I’m a movie buff.  I could probably sit all day and watch movies, but fortunately this viewing only happens in streaks.  Even with the time that I have available in retirement, movie-watching involves absolutely no activity.  When the time comes for me to stop moving, movies will become my retirement staple.  In the meantime, I want some fresh air and to feel my heart beat.  However, in recovering from a cough and cold, I’ve watched at least one movie every day for the past week.

I had a night out with the boys last evening.  It was pretty wild, involving a book-signing with author Dennis Lehane, a burger & beer, some reminiscing while reviewing an Eighth Grade Yearbook, and a ticket purchase plan for the Phil Knight basketball tournament over Thanksgiving weekend.  It was also a “late” night, staying out until almost 9:30 p.m.  We got the tickets this morning.  It was an easy logistical decision, considering our last big basketball tournament get together was in Maui.  In this case, we only have to travel across the river.  It may interfere some with our wine-tasting activities that weekend, a tradition for most Portlandians.

Dennis Lehane, author of “Gone Baby, Gone,” “Shutter Island” and “Mystic River,” was very accommodating to our small group of fans.  He autographed my copy of “Shutter Island” and shared a few laughs with me.  He comes to Portland often from his new home in L.A., strictly in support of Powell’s Bookstores.  All three of these best-selling books have been made into movies that were part of this recent movie “mini-marathon.”  I wanted to refresh my memory on these thrillers before attending his signing.  It’s a good thing I did, since I couldn’t recall even a single frame of any of the three!  It was kind of sad, not from an “old-age” standpoint, but rather that my memory banks have never been able to store movie or book trivia.  The great thing is that can watch or read any story as if I’ve never engaged with it before, so I’ll never run out of either form of entertainment. (See post #94 Mystic Memory).

We also went to see “Wonder Woman” in the theater this past weekend, and watched two other “on demand” movies, but, in true form,  I can’t remember what they were?  I do have them written down so you’ll know eventually.   I can barely remember that today I watched, “Shadow of a Doubt,” a Hitchcock movie from 1943 starring Joseph Cotten and Teresa Wright, although details are slipping away quickly.   Honestly,  I still had to look this information up again to write this, emphasizing further my memory deficiencies.   I seem to only remember numbers and statistics, dating back to childhood and the serial number on the “lift for shower” lever in the bath tub – 18095672022875.  Frightfully, I can still see it in my mind.  Dennis Lehane mentioned that “Shadow of a Doubt” was his favorite Hitchcock, so I wrote that down last night and rented it today.

There was a time when I couldn’t focus on a black & white movie, so I’ve got a lot of catching up to do in this category.  Only in the past couple of years have I learned to enjoy these classics, and regret that I waited so long.  My wife and I watched the “Feud” series on FX, involving Joan Crawford and Bette Davis.  I sadly had to Google that too, but if you want to refresh your memory see Post #42.  Both “What Ever Happened to Baby Jane” and “Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte” spurred my current interest in B&W productions.   I would also like to see “Mommy Dearest” if this current “movie-mode” continues.

Lehane’s latest novel, “Since We Fell,” is also destined to become a movie.  His talk last night inspired me to read his first three books, leading into “Gone, Baby Gone.”  Main characters, Patrick Kenzie and Angela Gennero, first appear in “A Drink Before the War,” followed by “Darkness, Take My Hand,” and “Sacred.”  He’s becoming one of my favorites, but will never surpass Sue Grafton and her alphabet series:  “Y is for Yesterday”  will be released soon and “Z,”  once it’s published will be Z End.  I will always treasure my “M is for Mike” autograph.  It came from a friend and supplier while I was still working in the television business.  She was at a private dinner at Sue Grafton’s home that was the high bid in a Chicago fundraiser, and had Sue personalize “M is for Murder” with my name.  It is a much appreciated gift.

As a writer-in-training, it’s great to share a connection with successful writers.   I hope it will rub-off some day.  My office is full of autographed sports memorabilia and signed first-edition books.  I will say that I have a lot better chance of becoming a notable writer than I do of becoming a noteworthy athlete.   In the meantime, I will enjoy a successful retirement of traveling, watching movies, reading books, staying healthy, and sharing my good fortune.

I enjoy watching movies with my wife, and I dug up this silly poem from years ago.  Not one of my best, but crafted over 15 years ago.  It probably should be updated with current movie titles, and, to no ones surprise,  I don’t really remember some of the connections.   Pass the popcorn please!

Movies

Our romance growing daily,

like the magic of a movie.

Others envy what we have,

It’s  Austin Powers groovy.

.

So… in love for Life,

Signs of Proof are there.

On A Walk To Remember,

Oceans of memories to share.

.

Getting better every sunrise,

a scenic Road that never ends.

Won’t ever be Unfaithful,

Breaking never -only bends.

.

What we have together,

I’ll never Cast Away,

Let jealousy destroy us,

Or silly Spy Games play.

.

Lips as sweet as American Pie,

And such A Beautiful Mind.

Eyes so Wide and Bright,

Hearts like yours a precious find.

.

I’ll never be a Grinch,

and more a Family Man.

As far as Ya-Ya Sisterhood,

I’ll do the best I can.

.

Let’s strive for Serendipity,

and stay away from Wars.

You’re my wish upon a Star,

even when I’m stuck in stores.

.

Protecting you from Monsters,

like the hero Spiderman.

But when Down or doubtful,

Your words to me: “you can.”

.

Not Mr. Deeds or Ripley,

instead your Mr. Right.

Not K-Pax or K-19,

K-iss and K-eep me warm tonight.

.

From Mothman and Cocoon,

to Kate and Leopold.

A lifetime full of movies,

to watch as we grow old.

.

As it’s too hot to be outside,

we’ll rent a tape or DVD.

And cuddle on the sofa,

Just you and Shrek and me.

.

Pretending to be Soldiers,

Or 15 Minutes of fame.

Learning just What Women Want,

And what’s that actors name?

.

To watch The Rookie pitch,

Or Wonder Boy at bat.

Join Hannibal for dinner,

See Greeks get Big and Fat.

.

Wanting more of Harry Potter,

And a better Royal laugh.

Men in Black was worth the Money,

Cut X-Men’s length in half.

.

Your Beauty indescribable,

The Sum of all desires.

And when sparks begin to fly,

They’re more like Forrest fires.

.

Your favorite stars in Hollywood,

like Gibson, Ford, and Gere.

Though sexy on the big screen,

I’m your leading man, my dear.

.

Copyright 2002 johnstonwrites.com

Today is June 6th – D-Day, and I couldn’t let today pass without another tribute to our soldiers.  After my recent visit to France and Omaha Beach, it’s now top-of-mind for me.  A bottle of sand from Omaha Beach sits on my desk as a daily reminder of what a bad day is really like, and what a good day it really is as a result of our freedom achieved by the men and women who serve our country.  I’ve written two other posts (#89 D-Day revisited and #93 Memorial Day) to express my gratitude to these heroes.

Many families have loved-ones who are currently serving our country.  Our next-door neighbor has left her daughter and husband to serve our country in Germany, and will not return home until the Holidays.  I don’t know them well, but appreciate the sacrifices that the entire family is making.  We hear stories every day of soldiers separated from their homes, joyous reunions as they return, and tragic tales of loss.   I think of my mom, waiting for my dad to return from WWII, and my grandmothers waiting for my grandfathers, who both served in WWI.  Fortunately, they all came home.

I went to a friend of mine’s home a few years back and there was a “service banner” near the front door, blue star on a white background with a red border.  I had not seen one before, so I asked its significance.  He said that a “Blue Star” is a reference to having a family member in active military service, while a “Gold Star” refers to the loss of a family member in military service.  His son was then serving in Afghanistan, so the banner was a tribute to him.  He also told me that they were about to add a second blue star for their daughter, who had just enlisted.  Two children to worry about, so far away from home – it was hard to imagine.  I wrote this poem to show my support:

The Star

There are Stars among us,

And most don’t even know.

And when we think about it,

Tears quite often flow.

.

Some are tears of gratitude,

Others stream from fear.

Brave heroes keep us free,

Loved ones we hold dear.

.

Some are home already,

Others lost for good.

People that we work with,

Or from our neighborhood.

.

While they’re away from us,

A symbol in their stead.

Blue Star on White,

Outlined in Red.

.

Hanging in the window,

Our Star is shining bright.

We hope it keeps him safe,

Makes him strong to fight.

.

A sense of pride and honor,

A sacrifice we’ve made.

As parents of a soldier,

We wish he could have stayed.

.

We dearly love our country,

Knowing Peace is hard to find.

We would go in his place,

Instead we’re left behind.

.

Although we aren’t there with him,

He’s always on our mind.

In waiting for his next call,

Somehow strength we find.

.

We’ve seen him grow into a man,

We’ve taught him all we know.

Proudly dressed in uniform,

So hard to watch him go.

.

Now we’re doing double-duty,

As our Star becomes a pair.

His sister joins the Service,

A family affair.

.

Two Stars in the window,

Hanging side by side.

Two proud parents,

Home alone inside.

.

Clinging to the cell phone,

Used to having them around.

Daily hoping for a sign,

That each is safe and sound.

.

Each time they call or write,

Relief is short but grand.

We pray for our reunion,

Safe on this Texas land.

.

Until our Stars come into view,

And the twinkle of life returns.

A black hole in our soul,

Makes our stomachs churn.

.

Nothing’s as important,

Our family’s number one.

These Stars will shine upon us,

Until this fight is won.

.

Copyright johnstonwrites.com 2009

Whether you’re retired or still working, “Happy Hour” is a good way to end any day – much like retirement it really doesn’t matter which day it is.  I’m headed to one later this afternoon after a few more college baseball games and some time in the sun to work up a thirst.

In one of my very first posts (#4 Am I retired yet?), I introduce my theme song, “After Work is anytime for me now.”  It was originally written in a time of unemployment, so it had some dark edges about loneliness, drug abuse, and depression.  In retirement I’m beyond the blues, and wanted a happier version, but the original is still my favorite:

After Work Is Anytime For Me Now (retirement version)

Let’s meet after work,
My friends used to say.
For me now that’s anytime,
I’m free every day.

I’ve just retired,
Got plenty of time.
Buy me a drink?
On your working dime.

After work is anytime,
For me these days.
Commune with nature,
Enjoy the sun’s rays.

No mass of e-mails,
Or appointment requests.
Time to myself,
No more drug tests,

Ignore the phone,
And the alarm clock.
It’s time for me,
To start selling stock.

After work is anytime,
For me now.
Finding new ways to keep busy,
Just don’t ask me how?

A weekend not my goal,
My days are now my own.
Everyday’s the same,
I like it all alone.

After work is anytime,
For me now.
Finding new ways to keep busy,
Just don’t ask me how?

Copyright 2017 johnstonwrites.com

One of the by products of drinking Diet Coke, or any carbonated beverage for that matter, is excessive gas.  I’m sure you’ve all chanted or sang some version of this playground rhyme:

“Beans, Beans the musical fruit,

The more you eat, the more you toot.

The more you toot, the better you feel.

So let’s have beans for every meal!”

They say there is a high amount of oligosaccharides in beans – causing flatulence.  Another version starts:

“Beans, Beans, are good for your heart,

The more you eat, the more you fart.”

Any way you look at it – it’s silly potty humor, that should be beyond us fellow retirees.  Right?

Wrong.  It still makes me chuckle, even though in retirement, they seem to be more difficult to control.  Also, in some cases you wish you were wearing a “Depends.”

To prove that even in my older, more mature years, that I can still resort back to frat humor at any time, I’ve written my own version of a fart poem:

The Famous Fartist

Funny thing happened,
As I’m sitting there.
An embarrassing noise,
And a hot blast of air.
.
It came out of nowhere,
All eyes turned to me.
I wanted to hide,
I think you’d agree.
.
So I looked behind me,
To diminish the blame.
But they didn’t fall for it,
And I felt the shame.
.
A cloud of foul odor,
Surrounded me.
And the people nearby,
Started to flee.
.
We all know what happens,
After drinking a beer.
What goes in, comes out,
The sequence is clear:
.
Carbonation,
Relaxation.
Flatulation,
Jubilation.
.
When in a public restroom,
It can echo through the stalls.
But they don’t know it’s me,
Since I’m hidden behind walls.
.
Some like to Tweet,
I like to Toot.
Most are disgusted,
But I find it cute.
.
I do it on purpose,
Because it feels good.
If I could do it more often,
I certainly would.

.

Most are private moments,
As I try to be discreet.
But sometimes it just happens,
Depending on what I eat.
.
I enjoy the rumble,
As it begins to pass.
But the after-effects,
Can often be quite crass.
.
So under the sheets,
Is not a good plan.
No way to escape,
And no exhaust fan.
.
It’s a common fact,
That farting is a blast.
Unless of course it’s you,
That ends up getting gassed.
.
Farts make me laugh
I think they’re funny.
Except for the ones,
That come out runny.
.
I can send an S.O.S.,
Or be a motor boat.
Can conduct a symphony,
And hit most any note.
.
Some say that I possess,
The skills to be an artist.
Perhaps I’ll be remembered,
As The Famous Fartist.

.
copyright johnstonwrites.com

I grew up in Elkhart, Indiana, the mobile home capital of the world.  Is that something to be proud of?  The city was also the band instrument manufacturing capital and the home of Alka-Seltzer.  Is that better?  It was also home for me and always will be.  I don’t get back there very often any more, but I still have family in the area.  It was a unique manufacturing area, with a sharp division between the very rich and the very poor.  My family was neither, but I got a little taste both wealthy and middle-to-lower class lifestyles.  The upper class lived on the rivers and lakes, while the middle class settled in sprawling neighborhoods.  The lower class lived in trailers that evolved into mobile homes and eventually into manufactured housing.

Most everyone who grew up there had some connection to the mobile home industry, but nobody wanted to live in one.  If you did, you were probably the brunt of cruel jokes and maybe even called “trailer trash.”  If you owned a Recreational Vehicle (RV), then that vaulted you into a slightly higher class because it was typically parked in your driveway or yard, meaning you also owned a home.  However, there were so many different models of RVs, from small campers to luxury motor homes, that status was a relative measure.  The wealthy, for example, never parked their luxury motor homes anywhere near their home or even their second home, knowing that the neighbors would object.  In some of the middle class neighborhoods the RV parked in the driveway was actually bigger than the home.  It was also many times parked next to a boat and multiple cars because the garage was full of motorcycles, snow mobiles, and other toys.

My parents did not own an RV or have any “junk” cluttered around the yard that might interfere with the sprinkling system.  But, as we all know, “one man’s junk is another man’s treasure.”  My grandparents, for example, owned both a house and two mobile homes throughout their retirement years.  One mobile home was by a lake in lower Michigan and the other, a double-wide, was on a bay near the Florida Gulf.  Their home was nothing more than a pit stop on their seasonal journeys back and forth.  I’m sure they perceived themselves as very rich!

I will always remember that in Florida, there was a double-wide sitting directly on the Bay with a beautiful sunset view.   The small lawn around it was immaculate and the flowers and landscaping unmatched by anyone else in the park housing mostly retirees.  The couple that lived in it was well liked in the neighborhood, and played with me as if I was their own grand child.   I always wanted to live in a special place like theirs.

I spent many a weekend and vacation in these mobile homes.  It was a lesson of survival in a cramped space, even inside the double-wide.  Fortunately, they were located no where near where my friends could make fun of me.  Plus, the friends I made on these family getaways also lived in mobile homes, so status was determined a relative manner. Who had the nicest trailer in the park?  I found it to be a microcosm of life in general, and taught me that status symbols are measured strictly through the eyes of the beholder.  Try to make fun of that!

Considering my roots in trailer country, I’ve heard all the pros and cons of owning one.  There are nice ones that the owners take great pride in and maintain accordingly, but there are also the eyesores.  Here’s my humorous take on the dark side of mobile home living:

The Nicest Trailer in the Park

I own the nicest trailer,
In the whole damn Park.
Though it looks better,
After it gets dark.
.
Cause then you can’t see,
All the rust and dents.
But a newer model,
Just makes no sense.
.
There’s an elderly couple,
That lives down the way.
The own the lot,
That sits on the Bay.
.
Nice landscaping,
A new double-wide.
But unlike mine,
No bar inside.
.
A big satellite dish,
Doesn’t sit in their yard.
And they don’t have,
A junk yard dog.
.
No car on blocks,
No stray cat.
No bird droppings,
On the welcome mat.
.
These are the things,
That make it mine.
Home Sweet Home,
As it says on the sign.
.
It keeps the rain out,
Though the roof may sag,
The frig keeps the beer cold,
And the carpet’s shag.
.
The floor’s not level,
Cause one tire’s flat.
And underneath,
Lives a big old rat.

.

The lock is broken,
And my neighbor is a jerk.
Gray tape fixed one,
And the other doesn’t work.
.
The bugs can’t get out,
I’ve patched the screens.
As you can see,
I live over my means.
.
It’s a prime lot,
With the best view.
She’s a sight to see,
But a mother of two.
.
Indoor plumbing.
Is one of my goals.
Right after I repair,
Those bullet holes.
.
The maid hasn’t been here,
Since I can remember.
The lights are still up,
But it’s not December.
.
It’s paid for you know,
Though the propane is low.
And when I want to move,
I’ll just get a tow.
.
There are curtains to hang.
And bed bugs to kill.
For the lucky person,
Who’s in my will.
.
So bill collectors,
Don’t come a knockin’.
Especially when,
My trailer’s rockin’

.

Copyright 2011 johnstonwrites.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We’re off to see “Wonder Woman,” another D.C. Super Hero.  The character first appeared in All Star Comics #8, dating back to October of 1941.  She’s now 76 years old and should have been collecting Social Security at least 10 years ago, however Gal Gadot makes her look pretty good in the film.

As my memory gets more and more foggy each year, I was reminded of the phrase, “the older you get, the better you were.”  What that means is that in your mind, you could have been a Super Hero – and who today would question your super powers from years ago?

Most all of my accomplishments were in the pre-computer days, so I could be as fast, strong, or smart as my resume claims that I am.  It just doesn’t matter any more does it?

Here’s my poetic take on it:

 

Super Hero

The older you get,

The faster time goes.

Anyone who’s been there,

And done that…knows.

.

Many a decision,

Is made on the spot.

You just have to know,

When to take your shot.

.

Don’t hesitate,

Bask in the sun.

Take it in now,

Have some fun.

.

From the moment you’re born,

Until your last day.

Don’t let “I can’t,”

Get in your way.

.

Time will fly by,

Middle age will pass.

Make some memories,

Get off your ass.

.

Cause when you get older,

You’ll start to reminisce.

And you’ll be sorry,

For chances you miss.

.

Just go out and do it,

Grab the brass ring.

Then you’ll never regret,

Having missed a thing.

.

Sometimes success,

But often you’ll fail.

And you’ll try to recall,

Every detail.

.

But if you miss out,

It won’t really matter.

Your memory fades,

As you grow fatter.

.

The older you get,

The better you were.

Your flaws from the past,

Become a big blur.

.

You were faster,

Sexier and stronger.

So Much Braver,

And lasted longer.

.

A Bronze God

Our Super Hero.

When you really,

Were a big ZERO.

.

So you stretch the truth,

Exaggerate a bit.

When you struck out,

It’s now a hit.

.

The older you get,

The better you were.

You were the best,

You remember, for sure.

.

You made more money,

Drove fancier cars.

Where there was darkness,

You now see stars.

.

You’ve seen the sights,

Even if not.

You don’t know it all,

But you know a lot.

.

The older you get,

The better you were.

Did it happen like that?

You’re really not sure.

.

And that’s the beauty,

Of growing old.

No one can counter,

White lies that you’ve told.

.

copyright 2010

johnstonwrites.com

I try not to look in the mirror much any more.  I prefer the other views that I wrote about in Post #114: The View.  If I do look, it’s just so I don’t embarrass myself with Albert Einstein eyebrows, unruly nose and ear hair, or just a bugger in my nose.  It’s also better to look after I’ve showered and there’s steam on the glass to give me that porn-star look.   Like Photoshop, the fogginess helps hide the wrinkles, scars, and age spots that distinguish us from the younger generation.

I read somewhere that we form an image of ourselves at a certain age, and that’s what we see in the mirror today.  I wish I would have formed mine in the 70’s!  When people tell me I haven’t changed a bit, I believe them if only out of wishful thinking.  Yes, age should be a feeling inside, not what we see on the outside.  The mirror, every time you look in it, tries to change that perception.

“Mirror, Mirror, on the wall – who is the fairest of them all?” uttered the Queen into the Magic Mirror.  Sometimes the answer isn’t what you want it to be, unless you’re Snow White.  I’m glad my days of trying to look like Snow White are over, and that vanity is no longer a selfish element of my life.  Just seeing myself in the mirror now, simply means that I’m having a good day.

Here’s a poem that I wrote a few years ago that best reflects my face in the mirror:

Mirror

When I look in the mirror,
Who’s that old man?
I’ll never look again,
A personal ban.
.
I feel young,
But the refection is not.
It is the reality,
That I’ve always fought.
.
If we can’t see ourselves,
Do we still grow as old?
Only in the mirror,
Do the facts unfold.
.
Forgive my stare,
I’d rather look at you.
I forget about my age,
When you are the view.
.
As I speak to you,
You call me, “sir.”
A respectful word,
But older, you infer.
.
It serves as a reminder,
Your youth I don’t share.
You see the tired eyes,
And the thinning hair.
.
I can’t see the change,
My chin’s now a pair.
The fact you can,
Seems somewhat unfair.
.
Yes, I feel the aches,
That come with age.
But it’s the wrinkles,
That serve as a gauge.

.

I’m not in the shape,
I used to be.
But when looking at you,
I can’t see me.
.
When my eyes are directed,
At you not me.
Then, in a way,
I’m feeling age-free.
.
Copyright 2011 johnstonwrites.com

I continue to reflect on some of my past experiences.  The great thing about retirement is that with sixty-five years behind you there’s lots of stories to share.  I want to make sure that I write them all down, and share them while I can.

My first job was at a newspaper in Middlebury, Indiana.  I was advertising director, designer, seller, printer, and distributor all rolled into one.  I would drive about an hour to work each day along mostly rural, country roads.  It was Amish Country and the people who lived their were mysterious.  We might call them weird if they lived in Austin or Portland.

Growing up in Northern Indiana, it was not uncommon to be stuck behind a horse-drawn, black buggy on a narrow country road.  The driver was always a bearded Amish Man; his family packed inside.   Normally I would have been very impatient but a sign on the back made me smile:

 

Energy Efficient Vehicle

Runs on Hay, Grass, and Oats

Avoid Exhaust

 

The exhaust comes out in the form of road apples.  They were just another obstacle in the road to dodge as I drove along.  It was something about the plain way they dressed and the “simple” life they lived that sparked my curiosity.  Even more intriguing was their religious belief that shunned modern day conveniences like electricity, cars, and phones.

Black suits and hats for the men, while the women wore bonnets, designed not to attract attention; yet they did.  They worked hard, living off the land to feed the many mouths that made family size their sole status symbol.  The Amish population, in fact, is the fastest growing population in the world, averaging 6.8 children per family.  Their religious roots are in Switzerland, where they were led by a man named Jakob Ammann.  Those who followed him were considered Amish.  They immigrated to Pennsylvania, speaking a blend of Pennsylvania German or Dutch.  The Indiana faction predominately speaks Swiss German.

There is heavy emphasis on the church, although Sunday worship is carried on in private homes.  As I would travel these county roads on a Sunday afternoon, I would see hundreds of buggies at a single home, and the traffic before and after these gathering was dangerous.  Impatient motorists weaving between these slow moving vehicles led to many horrendous accidents.

Despite the fact that the Amish formal education ended in the eighth grade, many of the Amish that I knew were shrewd businessmen.  At the newspaper where I worked in Middlebury, Indiana, I sold advertising to them on a regular basis.  However, since they all dressed the same and most were named Miller, Yoder, or Troyer, it was difficult to distinguish their identities.  There was Yoder Oil, Yoder’s Market, Troyer’s Market, Miller’s Furniture, and so on.  In order to support their families, I found them to be a little devious, bending the rules of their religion to accommodate their business needs.  They would come into our office and pay cash for classified ads to sell their goods consisting of barn wood, crops, handyman services, and hand crafted furniture.   Often they would use our phone or ask for a ride somewhere, even though these conveniences were supposedly against their religion.  I had to believe that their God was forgiving when it came to feeding their growing families.  This leads to a true story about my favorite Amish encounter.

I got to know an Amish gentleman, Mr. Miller would be a good guess, who sold cheese on a busy intersection near our office.  He was one of several men who frequented our newspaper offices, placing daily ads, and always asking for the phone.  He’d then go back to his black shed on the corner and hawk his cheese.  There was no sign, just a bearded man dressed in traditional black with a box full of cheese.  Naturally, everyone who drove by assumed it was homemade Amish cheese.  One day I asked Mr. Miller, “does someone in your family make the cheese?” “No, he admitted, we drive up to Wisconsin and buy it.”  My jaw nearly dropped to the floor, as I took in this straightforward confession.  He did not even seem the slightest bit ashamed.  He would use our phone to place orders, drive a car across state lines to buy cheese, and sell it under the guise of Amish cheese.  Hopefully, it is a forgiving God.  The next time you Say Cheese, please – let the buyer beware (caveat emptor  – see post #102: Fake Memorabilia).

 

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