I provide these details so you can understand the poem that follows, a tradition on my family travels. 

We arrived late Wednesday in Oakland after a minimal fog-related delay on our Delta flight. Following a good night’s sleep, we lunched at the Hog Island Oyster Company, took the ferry to Alcatraz, walked by Fisherman’s Wharf, rode the trolly up to Chinatown, and squeezed into a packed BART back Oakland, stopping by Arthur Mac’s on the way home for pizza to go.

Friday was equally busy, beginning with brunch and a wine tasting in Sonoma at Jacuzzi and then more wine sampling at Gundlach Bundschu. Dinner was at the house. Oh, and my body staged a gaseous revolt against the generic Whole Foods cola that they served me instead of my regular Diet Coke morning caffeine boost. 

On Saturday morning, I met some college buddies at The Oakland Athletic Club and watched IU get humiliated by Auburn. Butler beat Cal in overtime on another overhead monitor as the Hoosier game tipped off. We then did some shopping in downtown Oakland and at a local Holiday Mart, had dinner at Jo’s Modern Thai, and watched the Pacers lose to the Lakers in the NBA’s inaugural In-Season Championship, followed by the movie, “Last Christmas.”

Sunday morning we enjoyed a Dim Sum brunch looking out over the Bay from the Hong Kong East Ocean Seafood restaurant. My son-in-law, Ben Lumm, then stood in line for two hours but failed to get a limited-edition BART Holiday Sweater. His wife, my wife’s daughter, was between 3-day shifts as a cardio PA. She had urged me to come to her Stanford employer for my upcoming heart surgery. The evening concluded with a bottle of Jacuzzi Montepulciano wine and games of Euchre and Code Names.

The girls went to Sausalito on Monday morning while Ben worked and I finished the book Unnatural Exposure by Patricia Cornwell. With my alarm set for a 2a run, we ate in and played more Euchre. Our first flight to Salt Lake took off on time at 6a, finally arriving home at 1:00a.

Oakland

Three flights there,

And three more back.

With barely enough time,

To do laundry and re-pack.

 

Time went by fast,

After gaining three hours.

Alcatraz Solitary,

Avoiding rain showers.

 

Pigged out at Hog Island,

Plus, Thai and Dim Sum.

Oakland hospitality,

From Ro and Ben Lumm.

 

Sonoma Wine Tasting,

And boy did it flow.

Met at AC with college buds,

But The Hoosiers didn’t show.

 

Rode the cable rails,

Up to Chinatown.

Stopped by Gumps,

And took BART down.

 

‘Last Christmas’ Movie,

Montepulciano and Port.

Binx was a hit,

But The Pacers fell short.

 

In line but no sweater,

After Holiday Mart.

Whole Foods Cola,

Makes me fart.

 

Maintained my streak,

Before morning light.

Working off more pizza,

From Thursday night.

 

Niners a winner,

Butler prevails.

Paint to dispose of,

The dishwasher fails.

 

Baking some brie,

New wreath on the door.

Mother and daughter,

Both I adore.

 

A poem about Mikey,

A night of games.

A family battle,

Of Euchre and Code Names.

 

Girls to Sausalito,

While I recap our stay.

Plane snacks and layovers,

As we fly home all day.

 

Our PA tried hard,

But not ‘leaving my heart.’

I’ll bring it back though,

For a fresh new start.

Copyright 2023 johnstonwrites.com 

I had another Hallmark moment, as I begin to write my own get-well cards. I will have to file it in the “Of Questionable Bad Taste” in my notebook. This one just took a few minutes to write after sitting in a file for many years. It simply needed a little inspiration, as I begin to plan for surgery. 

Same Old Fart

“Get off my lawn,”

Just playing the part.

After passing seventy,

I’m now an old fart.

 

Don’t need a new hip,

Or even two knees.

But need a new heart,

Despite no disease.

 

I’ve skipped the small stuff,

Gone right to the top.

Jumped right into surgery,

Without even a hop.

 

They’ll make me bionic,

With some pig parts.

I’ll be like those heartless,

Grumpy Old Farts.

 

Then, they’ll work on my eyes,

To help me better see.

And tweak my prostrate,

So I can freely pee.

 

With all these changes,

I’ll still be me.

But a whole lot poorer,

After doctor fees. 

 

They will poke and prod,

Make me pee in a cup.

Cut and paste,

Then stitch me up.

 

I’ll have to stop running,

Lifting heavy things.

Maybe the painkillers,

Will give me wings?

 

Recovery will be brutal,

As I show off my scars.

But better than the alternative,

So thanking my lucky stars.

 

Will this make me,

An even older fart?

Or will it give me,

A fresh youthful start?

 

Copyright 2023 johnstonwrites.com

We will hunger no more. 

Because Sandy got us a free bird,

From BJ’s discount store. 

Holly found the coupon, 

And you drove for miles.

Loaded up the free bird,

After fighting grocery aisles.

And with no place to store it,

Holly saved Thanksgiving Day.

By getting you a second frig,

Too much sh*t was in the way. 

Now you’ve got the space,

For more free birds next year.

And Karen will have more room,

To store some extra beer. 

As we admire your new lamp,  

And artwork on the wall.

We’ll finish off the free bird,

That wasn’t really free at all. 

Then, we’ll have more pie, 

But the bird you can now freeze,

After we devour the rest.

And we want to thank you, 

For making us your guest. 

It was free for all of us,

Without the restaurant check. 

A tryptophan nap will follow, 

At the cost of free bird’s neck. 

We have a neighbor couple, Rogers and Kim that are moving back to Texas in early November. They apparently move frequently, flipping homes and cars for a profit. There is a going away party for them this weekend, and I’ve been asked to write a poem. I don’t know Rogers well, just quick humorous exchanges as we see each other while walking our dogs (Sydney and Tally), having lunch with the Borrego Boyz, or at a neighborhood party. He’s good natured, from Missouri and both he and his wife are great Pickle Ball players, actively involved in the leagues here in our Islandwalk addition. My first course of action was to make fun of his name and tie him in with other famous Rogers (first or last name). My initial reference is to Rogers Hornsby, the Hall-of-Fame baseball player as is the only other person that I’m aware has the first name of Rogers. I then couldn’t resist the Mister (Fred) Rogers connection and included his quote at the end of the poem – like a good neighbor should. Also, when I thought of cowboys, Roy Rogers came to mind with his wife Dale Evans and dog, Bullet, who was always rescuing Timmy from the well. 

One of my first encounters with Rogers involved a common neighbor, who was illegally feeding the Sand Cranes and drawing alligators to our properties. He reported them to both our HOA and Fish & Wildlife, but Stu and Jan thought it was us. They eventually moved out, but the new people, who are also now gone, were dumping some of their trash in his cannisters that he didn’t take kindly to, among other things. 

Rogers has a two-piece band called the Paradise Pickers that practice in his garage and play at local events, including our “Meet the Neighbors” get togethers, where Kim once made delicious biscuits and gravy to share. The two of them once joked that afternoon retirement “naps” sometimes could involve more than just resting. I naturally included my favorite roast line, used at least three times in my poems, “Don’t come a knocking” to poke fun at their new, Explorer Van that often sits in their driveway. They were also victims of Hurricane Ian, stuck here with a need for propane, so they borrowed from some of the snowbirds that were out of town for the storm.

One of the favorite stories in the neighborhood was about a gator that decided to rest on a covered front porch. One of the braver neighbors chased it off with a leaf blower, and Rogers dressed as Crocodile Dundee to get a laugh at a later party. He was then a treasured target for the charitable dunk tank and recently underwent prostrate surgery, claiming that he now “pees like a teenager,” another hard to resist line that just had to be included in this roast. 

These are just a few of the explanations for some of the lines in this poem, for most of you that are not familiar with our Borrego Street antics. These stories will be a lifelong bond for all of us that live here. If you don’t think they’re funny, well, you had to be here! 

Rogers Roast 

A ballplayer named Hornsby,

Was the only Rogers I knew.

Until I moved to Islandwalk,

And met the two of you.

 

Rogers is a common surname,

But rarely used first.

People are confused,

Somehow you were cursed.

 

There are guys named Roger,

But few with an extra “s”

Why they named you Rogers,

I didn’t want to guess.

 

So I did some research,

Checked out all the specs.

It’s German for “famous spearman,”

But also slang for sex.

 

In our Borrego neighborhood.

It’s always a beautiful day

Call him Rogers, Mister,

Not Mister Rogers, okay

 

Paradise Pickers is his band,

But he can be very picky.

Adding your trash to his,

Can get a little sticky.

 

You raid our homes for propane,

Dress up like Crocodile Dundee.

Violate the HOA rules,

And now boast about your Pee.

 

Plus, there were a lot,

Of neighbors who thunk.

That you just needed,

A good old-fashioned dunk. 

 

We’ll miss your Ozark charm,

And your music talents, too.

There’s no birds in our backyard,

Thanks for tattling on Jan and Stu.

 

It was once suggested,

That we all pull up a chair.

And cheer out on your driveway,

While you practice inside there.

 

So many cars and homes,

Yet to be flipped and found.

You’re really very lucky,

That Kim’s still around.

 

She’s the quieter of you two,

Except with paddle in hand.

Please bring me more biscuits,

Your gravy’s really grand.

 

If they had named you Roy, Rogers,

Then Kim would now be Dale.

Syd to the rescue like Bullet,

Your theme song: Happy Trails.

 

You’ll ride off in the sunset,

In your silver Explorer van.

Packed with Pickle ball trophies,

Farewell to that Florida tan.

 

You both admit to nooner “naps,”

So please don’t go a Knockin’

Especially when you notice,

That their van’s a Rockin’

 

“Neighbors are people who are close to us and close to our hearts.” – Mister Rogers 

You’ll both forever be our neighbor!

Copyright 2023 johnstonwrites.com

 

My hands shake uncontrollably as I write this and a lack of coordination with my keystrokes means a frustrating effort to complete every thought without making constant corrections. Writing these was once fun but now really more of a challenging chore as the perfectionist in me tries to construct proper sentence accuracy. I’m also trying to write with just one eye, the other bandaged after yesterday’s trip to the cornea specialist, Dr. Kane. 

A Covid Booster, multiple blood tests, several IVs, prescription drugs, catheterizations, probes in all possible bodily cavities, electrodes, urine samples, eye tests, doctor consults, heart monitors, cornea polishing, and x-rays sum up my week of medical hell. Naturally, they found more than originally expected, including a badly calcified aortic valve that needs to be replaced. Nothing like getting a lifetime of surgical procedures in a few short weeks. 

I’ll be bionic, even trionic, and currently thoroughly saturated with numerous pain-numbing tonics. Any personal privacy that I may have once enjoyed has be exposed and violated. Body parts have been shaved, cameras inserted, measurements taken, vitals recorded, and insurance reports filed. I visited with at least seven different physicians this week, not to mention their support staff that measured weight, height, temperature, medication usage, blood pressure, iron levels, heart rate, drinking or smoking habits, allergies, toilet habits, frequency of sex, and family history, to mention just a few of the endless questions that they ask of us. Who knows what they did to me while I was out cold? 

I do get the weekend to recover, but my right eyelid is taped shut and an embryonic membrane covers my eye, leaving me with depth perception difficulties, light sensitivity, a watery discharge, and limited visibility. Xanax and eyedrops somewhat relieve the stinging and itching, but discomfort is the norm, like a severe cornea abrasion or a needle in my eye. At least, they only had to smooth the surface of one eye, not both as I originally anticipated. Getting my extremities to move to run this morning was daunting and maintaining a straight line forward on unstable legs took a great deal of focus. Nonetheless, I completed my minimum mile in just under a cautious 16-minutes and added a few more tenths for good measure. Tomorrow should be easier, but all the tests and early morning appointments that have limited my mileage will put me at only about 30 total miles halfway through October and 765 for the year. 

My wife was covering for me last night at a neighborhood meet-and-greet that we organized before we got wind of this unexpected ocular procedure. She also found another acquaintance to go with her for tomorrow night’s theatre fundraiser. I’ll take one more pain pill to knock myself out for the night before attempting to fulfill another groggy morning’s run obligation. Right now, I feel sluggish and a bit depressed, but certainly not due to missing the party or theater. Instead, I watched the Beckham documentary on Netflix out of my good eye. 

The Braves, Orioles, Dodgers, and Twins are already out of the playoffs. The hated Bryce Harper has led  the Phillies into the NLCS, while my favorite player, Kyle Schwarber, has yet to contribute to the historical Philadelphia home run barrage.

While I wait for the Phils to move on, baseball will keep me entertained this healing weekend, along with college/NFL football, and potential I.U. basketball recruit announcements.  However, as my right eye continues to burn, I find myself reflecting on a story and poem that I wrote many years ago.

My poor mom, worried about a note, written in an unreadable scribble from a visiting eye doctor and relayed to me from school nurse to take home. Mom could only make out the words, “Morso in the right eye,” thinking it sounded like some uncurable disease. She spent most of the weekend at the library worried and trying to research what this mysterious malady was before Monday finally came and she was able to get ahold of the nurse. We all had to laugh!

MORSO

“Moreso” The Doctor’s report,
Made Mom cry.
Morso detected,
In her son’s right eye.

What went wrong,
With my son’s eye?
If he has Morso,
Can he die?

It must be bad,
If I read it right.
Will it affect,
His precious sight?

I’ve never heard,
Of this disease.
I beg of you,
Help him please.

In a panic,
Need explanation.
What is Morso?
Give Clarification.

There’s no such thing,
“I didn’t write Morso.”
Said the doctor,
Who should know.

It reads “more so,”
Didn’t mean to scare,
One eye’s weaker,
When you compare. 

My silly mistake,
I now concede.
Doctor’s handwriting,
Hard to read.

Just needs glasses,
To improve his sight.
Both eyes tested poorly,
But “more so” in right.

Copyright 2011 johnstonwrites.com 

I found it ironic that the cornea polishing that I just endured was performed solely on my right eye. Once again, its damage was “more so” than that in my left. Despite this chuckle, I’m still reminded of my torturous fraternity initiations during Hell Week. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

;

It’s always good to hear from a former co-worker, and Facebook has been a great way to preserve those friendships.  I sent Tammy a birthday greeting, about the only way we stay in touch anymore. We weren’t close friends but I wrote many going away poems for the staff at the radio station in Portland where we both worked. She apparently never got a poem, and jokingly asked for one in her response to my “Happy and Healthy Birthday” message.  I was both honored and surprised by her request, remembering my contributions to our friends, so I quickly complied:

Tammy

You stayed at Alpha,

Far too long.

Making the “Great Eight,”

Before moving along.

 

Ayn, Al, Cathy, Jaylene,

Jeana, Jim, Nicole & you.

Remained in the nest,

When I finally flew.

 

Then Al said goodbye,

A poem his request.

I wrote Twenty-two,

All in jest.

 

What’s one more,

As I look back.

It’s your birthday,

I’ll take another whack.

 

Three years now,

At Brown & Brown.

Unlike me,

You stayed in town.

 

As Facebook friends,

I see your smile.

But face-to-face,

It’s been awhile.

 

Maybe at an airport,

We’ll cross paths again?

And when in Florida,

Please stop in!

 

Your name comes up,

Every day without fail.

After all, we live on,

The Tamiami Trail.

Copyright 2023 johnstonwrites.com

 

 

Over the past few posts, I’ve recounted our long drive back to Indiana for a wedding and funeral. In the meantime, we missed Hurricane Idelia, evacuating well. Most of the references in this recap poem were alluded to in these reports but the names may or may not have been changed to protect the innocent. 

Road Rations 

Truist Park.

Hot-lanta Braves,

Amanda’s house,

Artwork raves.

 

Lodge cast iron,

Big Bad Breakfast.

River House dinner,

Recalling Egypt’s past.

 

The curb had no mercy,

Tire Pressure light a pain.

Rocky Raccoon sighting,

When will we hit rain?

 

Baseball, Bourbon, & Bats,

Wedding & Funeral await.

Louisville Slugger Factory,

And Evan Williams date.

 

Freddy’s for lunch,

Bio Mom nearby.

Joanie in Nashville,

Bloomington drive-by.

 

Pumpkin bars & caramels,

Flushed with Diet Coke.

BLTs and Burgers,

Weight loss plans a joke.

 

Hoosier Tenderloins,

Indy friends to meet.

We’d already had,

Too much to eat.

 

Brunch at Ruth’s Café,

For a Beatle’s song.

“All you need is Love,”

We all sang along.

 

Bottleworks vows,

Cookies not cake.

I’d already had,

A spin on the lake.

 

The lyric-off winner,

Denise proved wise.

A shot of tequila,

Bobby 2’s demise.

 

Bobby 1 calmed,

His angry son.

As Claire and Shawn,

Got ‘er Done!

 

Miranda was the DJ,

But the music was faint.

So no dancing Dan,

And the Outlaw no saint.

 

We had as much fun,

As old age would allow.

The “life of the party,”

Mitch met his vow.

 

West Fork Whiskey,

My Birthday pour.

Along with some Nike’s,

And fire pit s’mores.

 

Oliphant Hospitality,

Sahm’s and Capri.

Many old acquaintances,

At the viewing to see.

 

Onward to Huntsville,

Buc-ee’s for brisket.

Just after digesting,

A Cracker Barrel biscuit.

 

Banisters at Connor’s,

Then stayed an extra night.

As Hurricane Idalia,

Showed her might.

 

Cheesecake Factory salad,

Tasteless movie “Strays.”

P.F. Chang’s encore,

Little to do but graze.

 

Detour to Dothan,

And the giant peanut.

Pepto Bismol tablets,

For the rumble in my gut.

 

Texas Roadhouse ribs,

With hot buttered rolls.

McMuffins and Shakes,

Glad we’re home – I’m full!

 

Copyright 2023 johnstonwrites.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

Most of my friends welcomed retirement, but some people just don’t ever want to stop. They either don’t know what to do after leaving the workforce or they can’t come up with another excuse for avoiding social engagements. This particular friend deliberated for years about retirement and finally reluctantly pulled the plug. She was a co-worker of mine in the radio business, went onto Indianapolis print publications like Hot Potato Magazine and the IBJ, started her own health food store called The Good Stuff, and ultimately went on the road for years selling natural foods, vitamins, supplements, and other health related products. Her older husband was a popular Indy DJ, voice talent, and race car owner. Our mutual friend, Peter, and I send her a friendly bird when we get together without her. She is the second friend to have requested a poem in the last month. Here was my response: 

Retirement Requirement 

You were a Hot Potato,

And had the Good Stuff.

But now you think,

You’ve had enough.

 

Plus, radio and racing,

Have been very good to you.

It’s time for retirement,

And little required to do.

 

You married a DJ,

But really your job.

And you became,

A health-food snob.

 

Vitamins and minerals,

Became your passion.

And whatever nutrients,

Happened to be in fashion.

 

You were a pusher,

Of veggies and fish oil.

To the Organic cause,

You’ve remained loyal.

 

Your health gig is up,

You’re on your own.

No more meetings,

Or sales by phone.

 

No more alarm clock,

Forget the Vegas show.

Now your email message,

Reads forever OOO.

 

If you get on a plane,

It should be for fun.

But mostly just enjoy,

The Cambria sun.

 

Long walks with Tashi,

Time alone with Griff.

Supplement those supplements,

Or your joints will get stiff.

 

Here’s to Alice’s Restaurant,

WKRP reruns, too!

Turkey and Tequila,

Happy Trails to you.

 

A long finger salute,

From Peter and I.

It’s just retirement,

Not a last goodbye.

Copyright 2023 johnstonwrites.com

After several silly delays, including a first officer that got locked out of the jetway while trying to join the crew on our plane, we arrived in Portland about 2a (5a at home). We still had to get our luggage, find the Enterprise Rental desk, and drive to my stepdaughter’s new home. Needless to say, I got to bed about the same time I normally wake up, with very little sleep.

By 9a I was doing the daily run, choosing a middle school track over the hilly roads surrounding it. However, the temperature was much cooler, so I went a little further at a pace that was nearly a minute faster. When I returned to the house, my clothes were not uncomfortably soaked in sweat. I was home again in Portland.

Today, I’ll see some familiar sights, starting with a friendly lunch at the Lake Oswego Grill. The temps have been hot here, as well, considering that this athletic dude did his annual bike ride from Seattle to Portland and couldn’t finish, consumed by 90-degree heat. After lunch, I’ll swing by Plaza Cleaners for a pair of pants apparently left behind two-years ago in our move to Florida. Dinner will be at Ling’s Garden, the Asian restaurant that we frequented while living in our Portland apartment and dealing with Covid.

I made arrangements to visit a former co-worker’s home on Sunday after a wedding weekend that starts tomorrow. There will be many long-lost faces in attendance, with probably a few surprises. We’re staying at the Tillamook Shilo Inn, a rare deviation from our Marriott lodging. Tillamook is of course famous for its Cheese and right down the road is Netart’s Bay, known for its oysters and the home of my about to be married buddy of 55 years.

I wrote this poem for his wedding toast, taking into account our friendship extending from hometown Elkhart (“City with a heart”) to I.U. and finally into Oregon. I’m making fun of his R.V., likely built in our our Hoosier backyard, and the trip we took together to Italy with ex-wives:

Wedding Roast

Rog and I go back 55 years,

From the city with a Heart.

Blazers and Hoosiers,

Choir was our start.

 

We could have had,

Mobile home careers.

But Roger chose,

Instead to steer.

 

It’s often parked,

In his driveway.

Overlooking,

Netarts Bay.

 

But when traffic is slow,

We often say:

Must be a “Rog,”

Blocking the way.

 

We’ve traveled abroad,

Back in the day.

With other women,

Let’s just say.

 

You showed me,

The Amalfi Coast.

So I offer you,

This silly roast.

 

We once saw the Pope,

Mowing his lawn.

He had his shirt off,

Showing Holy brawn.

 

In an Italian rental,

Speaking of scares.

You nearly guided me,

Down a set of stairs. 

 

But enough about us,

Let’s talk about them.

Roger and Christina,

Together again.

 

40 years ago,

They dated two years.

But missed 38 more,

Due to commitment fears.

 

Destiny has intervened,

So FEAR NOT.

They now get a second shot,

And have tied Love’s knot.

 

No more glitches,

Two point Oh.

We’re all delighted,

As you two know.

 

Here’s to the Millers,

Or did she make you Hoell?

With this latest version,

Your lives grew full. (Or whole)

 

We wish you the best,

And don’t come knockin’

Especially when,

That “Rog” is rockin’.

 

If up to me,

I’d end right there.

But Denise insists,

There’s more to share.

 

To Roger and Christina,

A toast to 2.0.

May you spend your golden years,

Basking in love’s glow.

Copyright johnstonwrites.com

To be continued…..;…