet. #169

A certain sense of relief came over me as I walked into my home office this afternoon.  I only had lunch with a friend and made a dry cleaning stop, but it still involved a good hour of expressway driving.  I had the top down on the convertible and the radio on, as the sun warmed my skin.  It does feel good when the sun is shining, but otherwise going outside can be taxing to a homebody like me.  I’m stuck on this “homebody” label that my wife gave me the other day (Post #165).  I don’t honestly know why I consider it to be an insult?  I do enjoy the cool air-conditioned comfort of our home, that has never changed.  I don’t like heat and humidity, although that is rarely the case in Portland, Oregon.  I also don’t like the rain, ice, or snow associated with Oregon winters.  Plus, I definitely don’t like bugs, some reptiles, and especially noisy kids in my quiet retirement years (OK – six months).  All of these negatives are outside!

It’s a jungle out there!  To prove it, my wife even took me to the Zoo.  The animals were all locked in their homes, with limited responsibilities.  Are you seeing the similarities?  My locks are self-imposed, and I clean my own cage, but I still expect to be fed.  I try not to bite the hand that feeds me, or rattle the bars.  I do have my moods, like any mammal, so I can be a lovable Panda or an Ass.  There is a wild-side to me, and tend to pace a lot.  I get along well with other animals, but often forget to share.  I’m also a fan of the Cubs and the Bears, but not so much the Lions or Tigers.  Oddly, I do not have to be chased to run.  I also don’t hunt, fish, fight, or hike, but have been known to reproduce.  Finally, I’m relatively low-maintenance, with few needs outside of air-conditioning, TV, computer, bed, and shower.  I could survive in the Zoo, but not in the Jungle.

I’ve been traveling a lot lately, including a couple of hours in the car yesterday.  We were just in Indiana for 6 days, and I’m headed to Florida for another six this weekend. We’ll drive to the Coast tomorrow for our annual, “Outstanding in the Field,” dinner, and I have a luncheon and happy hour plans on Friday.  It’s not exactly a hermit’s existence, but I do enjoy my own bed, the company of the dogs, and my daily routine that I can only get at home.  Then, talk about homebody disruption! I  will have to get up at 2:30 a.m., do a shortened version of my run, and be at the airport by 4:30 a.m. for a 6:00 a flight.  By 7 a.m., I’ll be in Seattle, and then fly cross-country to Florida.  My son will pick me up at the airport, and drive me to his home south of Sarasota.  We’ll leave first thing the next morning for Miami, stopping briefly in Bonita Springs to pick up some friends that will joining us for all the Baseball All-Star events.  I’ll live on jet fumes, fast food, ball park hot dogs, and Diet Coke.  In the process, I’ll see my grand kids, my daughter-in-law, and hopefully lots of baseball players.

Although it will be a fun excursion, I’ll be glad to get back to my wife, the comfort of our bed, and my lazy, care-free days of hanging out with the pups.  It will be more than enough to curb any travel urges until we leave for San Francisco in early August.  I think that Tinker, our arguably 90 year-old schnauzer, would like to be more of a homey  She is very sore after our many outings the past few days, while Tally, who is half her age, is always ready for more.  After six days apart, my wife will surely be ready to retract her insult.  She will miss me, as I will miss her!

“Sweet Home Chicago,” by the Blues Brothers, “Sweet Home Alabama,” by Lynyrd Skynyrd, “Home Sweet Home,” by Motley Crue, and “Home on the Range,” by John Denver are not necessarily my favorite songs, even though they should probably be personal anthems, at least according to my wife.  I have seen each of these songs performed live on numerous occasions, proving that I was never one to sit at home and listen to music on the stereo.  I have a fond memory of my son, seeing a Lynyrd Skynard cassette in my car’s glove box and pronouncing it Line-rad Skine-rad.  He’ll never live that down.  I saw Buddy Guy perform “Sweet Home Chicago,” at his blues club in Chicago, another unforgettable memory.  The Motley Crue lyrics, “I’m on the way, Home Sweet Home,” I’ll be singing in about a week on my trip back from Florida. A poet, Dr. Brewster M. Higley wrote the lyrics to “Home on the Range” in his verse titled. “My Western Home,” back in 1872.  Many “cowboys” performed the tune including Slim Whitman, Gene Autry, and Roy Rogers, but I heard the version by Henry John Deutschendorf, Jr. in Indianapolis.  He was about as far from a cowboy as you could get, but like Neil Young and even Frank Sinatra, covered that popular Western tune.  By the way, home would never have been on the range for me.  I once panicked when we looked at a property out in the country that didn’t even have sidewalks.  I’ve always preferred live shows, but have experienced some (Post #121) unpleasant moments at various concerts that would make anyone want to stay home.  Been there.  Done that.  Sweet, Home,  Sweet,  the words are interchangeable.

I can be a bit obsessive, so I apologize for my recent rants on being hassled by my wife about being a “homebody.”  Hopefully, I’m over it now, knowing that my wife will need to be kept busier on the weekends.   I’ll just become less active during the week, and try to give the dogs some rest, as well.  My wife does have Planter Fasciitis that supposedly limits her dancing and walking activities.  Otherwise, I’d probably be totally exhausted.  It’s one of the hazards of marrying a younger woman.  I pledge to rub her dogs, pet our dogs, and respect her “double-dog dare” to be less of a “homebody.”

Retirement is not without Hassles: Picnics #168

Nothing says 4th of July like a picnic, one of my wife’s favorite things to do.  Picnics, for me,  date back to childhood, particularly 4th of July reunions with the family.  We were either at my Great Aunt and Uncle’s house on Simonton Lake, or at an Oxbow Park pavilion.  All my grandparents, parents, cousins, nephews, nieces, uncles, aunts, and ants were in attendance.  The ants were actually not welcome, they just showed up expecting to be fed.  We’d play softball, croquet, badminton, toss a football, Jarts, and go for a swim or a boat ride.  They were always very memorable get-togethers, that became less appealing to attend as I got older.  One of my uncles would spend all day at the grill drinking beer and cooking hot dogs and hamburgers.  While he was getting toasted, he’d also toast your buns.  We didn’t congregate very often, but it served the years before weddings and funerals brought us all together.

While I was, of course, content with staying home for the 4th, my wife had a much grander plan in mind.  (see Post #165)  She was in the kitchen preparing a Kidney bean salad, and grilling chicken.  She has a lot of energy, even after our one-hour walk/run with the dogs earlier.  Before we started our stroll this morning, we sat together and decided on a location to do a picnic.  She was not going to allow me to be a homebody on the 4th!  I found Punch Bowl Falls on the map, about an hour away on Eagle Creek.  It’s a popular Oregon destination, right up there with Multnomah Falls and Crater Lake, so I felt quite confident that no one else would think of going there for their day-off.   They’d probably want to stay home and watch TV.  She got out one of our many picnic kits, in this case a back-pack, loaded up the cooler with some adult beverages, and we were ready to hit the road.

As they watched her pack up, our two schnauzers got that “are you leaving us again?” look on their faces.  They weren’t tired enough after their walk this morning, and there was plenty of room in the car for them to G…O – we spell it out, since they know the word, and then don’t get overly excited.  It was then time  for the dogs, the wife, and the homebody to head-off to the Punch Bowl for our 4th of July picnic.  She even mixed together some Lemonade Punch, spiked  generously with vodka, to add to the picnic festivities.  My wife’s assessment of me is accurate, you know, I can be a happy homebody, but to an even greater degree I’m certainly not an outdoors-man, anxious to take a hike in the woods.  I am “condo man,” who prefers very little yard work and an air-conditioned environment.  Even my mother told my wife that as a kid “Mike wouldn’t mind sitting at home working on a sewing card, while his sister would come home with a black eye.”  Apparently, there were no sexist stereotypes in my family.  Maybe I should take up sewing again in retirement!

Besides family picnics, I’ve certainly attended and organized my share of company picnics.  These were events that no one really wanted to attend, but the perception was that if you worked for a “bad” company, they didn’t have a Holiday party and a picnic every year.  If you were employed by a “good” company and had a picnic, then it was an intrusion on an employee’s weekend time, and logically they should probably be paid for attending.  Employee committees, designed to let the boss off the hook, went through this dilemma every year, so they tried to come up with enough door prizes to make attendance worthwhile.  Those that had to work were paid overtime or given extra time off, and someone usually delivered picnic food to the station.  Regardless of what you did as an employer, it wasn’t enough!

When I worked for WISH-TV in Indianapolis, I referred to their employee outings as “WISH-nics.”  You “wished” you didn’t have to go, but if you didn’t, you were talked about.  I would always try to make an appearance, and duck-out as quick as possible.  I don’t recall having picnics at prior stations where I worked, but I’ve probably just blocked them out of my mind.  One of the worst company picnics that I can recall, was done by my Dad’s company.  We did not go, because I think he felt the same way about company parties that I do.  It turned out to be one of the best decisions of his life, as hundreds of people got sick.  I remember playing in our yard and hearing ambulance sirens screaming in the distance as they traveled back and forth from the Emergency Room.  It was more disturbing than air-raid or tornado sirens, especially after we discovered what was going on.  The problem turned out to be bad potato salad from a local bakery.  Ironically, my dad’s company made Alka-Seltzer, but “plop, plop, fizz, fizz” was not enough “relief” to counter the nasty effects of food poisoning.  I don’t think anyone died,but I doubt that they ever enjoyed potato salad again, or attended company picnics.  I have always referred to it as the Miles Sick-nic!

As I think about hiking and picnics. I remember one afternoon when we lived in Austin, Texas, climbing through the Barton Creek Greenbelt.  This unique area covered over seven miles of limestone cliffs, dense foliage, and shallow bodies of water.  We could easily access it from our apartment, and the dogs would gladly G…O.  My wife had packed a picnic, as we searched far and wide for the perfect spot to enjoy the food she had laboriously prepared.  At last, we settled on a location that had a beautiful view, but it was also precarious.  We realized after we got settled, that there was a sharp drop of several hundred feet just off to the edge of our picnic blanket.  I typically eat quickly, but the thought of sliding down that hill made me rush even faster.  I had a death grip on a small tree nearby, as I also tried to get the dogs settled.  We called it a “Cliff-nic,” and ever since have tried to find flat, level spots to enjoy our meals.

One of our first weekend dates involved a picnic.  We drove down to Bloomington, Indiana, where I had gone to school.  I had brought along a gift, her first Limoges box. (See Post #146)  I think that every time she prepares a picnic, she expects a gift.  It’s probably why we picnic so often!  There’s been Symphony on the Prairie, on the beach in Maui, on the Oregon coast at Haystack Rock, and every time we go into wine country.  We’ve done the Gypsy Picnic in Austin, where no packing was necessary, but rather you sampled from a variety of food truck vendors.  Our dog Tinker especially enjoyed our regular picnics at Rudy’s (See Post #133).  Once again, we didn’t have to cook or bring a “pic-a-nic basket,” as Yogi the Bear called it.  They had a grassy picnic grounds behind the restaurant, and the dogs could join us at the table for Texas BBQ.   We also tried the Picnic House Restaurant here in Portland, Oregon, hoping to get that picnic experience without all the hard work of frying chicken and marinating Kidney Bean Salad.

I think I spotted us in the Georges Seaurat painting, “Sunday in the Park with George,” that has also become a popular Broadway Show.  We were the couple on a picnic blanket, by the lake, with our dogs.  The painting captures the romantic aspects of the picnic fantasy that my wife is always trying to attain.  I’m usually too distracted to share in this daydream because of the delicious spread that she packs.  I probably should bring a gift on our next outing, but they can be so spontaneous, like yesterday.   Surprisingly, there was very little traffic, and we were easily able to find a parking spot right by a picnic table at Punch Bowl Falls.  There were a lot of people along the narrow two-mile trail that leads to the falls.  It was a bit precarious, “Cliff-nic like,” with cables embedded in the rock to serve as hand rails, in those washed-out areas where a stumble might lead to a deadly fall down the side of a rocky hill.  We wisely waited, this time, until the hike was completed to enjoy our picnic lunch.

Even though I had to spend a lot of time outdoors, it was an enjoyable and memorable 4th of July.  Though disappointed, we decided that we were both too tired to stay up late to see the fireworks.  I have to say that this morning I’m as confused as ever on what day it is?  – with the 4th of July falling in the middle of the week.  I’m just glad I didn’t have to go to work like my wife did, as I’ve comfortably resumed my homebody lifestyle, with the exception of lunch with a friend today and a stop at the dry cleaners.  For me, living the retirement life without the hassles of health and financial problems is certainly, at this point, a picnic in the park!

 

 

 

 

“Sunday  in the Park with George

Fried Chicken and Potato Salad

 

 

 

Gypsy Picnic – Food Trailers Austin

Yogi Bear, talked in rhymes  pic-a-nic basket I’m smarter than the av-er-age bear

Picnic House Restauratnb

Retirement is not without Hassles: Firecracker #162

My wife and I enjoy seeing fireworks.  The dogs, not so much!  Tinker, our eldest schnauzer,  has her “Thunder Shirt,” that provides some comfort around noisy storms and loud noises.  Typically, we go back home, to Indiana, for the 4th of July, but we went early this year.  We’re trying to make plans for here in Portland, but do not want the hassle of going downtown for the Blues Festival.  We did that two years ago, for our first Fourth in Portland, as both of our employers were sponsors of the event.  Since I’m now retired and my wife now works for the competition, it would not be appropriate for us to attend.

We did not see any fireworks at the ballpark last week, but between Epcot, Greek Festival, Navy Pier, Padre Island, Galveston, Paris, Conner Prairie, Rome, and Sky Concerts we’ve certainly seen our share of great firework displays.  My wife teases me about my lack of hearing, whether that be physical or mental.  I blame it on the rock concerts and loud fireworks that I’ve had the pleasure of watching through the years.  I hope this year is no exception.

Fireworks

.

I don’t hear well,
What did you say?
Sometimes I get it,
But there’s a delay.
.
Could you repeat that?
I’ve said too many times.
Like trying to communicate,
With one of those mimes.
.
Sometimes when I listen,
It just isn’t clear.
Like a firecracker exploded,
Right next to my ear.
.
Am I getting old?
Have grown inattentive?
My undivided interest,
Is the least I can give.
.
It’s not intentional,
I Love You too much.
I value your words,
And crave your touch.
.
It’s annoying to you,
And with that short fuse.
I don’t mean to set you off,
Or your patience abuse.

.

What did you say?
I just couldn’t hear.
There was a loud bang,
Followed by a cheer.

.

Please say that again,
When the ringing clears.
Here’s my new promise:
To lend you my ears.

.

Copyright 2003 Johnstonwrites.com

Retirement is not without Hassles: Fathers #143

Today is Father’s Day, but like most days in retirement, just another glorious day.  I’m a father, step-father, grandfather, godfather, grand-godfather, father-in-law, father of the groom, pledge father, and fur father.  Hopefully, I’ve also been a father-figure to some and father-like to others.  I’ve had two fathers, one of which I never knew, two grandfathers, who I knew well, and two other grandfathers that may never have known that I ever existed.   My biological father was a putative father, and my adoptive father should have been awarded father of the year.  I’ve also had two fathers-in-law, but lost one in a divorce and the other to cancer.  I’ve been called both “father” and “dad,” but never “daddy,” “dada,” “pops,” or “papa,” like my friend-fathers are sometimes fondly addressed.

I’m pleased to admit that my son is a better father than I remember ever being.  I was far too absorbed in my career, as was my father.  I only knew the traditional male role, and accepted those narrow responsibilities.  Being only 22 years old, I was also never prepared to be a father, but have never regretted being one.  My son’s marriage made me both father of the groom and a father-in-law to his wife, giving me that second chance at fatherhood through grandchildren.  However, I’ve always lived too far away to take advantage.  Plus, I’m not always comfortable around children, and often find them annoying, especially on airplanes and at restaurants.  The older they get, the more I can relate, so I keep my distance and try to spoil them with Disney vacations and gifts.

For me, sports have always been the primary communication link between father and son.  It’s where most conversations started with my father, and continues to be the case with my son.  We go to sporting events together, and try to take the grand kids whenever possible.   I often show my love by writing checks; more learned behavior.   We are in the habit of saying “Love You” at the end of our conversations, something that only occurred in later years of my dad’s life.  At one point, I remember plotting a way to tell him how I felt, worried that he would go to the grave without hearing those words.

I got off to a bad start with my first father-in-law, concerned that he was not being truthful on an insurance payment due to my wife-to-be.   It was a misunderstanding that we eventually worked out.  The marriage didn’t!   When it came time to marry again, I properly asked her father’s permission for her hand.  It was a moment I will never forget, as pancreatic cancer took his life before I really got to share more time with him.   The second marriage was the first step in becoming a stepfather to two daughters.  I do feel that word “stepfather” has some negative connotations.  It’s not a very lovable word, so I try to avoid being one.

Tinker, Tally, and Frankie are my current furry children, although my fur-father responsibilities date back to just after college.  (see post #133). In college, while involved with the Sigma Chi Fraternity, I was a pledge father.  My “son” was blackballed from joining the house just after I transferred to another school.  He’s now the CEO of a major corporation, so I was glad to see he nicely rebounded from this Freshman set-back.  I was also honored to be the godfather to a college friend’s daughter, and I guess that makes me a grand-godfather after the birth of her son.  It only seemed logical that I should stuff cotton balls in my mouth and talk like Marlon Brando in this role.

For those into the Bible, Matthew 23:9 reads, “Call no man your father on earth, for you have one Father, who is in heaven.”  Father is a title of religious superiority, and the basis for the Catholic hierarchy.  Forgive me, Father, but who’s your daddy?  Who’s Father Time’s father?  He invented the clock, right?”  Consider this fine definition of a father by an author unknown:  “A father is neither an anchor to hold us back nor a sail to take us there, but a guiding light whose love shows us the way.”  Or, another uncredited favorite:  “A father is someone you look up to no matter how tall you grow.”

I would not be writing this if it weren’t for my biological father.  I don’t know the circumstances of why he never took responsibility for me, or if he honestly ever knew about me, for that matter.  He was a Marine, but not much of a father.  I was adopted in the first few month of my life, and given everything I possibly wanted.  It takes a special man to raise someone else’s son, and I’m proud to call him Dad. (see post #104)

Happy Father’s Day!

Retirement is not without Hassles: What’s with that Name? Part 1 #136

A name is how we are known, addressed, or referred to in life.  I seem to have some unparalleled experience when it comes to names.  In fact, I was born with a different name than what I grew up with, have had my name changed, altered and misspelled, have been labeled with a nickname, and have given my name to others.  I’ve also named several businesses, animals, and children, and been called a few names in the process.  As a result, I tend to be very sensitive when it comes to the precious brand that each of us possesses through our name.

I was born Jerry Lee Bannister by a mother I never knew.  The adoption agency called me “Mickey,” maybe because of my big ears.  Correspondence to my prospective parents stated “your Mickey is quite a boy,”  but my parents fortunately put a stop to that.  My legal name for life then became Michael Lee Johnston, however my friends called me, “Smiley.”

When I got in the business world, I began to emphasize that my last name was “Johnston with a T,” since it was often mistaken as simply Johnson.  Fortunately, very few misspelled the name “Mike,” whereas “Michael” could get some vowels reversed on occasion.   For many years, I let these misspellings go unchallenged, but soon realized the importance of protecting my brand.  This became particularly significant in the age of e-mail, since misspelling meant non-delivery.  I am very specific with the “T,” and my wife has become equally emphatic.

Wives are typically quite familiar with name changes, since this hassle many times accompanies the marriage licensing process.  Some women maintain their maiden names, while others use hyphenated versions.  My wife, for example, changed her legal name to Johnston, but maintains her maiden name for business purposes.  It gets a bit confusing at times, but she established brand recognition for her maiden name in business long before she met me, although she also used a hyphenated version in her previous marriage.  Name changes through marriages are a sign of the times.

I suppose I could have been Mickey Bannister-Johnston, Jerry Lee Johnston, Michael Bannister, or Mike Johnston, instead the nickname “Smiley” eventually prevailed over all other options.  I did have a wide smile and a big mouth growing up, so it was probably an appropriate label to give me.  It started at a week-long camp that I attended in Junior High School.  I didn’t like the name, “Smiley,” and couldn’t wait for camp to end so I could get my identity back.  However, it caught on and spread through the school like wild fire.  I fought it all through high school.  It wasn’t that it was a bad name; it just wasn’t my name.

I definitely had an identity crisis throughout High School, and hated to use the phone where you always needed to identify yourself.  If I said it was “Mike” or “Michael,” they didn’t know who was calling, and I refused to call myself “Smiley.”  This was particularly problematic when it came time for a prom date.  We would all gather at a classmate’s house and try to muster confidence to make that critical call, with the guidance and support of close friends.  I hid in the corners, or pretended to make calls, and would finally have to make the “ask” face-to-face at school.  I honestly think this aversion to the phone eventually affected my ability to make cold-calls in business, and my reluctance to participate in group call-outs.  I learned to hate the phone!  With today’s technology, we finally have Caller ID, so I no longer have to fumble through an explanation on who is calling.

“Smiley” no longer exists, and “Jerry Bannister” is my second Facebook identity.  I used my birth name in an attempt to make connections with the Bannister family name.  This came about as part of my efforts to learn the identity and whereabouts of my birth mother.  I had to rely on the help of a few close friends to get me started with this page, but now I have hundreds of Bannister, Banister, Bannistor,  and even Bannester friends on Facebook.  Unfortunately, I have not been able to find a connection with my birthmother, Edna Faye Bannister, presumably of Rome, Georgia. (See post #104:  Dual Identity).  I do, however, wish Jerry Bannister a happy birthday every year on Facebook.  I hardly ever forget since it’s the same day as mine!

Giving another a name is a privilege and happens only rarely in life.  It usually starts with a pet.  For example, I was able to name my dog “Smiley,” hoping that it would become his brand rather than mine.  I also helped in the naming of Tinker and Tally, our two schnauzers.  (See post #133:  Puppy Love).  I have yet to name a cat, and the names I came up with for a white mouse, a chameleon, some fish, and a few turtles have escaped me.  I’m sure they were clever!  I also helped name my son, Adam.  He was named after the actor Pernell Roberts, who played Adam Cartwright in the T.V. series, Bonanza.  I also gave my son Adam his middle-name of Michael.  This happened, as I recall, on the way to the hospital.  We had pretty much decided on the name Lee, since it also was the middle name of both my father and I.  Apparently, ego got in the way, so he’s Adam Michael Johnston, my favorite namesake.

I still find it touching to go to the veterinarian, with the dogs and our cat, and see the name Johnston come up for each of them – Tinker, Tally, and Frankie Johnston.  Since my family tree starts with my adoption into the Johnston family, my pets, my son, my wife, and my granddaughter are the only living Johnston ornaments on the tree.  Roxie, a schnauzer that we lost to a speeding motorist, was also a member of our exclusive Johnston household, and is buried in our hearts.  All the other Johnston cousins out there have their own tree that includes my adopted parents and grandparents that gave me the privilege of the name.

Long ago, I had the opportunity to name a business, “Hall of Ivy.”  It was a plant shop that grew to five locations with the slogan, “bringing the outdoors in.”  I had a radio jingle prepared, a logo, and hired an advertising agency.  I didn’t have much to do with the actual business, but I did some occasional “Plant Parties.”  This involved taking a truckload of house plants to a private home, and hopefully returning with only few remaining.  It was similar to  a Tupperware party in those days, where the host invited guests and received bonus plants for helping to sell them to their friends and family.

I made a common marketing mistake on the name, “Hall of Ivy.”  It was originally just a hallway of plants in a mini-mall, but “grew” well beyond that.  The business eventually also evolved into selling fresh flowers and arrangements, so the name no longer represented what was sold or it’s size.  I didn’t have that foresight when selecting the original name.  Several big companies have also made similar marketing mistakes.  One of my favorite examples is the insurance giant, “Massachusetts Mutual.”  Their original sales territory was strictly the state boundary of Massachusetts, but when legislation eventually allowed them to expand nationwide, their name would no longer represent their customer base.  “Nationwide Insurance” has a similar challenge in the international marketplace.  In what I consider to be an ingenious marketing move, “Massachusetts Mutual” simply shortened their name to “Mass Mutual,” representing the masses rather than just the state.  It was an easy fix to a short-sighted decision on the original name.

Very few of us grow up to be known by just one name.  Beyoncé, Sting. Adele, Prince, Elvis, Cher, God, Santa, and Madonna are the primary examples, not necessarily in that order.  “Smiley” might have grown to that level if I had not fought it!  Most of us have at least a first and last name, that were initially the decision of a parent.  Some of those parents were also a bit short-sighted when they named their children.  For example, the Baals should not have named their son, Harry.  Also, a name like Candy Kane, was maybe cute for young girl, but what about as an adult woman?  I struggled with finding a name for our son that kids couldn’t “make fun of.”  For example, naming a child who has big ears, “Mickey” – who would do that?  I thought I was safe with the name Adam, but the kids ended up saying Ad-dumb.  Sometimes you just can’t win!

Ask any numerologist “What’s in a name?” and they will give you some additional food for thought.  The baby books will tell you which are the most popular, but many of us are driven to find something unique.  There’s a reason why Adolph is no longer popular.  There’s also a list of the 100 most unfortunate names in human history, if you need help?  Just remember, even a “creative” twist in the spelling of a popular name, just to be different, can lead to years of frustration in communication – miss-spelled e-mails, driver’s license errors, graduation diplomas, business awards, etc.  Poor Meaghan, for example, is plagued with constantly correcting everyone’s spelling.  What’s with that name, anyway!

If you are given the honor of coming up with a name, please put some thought into it.  What’s in a Name? Everything.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Creature Features: Puppy Love #133

I’m married to a true dog lover, so if I’m going to live with her I have to be one, too!  She feels a kindred spirit.  I’ve always been around dogs, but never wanted to put the work into owning one.  I can’t remember the circumstances of having dogs in my former marriage, but there was Smiley, the golden retriever who would stand in the shallow water of the lake for hours and stare at her reflection, and Gizmo, the schnauzer with bat ears who did nothing but bark and pee.  I probably wasn’t very helpful in their care, but they were both part of the family.

My parents did not have a dog until after I left for college.  I’m not positive how that happened, but I’m sure my younger sister was the influence.  It was a Brittany spaniel  with the creative name of Britt.  My mom was scared of dogs, in-part due to the one who bit me when I was three years old.  I still have the clipping that reads:  Boy, 3, Bitten By Dog, Gets Anti-Rabies Shot.  It was not front-page page news, but rather almost the size of a classified ad, and the poor dog was kept under “observation.”  Rabies shots are supposed to be very painful, so if I associate that with dogs, it’s no wonder I was a slow adapter to puppy love.

When I met my current wife, she had a part-Chow, part-Shepherd, named Belle that was probably scared of me.  She would not let me walk her outside the neighborhood, stopping abruptly at the edge of the housing addition, or wrapping herself around a mailbox to emphasize that we had gone far enough. I slowly got to know Belle, a critical first test in the new relationship with my wife now of 16 years.   When we eventually got married, we then adopted Tinker, making a “Disneyesque” combination.   Tinker and Belle were an inseparable pair for several years, and I slowly learned how to love.

As I think about all the dogs in my life, there are fond stories that come to mind.  Perhaps this sentimental journey is the result of recently reading, “Call of the Wild,” and watching the movie, “Megan Leavey.”  These were stories of dogs that worked hard and saved lives.  I can’t say that was the case with any of my pets.  They just simply make me smile.

I’ll start my stories with Gizmo, who was out doing her business in our back yard twenty years ago.  When I went to let her in, it was a raccoon who sauntered in instead.  It was very dark outside and both animals were about the same size, so I mistook it for the dog.  Gizmo was then trapped on the other side of the screen door barking at  the bandit, who had proceeded to boldly eat out of his food bowl.  I might not have even noticed the clever thief if it had gone straight up the stairs.  If so, it probably could have done a lot of damage, but Gizmo’s barking alerted me to the culprit.  I chased it around with a broom, three-stooges-style, while Gizmo continued to bark until the masked coon eventually got the message and fortunately ran back outside into the night.

One of my favorite Gizmo tales, was the night I stopped for To-Go at my favorite Bar-B-Q joint.  I was so hungry that I ate the baked potato like an apple on my way home.  I wanted to dig-in right away when I got to the house, but Gizmo, of course, needed to go outside  and was barking like a maniac.  I could smell the Bar-B-Q sauce as I waited patiently for her to finish, and was careful not to let another raccoon through the door.  I could just taste it, but thought better of getting the runny sauce from the pulled-pork sandwich on my new suit.  I reluctantly went into my closet to change into something more casual.  By the time I got back, there was nothing left but the empty Styrofoam container on the floor.   Giz was a chunky little dog, with not much vertical jumping ability, but somehow had gotten up on the counter and devoured my treasured sandwich, along with some cold slaw and baked beans.  I was stunned and angry, but Gizmo licked her smiling lips and held back a belch.  He was then forever known as the BBQ Gremlin.

Smiley preceded Gizmo, and was a lake dog, who absolutely loved the water.  Gizmo, like the Gremlins character he was named after, avoided water, but faithfully guarded our home from intruders.  We would lock him in the front office, with a window overlooking the street, where he could bark at all passers-by.  His radar-like ears could hear from afar any “enemy” approaching.  Unfortunately, he was immune to potty training, though we tried everything, and chose to pee on the carpeting, which is why we would confine him to that space.  It was a small room, so we could afford to replace the carpeting on a regular basis.  He also liked to poop in shoes, so we had to warn our house guests.  Smiley, on the other hand, was outdoors most of the time by choice, so we didn’t have to buy Spot Shot by the case.  Smiley got his name from me, a childhood nickname that was hard to shake.  We thought by giving the name to the dog would make my friends think twice about calling me “Smiley.”  When they did, they would get a big, hairy dog in their lap and a slobbery kiss.  I was still called “Smiley,” despite the efforts to change the habit.  It wasn’t a bad name; it just wasn’t my name.

Tinker loves BBQ, too.  Her favorite restaurant in Austin was “Rudy’s.”  Just the mention of the name “Ruuuudys” sends her into a tizzy, even years after dining there.  It was not the best brisket in town, but it was dog and family friendly with an expansive backyard patio filled with picnic tables.   She would join us at the table like she belonged there, eating her meal off of waxed paper like the rest of us.  Portland is also dog-friendly but the rainy conditions are not always suitable for sitting outside with the pups.  Tinker got to go out to eat a lot more frequently in Austin.  Tinker’s new adopted sister, Roxie, died at a young age, so Tally then became the second member of our schnauzer family. Tally does not have Tinker’s voracious appetite, but enjoys any opportunity to be outside, and tends to favor fish and vegetables.  She’s always full of joy, and walks with the confidence of a race horse.

Tinker is part-schnauzer, part-poodle and very smart, but she’s getting old.  She’s very savvy on the streets, having to fend for herself in the woods.  She wisely ate acorns to keep her digestive track active.  I especially enjoy watching her move from shadow-to-shadow as we walk, keeping her paws cool on the exposed pavement. Tally, even at 7 years old, still has a lot of puppy-like energy and now confines her chewing to stuffed animals as opposed to furniture and shoes.  She’s left a lot of scars in the wood of our bed and coffee table that we’ve yet to have refinished.  They will always serve as memories of her first year with us, dealing with separation anxiety.  Adopted animals always come with issues, but there are so many homeless pets that it feels good to give them a solid home.  There are other stories of Tinker in posts #13, #33, #67, #76, and #130.  Tally is also the subject of these posts, plus #77: Chew on This – a favorite of mine.

Both dogs love to ride in our convertible, hoping that we’ll take them for ice cream.  We have to be careful about using the words “go” or “ride” because they will get too excited for words, and their tails and ears will drop like a starter’s flag if they find they are not accompanying us.  We also have to secretly pack our suitcases for travel so they don’t get disappointed.  They are spoiled, greedy little children if they don’t get their own way, and love to have their tummies rubbed, unless there’s a cookie or food scrap that would take immediate priority.   They also like the fact that I’m retired and can spend the afternoons with them.

As we plan to travel more in the future, Tinker and Tally will probably be our last dogs, but the gravitational tug to have a dog will always be in my wife’s nature.  It will be tough to not have them in our lives.  Probably the best time of day for both of our dogs is “Ham Time.”  They wait poised at the refrigerator after their final outing of the night, anxious for their bedtime snack of sliced ham.  For health reasons we’ve recently switched to sliced turkey breast, but as quickly as they chow it down, they’ll never know the difference.  When Tinker hears “ham time,” I’m sure she thinks of “Rudy’s.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Retirement is not without Hassles: Worn and Torn #130

I had some hassles with Google this morning that prevented me from adding any content.  I’ve since switched over to a different provider to allow me access to my site.  In the meantime, I spent some time this afternoon at the Vet with our dog Tinker.  She has a couple of lumps that seem to be interfering with her motion and comfort levels.  A couple hundred dollars later, we’re resting comfortably at home.  Pet. Vet. Debt.  (see post #67:  Schnauzer on Steroids).

I also had lunch with a friend. bought some office supplies, and tried to get some business cards ordered.  It’s only early June and I’ve already overspent my monthly retirement budget.  I’ll have to find some ways to conserve.  Our pets are expensive to keep healthy, but well worth the investment.  They are my steady companions at home, and I sometimes measure my own mortality based on the state of their health.

My wife had several cats and a dog, named Belle, when we first got together.  They would all keep a close eye on me during the courtship process.  Belle would have been 25 years old this year, and Macy the cat, who also eventually approved of me, would have turned 23.  They’re chewing on the Pearly Gates now, watching the progress of our new pet family consisting of Frankie 16, Tinker 12, and Tally 7.  Frankie was our first joint investment just before we got married.  Tinker was adopted as Belle’s companion, and Tally was adopted after we lost Roxie in an accident.  I’ve watched them all grow older with time passing quickly.

All of us feel a little worn and torn.  Tinker has especially been going through a rough time with allergies, ear infections, rashes, back problems, and lumps.  It’s a good thing I’m retired and have all this extra time to spend with the Vet.  Tally always enjoys tagging along to support her ailing sister.  Simple dog math puts Tinker in her 80’s, but “old age ain’t no place for sissies” as my mother used to say, quoting Bette Davis.  It’s hard to watch Tinker grow old, knowing that I’m growing old myself, and that someday I might need the help of a doctor.  I doubt that I will seek the help of a veterinarian, unless my ears start to itch.

 

Worn and Torn

I’m worn and torn,
From wear and tear.
I’ve lived too long,
It now seems unfair.

.

In-shape and fit,
Started out as a hunk.
Now my spirit is dead,
And my muscles all shrunk.

.

For too many years,
I just didn’t care.
After just a few steps,
Now, I’m sucking air.

.

Drinkin’ and Smokin’
More than I should.
Tastin’ and Eatin’
All that I could.

.

All those temptations,
I should have fought.
This Hangover has hung over,
Longer than I thought.

,

I’d sit on my ass,
Smokin’ a doob.
Watching others exercise,
On the boob tube.

.

I’ve been hard on myself,
And that’s made me soft.
At overindulgence,
I often scoffed.

.

Can’t give blood,
Cause I’m on medication.
I’ve set the standards,
Of our overweight nation.

.

I have a warm heart,
And a few good parts,
But my cholesterol,
Is off the charts.

.

Mark Antony’s quote,
“Lend me your ear.”
What’s that you say?
I can’t hear.

.

My smile is crooked,
And a few teeth missing.
And these wrinkled lips,
No longer worth kissing.

.

Do the eyes have it?
Not any more.
And who’d want a nose?
That does nothing but snore.

.

My voice is no louder,
Than most mimes.
And I’ve bitten my tongue,
Too many times.

.

When I die,
I want to share.
I’d donate my organs,
But who would care?

.

Copyright 2017 (revised from 2009)  johnstonwrites.com

 

 

 

Creature Features: Scaredy Cat #76

It was pretty quiet at home today without the dogs.  They are making their monthly visit to the spa (a.k.a. Urban Fauna) for playtime, a bath, and grooming.  Tally, our youngest schnauzer, loves to go! Tinker, on the other hand, just likes to go for a ride in the car, and then reluctantly enters the door.  There were no dogs to follow me around all day, no echoing barks, no stares of hunger, and no walk to Starbucks.  I might have been lonely had I not been to the car wash, the grocery store, the running store, and the fitness center.  There was also no one to share my cookies with!

When I pick them up in a couple of hours, I will take Frankie (old blue eyes), our cat, back to the vet for a quick (hopefully) follow-up visit.  Pet.Vet.Debt.  I will also restock on hypo-allergenic dog food.  Frankie is the senior member of our pet family, with us during the adoptions of both Tinker and Tally.  When each dog joined the family as a young pup, there was obviously an adjustment period, but Frankie is not the Scaredy Cat:

Scaredy Cat

Afraid of big dogs,

When they first meet.

She hides behind me,

Reluctant to greet.

.

Avert her eyes,

Or cover up.

Mostly because,

She’s just a pup.

.

She starts to cower,

Might even bark.

A Cowardly Lion.

A toothless shark.

.

Terrified of Fireworks,

Lightning and Thunder.

Looks for something,

To hide under.

.

Pull on her collar,

She’ll hit the skids.

She’s even cautious,

Of little kids.

.

She dodges balloons,

Skirts a trash bag.

Her ears will sag,

And tail won’t wag.

.

She’s a Fraidy cat,

A shadow makes her jump.

When she’s scared,

She’s a real grump.

.

Hides in the bushes,

Ready to pounce.

The slightest movement.

She’s off with a bounce.

.

Roar of a motorcycle,

She seeks refuge.

The slightest threat,

To her is huge.

.

She’s so scared,

She carries a stick.

In case her fear,

Has a fight to pick.

 

Sleeps in the corner,

With one eye open.

Maybe the boogey man,

Might come in?

 

Like the cartoon’s,

Scaredy Cat.

Worried of dis,

Afraid of dat.

 

She used to be brave,

No one was a stranger.

Now she views life,

As one big danger.

 

Her ears perk up,

She’ll start to growl.

Then she’ll let out,

A high-pitched howl.

 

She’d scamper off,

If she could.

Loud noises,

Are never good.

 

If there’s something,

Out of place.

She’s quick to do,

An about-face

 

She barks at the Roomba,

Protects her bone.

She even flinches,

At the ring of a phone.

 

But when she hears,

A cat’s soft purr.

The table’s turn,

It’s afraid of her.

.

johnstonwrites.com copyright 2014

Creature Features: Schnauzer on Steroids #67

Schnauzers are very high-strung dogs.  They follow you everywhere and bark at everything.  What happens when you add steroids?  The quick answer is that they do not hit more home runs, but they do have to pee more.  They also seem a bit more aggressive and protective.  It hasn’t gotten to the level of a classic, black & white, science fiction movie like “The Attack of the 50 Foot Woman,” where they’ve grown to abnormal size and can no longer fit in their dog beds.  Then they attack the refrigerator and Super Market, growing bigger and bigger in size, while looking for a giant fire hydrant.  “Schnauzer on Steroids,” will never get the Oscar for Sci-Fi Horror Films!

Our oldest schnauzer, Tinker, itches all the time.  We have had her tested for allergies which include egg, wheat, the common housefly, and most outdoor grasses.  The excessive dampness of the Northwest also probably doesn’t help either!  We’ve tried everything to relieve her scratching and licking, that becomes particularly annoying in the middle of the night.  I do now remove her collar before bedtime each night to keep her dog tags from rattling together and keeping us awake.  The poor dog’s paws are discolored from all the licking, and her ears sometimes bleed from scratching them so much with her claws.  We buy hypo-allergic dog food and try to feed her carrots as treats.  Nothing seems to work!   The Vet suggested Prednisone, so we’ve been slipping a tablet in her food each evening, and she’s probably wondering what’s going on?  We’re now in the process of weening her off the medication, so the tablets are currently on an every other day basis until the prescription runs out.

Prednisone is a steroid that makes her very thirsty.  We aren’t sure if it makes her any hungrier, because she’s always hungry!  Tinker is an adopted pup, now 10 years old, that was apparently abandoned at some point and had to fend for herself in the woods.  The Vet who was involved in the adoption told us that he found remnants of acorns in her stomach.  In his opinion, these helped keep her digestive track active when there was nothing else to eat.  It’s hard to deprive a dog with that history from good food, but she was also getting a little chunky.  She’ll eat her food and then go after Tally, our our schnauzer’s dish.  As a result, we’ve had to make some compromises with her food intake, while also being sensitive to her allergies.   Now, water has become an even bigger problem, as every bowl in the house is often dry.

You know what they say:  what goes in must come out.  Consequently, I have to take her outside more often now.  Fortunately, I’m retired, so I’m home to do that most days.  We’ve also had some emergencies in the middle of the night, and a couple of accidents.  Thank God for Scotch Guard!  When I finally do let her out, the stream of pee is seemingly endless, as I stand there watching relief fill her eyes.  Before we get back home, she’ll have to go again.  “What’s going on, Dad?” I’m sure she’d like to ask, and then it’s back to the water bowl.  Drink. Pee. Repeat.

I would like to resolve her bladder issues, just as I’d like to resolve my own, and I don’t take steroids.  As I’m up and down the hall all night long, I’m sure she thinks it’s her time to go outside each time.  We currently live in a condo, so we don’t have a back yard and a doggy door, so it’s all up to me. This was my penalty for not buying another home for my wife, the real dog lover, as we went through the downsizing process.  Drink, Pee. Repeat. It’s the same for both me and the dogs, a common bond between a beast and his master.   Sometimes, I’m not sure who’s the beast and who’s the master.  Drink. Pee. Repeat.  It’s like a washing machine cycle that never stops!

To make matters worse, the dog maintenance bills are out of control.  Pet. Vet. Debt. Repeat. The list includes special-diet dog food, ear medication, steroids, Benadryl,  Apoquel, check-ups, paw sprays, pill-pockets, and doggy bags (she also has to poop a lot).  Eat. Poop. Repeat. She may very well soon become the Million Dollar Dog.  Pet. Vet. Debt. Repeat.  I’ve made so many trips to the Vet, just since retirement, that it’s probably a good thing that I no longer have a full-time job.  I’m simply the Dog Sitter, with a dog that is currently trying to get my attention. Drink. Pee. Repeat.   The Horror of it all!

 

Old Sport Shorts: “Schwarber at the Bat” Casey revisited #64

Schwarber at the Bat

It’s been an up and down affair,,

The Cubs an early lead.

But the Tribe tied it up,

Extra innings was the need.

,

Bryant took the grounder,

Then slipped on the wet grass.

Would his throw get to Rizzo?

Or another sad year pass?

,

Let’s go back to the beginning,

A Hundred Eight years ago.

Tinker, Evers, and Chance,

Won it last, you know.

,

In fact, they won it back-to-back,

Cubs haven’t won it since.

All that talk of a curse,

Have kept fans in suspense.

,

There was no Wrigleyville back then,

Games at the West Side Grounds.

Overall and Mordecai,

Were flawless, so it sounds.

,

There was joy felt in Chicago,

Would it happen ever again?

Or would the Cubs strike out?

And never get that win?

,

Then along came Rizzo,

Bryant and Zobrist, too.

A closer named Chapman,

All wearing Cubbie Blue.

,

Jake, Kyle,  John, and Jon,

Took their places on the mound.

And the magician, Javy Baez,

Made the defense sound.

,

Russell handled shortstop,

Grandpa Ross behind the plate.

But the Mighty Schwarber,

Would sadly have to wait.

,

Let’s not forget Coach Maddon,

Or Epstein’s brilliant ways.

And thank the Rickett’s family,

For the “Fly the W” craze.

,

A Hundred Three wins later,

Put the Cardinals in their place.

Joy again in Wrigleyville.

They Won the Pennant race.

,

Then they took the Giants,

With the Dodgers next.

Now can they win the Series?

No sane fan should expect.

.

To Cleveland for game one,

With some hope it appears.

They haven’t won it either,

In the last seventy years.

.

Cubby spirits get a needed boost,

Mighty Schwarber’s at the bat.

But his double is not enough,

The Tribe clouts more than that.

.

Schwarber strikes harder,

And Jake wins game two.

But next day Cubs bats were silent,

No runs, and hits were few.

.

At last to Wrigleyville they go,

But down two games to one.

The stands are quiet at the end,

After the Kipnis home run.

.

No joy in Wrigleyville that night,

Cub chances growing thin.

The Indians were in command,

As Cory Kluber wins again.

.

As Game Five approached,

Tension filled Chicago’s air.

But Bryant slugged one deep,

One game closer to being square.

.

They could lose no more,

And expect to ever win.

Return to hostile Cleveland,

Can the Cubs prevail again?

.

Game Six little doubt,

Chapman’s arm overused?

But with Russell’s Grand Slam,

Indian confidence was bruised.

.

It was down to one game,

In a duel to be best.

Hendricks for the Cubs,

Kluber not much rest.

.

Chicago jumped out early,

Up by four in the Fifth.

By taking Kyle out,

Did the Tribe get a gift?

.

David Ross had made an error,

And Cleveland made him pay.

Then he homered next time up,

This hIs final game to play.

.

In the bottom of the Eighth,

Chapman showed his wear.

And had every Cubs fan,

On the edge of their chair.

.

Those Indians wouldn’t quit,

Rajai Davis tied the score.

But Chapman retired the side,

And wasn’t shown the door.

.

Two teams of such ill fate,

Only one would end their drought.

Two fly balls would end the Ninth,

Kipnis, like Casey, struck out!

.

And where was Wild Thing?

Cleveland fans might wonder.

Would this have a happy ending,

Or would it end in blunder?

.

The rain comes pouring down,

With no decision after Nine.

Heyward gave his pep talk,

Was this delay by design?

.

Once their wits were gathered,

The Cubs came out possessed.

They took the lead again,

And played their very best.

.

Mighty Schwarber a lead off single,

Junior’s pinch-run speedy wheels.

Zobrist earned an M.V.P.,

Then Migel Montero deals.

.

And would that be enough?

I guess we’ll finally know.

Montgomery got the grounder,

Bryant made the slippery throw.

.

Suspense  is where we left you,

Would Bryant’s throw fly true?

Or would the curse continue,

And leave Cubs’ fans more Blue?

.

I think you know the answer?

There’s no one left to blame.

The Cubs are now World Champions,

Wrigleyville will never be the same.

.

copyright May 2017 johnstonwrites.com

.

Here was the original “Casey at the Bat” poem, written in 1888:


Ernest Lawrence Thayer

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, “If only Casey could but get a whack at that—
We’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.”
.
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.
.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
.
There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile lit Casey’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Casey at the bat.
.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.
.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
“That ain’t my style," said Casey. “Strike one!” the umpire said.
.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand;
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, “Strike two!”
.
“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered “Fraud!”
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.
.
The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.
.
Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.
.






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