Today's thoughts

Category: POEMS (Page 27 of 30)

Rhymes of all kinds

Retirement is not without Hassles: Bag the Bags #108

With the spare time benefits of retirement, I’ve found a few ways to help the environment and save a few bucks.  Oregon just raised the value of a plastic bottle from 5 cents to a dime, so it’s a no-brainer to separate these from the recycling container and take them to a redemption center for cash.  For too long, I ignorantly didn’t realize that I was paying this rebate up front when I bought a case of water.  Maybe you do get smarter in retirement, or at least you have the time to think about these things?  I guess I was just content knowing that there was income for the homeless in collecting bottles and cans.

A good friend of mine just became a Certified Master Recycler.  He, for one, is using his retirement time in constructive ways, and spends time on the weekend driving a portable recycling unit, picking up waste on our Oregon beaches, and educating people like me to protect our natural resources.  However, it also puts more pressure on me to be more conscientious of our environmental habits.

Recycling can be very complicated, so it requires education.  Getting the right items in the correct bin requires knowledge and thought, that I have more time for now.  We have four separate bins in my garage:  dark green for trash, light green for compost, yellow for glass, and blue for recyclables.   On trash day in our neighborhood, it is a colorful affair, but put them out early and you could get fined.

I know that years ago, when I was living in Austin, Texas, laws were being passed about the use of plastic bags and their effect on the environment.  To this day, we provide our own bags to carry the items we have purchased.  I wrote this humorous article to support this small contribution to waste management:

Bag the Bags

Would you prefer paper or plastic?  It’s a question I’m no longer asked because I’m officially a carrier.  My bag now goes with me where ever I go. It’s not a designer bag, a gym bag, or a diaper bag – but it could be.  It looks like a tote bag, but functionally serves as a contraceptive device, magically preventing plastic bags from multiplying. I’m pretty sure that’s what they were doing in the privacy of my kitchen closet.

Years ago I purchased a plastic bag organizer.  It was designed to efficiently store any plastic bags brought home, and to easily re-dispense them as needed.  One organizer led to two and, much to my dismay, the closet floor was soon overcrowded with overflow.  More plastic bags came home than ever left, or they were simply multiplying.  I couldn’t possibly stuff more into the organizer, there wasn’t room for more organizers, and plastic bags were consuming the floor space.  My closet became a microcosm of our earth.  I had to bag the bags!

For over sixty years, I’ve been green about going green. Every day I left behind the packaging remnants of what I consumed.  Laziness and ignorance were the key words here, as I honestly believed it was simply a matter of throwing it away.  After all, that was a lot more than many people did, irresponsibly littering our planet.   It’s definitely hard work keeping our earth in order, and I admire the people who champion this cause and educate people like me who sometimes don’t know better.

Bags are made to organize and transport. There are refuse bags, equipment bags, golf bags, and bowling ball bags. There’s also a bag for every purpose: from storing your favorite snack to bringing home what you were too full to finish. To add to the madness, some of these leftovers were then transferred to a zip-lock bag to maintain freshness. The bottom line is that if you’re not careful, your refrigerator/freezer will begin to look like my closet. Perhaps we should put the airline industry in charge of finding a solution.  They’re good at losing bags!

Bags come in all sizes and shapes. There are colorful gift bags and goodie bags. Then, there’s the choice of a Little, Medium, or Huge Brown Bag when you shop at Bloomingdale’s. Bags are also used to hide things like the faces of embarrassed football fans.  Just ask any wino, “what’s in your brown bag?”  Can someone tell me what’s in a mixed bag?   Plus, every professional seems to have their very own bag of tricks.  I would prefer the magic of making them all disappear!

Things tend to move from one bag to another, like from the gym bag to the laundry bag. Floor crumbs from a bag of chips are sucked into the sweeper bag.  When that bag’s full, it’s dumped in the trash bag. If the dog gets them before the sweeper, they eventually “end” up in a poop bag.  Try letting the cat out of that bag!

Then there are bags that aren’t really bags. I’ve watched players circle the bags in a baseball game and even thought the game was in the bag. I clearly remember the 70’s when I used to watch the games in a bean bag chair.  Also, the game of baseball cannot be properly enjoyed without a bag of peanuts, or a pitch properly executed without a rosin bag.

There’s the bag lady, the old bag, bag men, and even the “Paper Bag Princess,” but none of these “specialists” have ever solved the problem. Even the bag blog (www.thebagblog.com) is no help unless you’re looking for an inexpensive purse. Disposable bags are coming out of the closet and choking the earth.  It makes me sick. Got a vomit bag?

I’ve tried to help save the earth, after many years of abusing it.  I’ve learned to fill recycling bins each week, restrained from littering, helped pick up others trash, and carefully maintained my property.  It wasn’t until there were plastic bags littering my closet floor that it finally sank in.  No bag is necessary to collect the evidence, plastic bags are a drag and they’re beginning to smother our planet.  I even have bags under my eyes from worrying about this!

copyright 2014 johnstonwrites.com

Retirement is not without Hassles: Hamburger #105

Whether you’re retired or not, you still have to eat, and after dining with my wife at over 1200 different restaurants all over the world, it gets harder and harder to find ones that really stand out.  The restaurant business is very competitive, and all of them seem to have award-winning chefs.  Most of the restaurants where we dine serve tasty food, with attentive service, and creative dishes.  If you don’t have these three elements, you’re soon out of business.  We chose Quaintrelle in Portland as last night’s Date Night restaurant.  It’s fairly new on the scene, replacing a diner specializing in mac and cheese that we always wanted to try.  We had a good dining experience, but maybe I would have rather had the mac and cheese.

Mac and cheese, and hamburgers will always be my favorites.  Add a good loaf of bread and I’ve had a five-star dining experience.  One of my goals in accompanying my wife on a recent business trip was to try an “In-and-Out” burger.  I found one in Hollywood.  I’ve read several articles rating the top 25 fast food hamburgers, and “In-and-Out” and “Five Guys” consistently battle for the top spot.  McDonald’s is somewhere in the middle, but after watching the movie, “Founder,” I’ve lost my fondness for Ray Kroc.  “Five Guys” had a location on the Champs Elysees, right across from “Tiffany’s.”  I was surprised they didn’t serve wine in France, but “Five Guys” put themselves right in the heart of the most fashionable district in Paris.   Maybe they should serve their burgers in a blue box!

A good hamburger is like gold, but unfortunately doesn’t last as long.  We like “Skyline” burgers here in Portland, mostly because it’s nearby.  “Killer Burger” also rates high on my gourmet scale.  For many years, a friend of mine at the office and I would spend at least one lunch every week looking for the perfect burger.  In Indianapolis, “Workingman’s Friend” was a standout, but “Steak N’ Shake” was the staple.  In Austin, the burger took a back seat to the burrito, but “Gourdough’s” served theirs on a glazed donut.   With burgers, it’s all about the grill, and nothing beats a back-yard concoction.  I remember grilling J.T.M. frozen burgers back in Indiana, and would joke about it being the abbreviation for “Just a Touch of Meat.”  They still tasted great by the pool.  Even “White Castle” was a treat for me, so my standards are probably not to be trusted.

Here was my poetic tribute to the Hamburgers in Austin, Texas – the other “weird” city:

 

Hamburger

Burgers are a favorite,

Our quest to find the best.

My main criteria,

Is it easy to digest?

.

You’re into gourmet,

Is it Zagat rated?

You’ve probably had a burger,

That you’ve even hated.

.

It’s hard for me to find,

One that’s not to love.

Greasy and gooey,

Special sauce from above.

.

Plenty of choices,

If fast is what you need.

Square or round patties,

Or so rare it bleeds.

.

Some reek of onion,

Some do it your way,

And you can score one,

Any time of day.

.

Is your favorite burger,

At Steak N’ Shake?

The “Mighty Fine” salt,

Keeps you awake.

.

The minis at “Docs,”

Hit the spot.

“Phil’s” buns.

The best we’ve got.

.

We both like cheese,

And on the grill.

A side of fries,

Hold the dill.

.

Thin fries for you,

I like them fat.

Curley’s good,

Ketchup with that?

.

Is Cheddar better?

Does size matter?

Wrapped in paper,

Or served on a platter?

.

We’ve served them frozen,

Burnt or pre-prepared.

And with a few too many,

No one really cared.

.

Ever had a J.T.M.?

Just a Touch of Meat.

A minute on the grill,

How many can you eat?

.

Get them while they’re hot,

Jalapenos add a kick.

Do you prefer,

Thin or thick?

.

Is it a “Whataburger?”

Or a “Big Mac?”

King and Queen?

Or in the box with Jack?

.

Is “Fuddrucker’s” worthy?

“Chili’s” or “Applebee’s?”

“Sonic” to “White Castle,”

“Alka-Seltzer” please.

.

“Sandy’s” and “Hut’s,”

“Terry’s” drive-thru.

“Fran’s” and “Dirty Martin’s,”

Are local favorites,  too.

.

We’ll soon try “Dan’s,”

Then “Casino El Camino.”

We can only hope,

We won’t need “Beano.”

.

“Cheeseburger in Paradise,”

We’ve had a few.

A Caribbean sunset,

Pina Colada or two.

.

A little mayo,

Lettuce on top.

The search for best,

Will never stop.

.

Copyright johnstonwrites.com

9/13/09

 

Diary of an Adoptee: Dual Identity #104

If I were writing my autobiography, this would be Chapter number 1.  I’m fortunate to have an outlet to document this, and maybe a few readers that might care.  It’s therapy for me!  I’m getting the words out of my head, clearing the way for new knowledge.  It’s a cleansing process that I feel is important in retirement, and wish I had something to read like this about my adopted parents.  I only have one page of information on my birth mother and her family with a simple paragraph dedicated to the assumed father.  I have so many questions at this point of life that somehow weren’t important back then.

I’m technically retiring for two, since I have a dual identity that dates back to birth.  I was born Jerry Lee Bannister on August 27, 1951 to Edna Faye Bannister.  I do not know the name of my “alleged” father, only that he was 20 years old and a Marine, probably did his service in Korea in 1951.  I was immediately put up for adoption after birth, and there was a two-month string of legal documents before I was eventually placed.  I may never know the reason that I was put up for adoption.  I do know that I was fortunate to end up in the home of Burton and Catherine Johnston in Elkhart, Indiana.

I alluded to my adoption in Post #80: Happy Endings because my story truly does have a happy ending, when so many other adoption stories don’t.  Mine does not have a dramatic conclusion like the movie “Lion,” one of the most touching adoption stories that I have ever watched.  I also briefly mentioned adoption in Post #48: Black Rock, but discussed very little about my adopted mother and birth mother.  I also have an adopted younger sister, who did find her birth mother and maintains a close relationship.

This all reads like a mystery novel, with the following clues outlined in a Social and Medical Background Information report that I received from the Suemma Coleman Agency in Indianapolis, Indiana.  I also have an Adoptive Home Placement Agreement, court petitions, birth certificate, correspondence, and medical records at birth.  I would probably have had none of this information if it weren’t for the curiosity and clearance credentials of a friend in the newspaper business.  I was not interested in pursuing the identity of my birth parents, if for no other reason the loyalty I felt for my adopted parents.  For some reason, I perceived that it might betray my allegiance to them, and remember being quite upset at my sister for openly exercising her curiosity.   She had some medical issues and wanted genetic background.  My friend, whether I wanted it or not, gave me the name of my Birth mother and an address from sealed adoption files that she accessed via her media credentials.   It still amazes me that she could access my adoption history, but I could not.  I’m glad she did though!

My first interest was to find a photo of my birth mother.  I did not want to make contact with her, but simply wanted to see if there was a resemblance.  I logically went to the hospital nearest to the address I was given and collected my medical records.  In addition, I wrote the Suemma Coleman Agency requesting background paperwork.  I received a one-page summary:

“Your alleged father was a Marine.  He was 20 years old, 6’2 1/2 ” tall, and weighed 195 pounds.  He had wavy, black hair, dark brown eyes, and a medium complexion.  He was described as gregarious, easy-going, generous, a good worker, and good looking.  He was a high school graduate.  He played football, baseball, and basketball in high school, and liked boxing, swimming, bowling, and dancing.  His ancestry was Irish.  He was also a Baptist.”

“Your birth mother was 18 years old, 5’2″ tall and 102 pounds.  She had light brown eyes, brown hair, and a straight nose.  She had completed her junior year in high school.  She was described as quiet, thoughtful, and cooperative.”

Other details in the report:

  • Birthmother’s Father – age 49 – a crossing guard on a railroad
  • Birthmother’s Mother – age 47 – factory worker with 8 children
  • 3 Sisters- ages 28, 27, and 25 all married and housewives
  • 1 Sister – age 20 – worked as a solderer
  • Brother – age 23 – also a crossing guard on a railroad
  • Twin Brothers – age 19 – production line employees
  • Irish and English descent and of the Baptist Faith
  • Grandfather still alive but retired, and Grandmother still employed

With her address, the name Edna Faye Bannister, and her seven siblings, I began to play detective.  My first stop was the High School in that neighborhood.  I left my office dressed in a suit and tie and went directly to the school librarian.  I figured that with all those kids named Bannister, I would be able to find them in the High School yearbooks.  The school happened to be closed that day, but the principal was working.  She apparently sympathized with my story and let me do my research.  I did not find anything and told her so as I exited the library. Maybe it was the way I dressed or the way I carried myself?  She asked me, as I was headed out the door, “Are you with the FBI?”

I was conducting an investigation, but hardly on the scale of the FBI.  After striking out at the school, I became more curious about the address I was given by my friend.  Since I wasn’t at that point looking for a person, only a photo, I had not checked out the home address.  It may have been because I was concerned about getting too close – a simple photo seemed so safe.  I had a job interview in that neighborhood, so I walked around the block to 2044 North Illinois Street, the home address accompanying the name, Edna Faye Bannister.  It was nothing but a parking lot.  That’s when it became apparent this was the address for a home for unwed mothers.  My guess is that the embarrassed family pulled her out of high school and sent her far away from home to give birth.  This was common in this era, and I did then discover that the Suemma Coleman Agency was once the Suemma Coleman Home.  It provided care for the expectant mother in the months prior to delivery and then made adoption arrangements.  This was why their were no Bannister children enrolled in the neighboring High School.

I did get the job, and as it turns out my new office windows overlooked the very lot where the Suemma Coleman Home once stood.  It was the ultimate Homing experience!  Over the course of 35 years, I had navigated my way from Elkhart, Indiana to Indianapolis, and returned to the very neighborhood where I spent the first few months of my life!  The only thing still missing was the mother that gave birth to me.  The Bannister family must have agreed in advance to put me up for adoption, and Edna Faye then returned to their home, wherever that was? Years later, when I finally decided to use an intermediary to find her, it was determined that Rome, Georgia was that location.  However, they could find no trace of her.

I took it upon myself to contact some Bannisters in that area, hoping to find a connection.  I even went so far as to establish a second Facebook page for my name at birth, Jerry Lee Bannister.   I have, in fact, befriended Bannisters all over the country, but have yet to find a photo, relatives, or any information on my birth mother.  I also may never know the story of the father, and what ended the relationship.  Did he even know that she was pregnant?  Was the mother protecting the true identity of the father by making up a story of the soldier?  Were they in love?  Or, did he die in Korea?

That’s the beauty of adoption and not knowing the answers.  Before the name Edna Faye Bannister became a reality to me, I always fantasized of having royal roots, or romanticized about the relationship that brought me into the world.  I felt different from everyone else, separated at birth.  Every time I visited a doctor’s office and had to fill out the forms related to family history – I had none.  All I had was a piece of paper that gave me some identity, but left me clueless as to my true identity.  Was I named after Jerry Lee Lewis, since he was so popular at that time?  Was my father’s name Jerry?

I never really had to sneak around my parents in identifying my past.  They were prepared to tell me everything they knew.  They were aware that my alleged birth father was a Marine.  That’s why they were probably haunted when “The Marines Hymn” was the only song I learned to play on the piano.  I would play it incessantly, as if maybe my birth mother used to hum it as she thought about her Marine lover in preparing to give birth to me.  I would just have to thank her for the decision that she made in putting me up for adoption.  It was the happy ending that shaped me into what I am today.  I wrote this poem a few years ago, as I thought about how difficult that decision must have been for everyone involved:

Thank You 

Some women aren’t ready,
To serve Mother’s role.
Raising a child,
Is not yet their goal.
.
A selfish moment,
Of love and lust.
But nothing like this,
Was ever discussed.
.
Two at the time,
Now left up to one.
He may have not known,
Or decided to run.
.
There’s feelings of shame,
Maybe left all alone.
But worst of all,
Your future unknown.
.
Financial hardship,
Not quite mature.
Is it fair to the child?
If the parent’s not sure.
.
If you’re not prepared,
There is an option.
If you’re not able,
Consider adoption.
.
If you’re not excited
About motherhood.
If you’re not happy,
Someone else would.
.
There are loving couples,
Who can’t conceive.
It’s the right thing to do,
You have to believe.
.
Can’t give up a baby,
So helpless and small?
It’s time to consider,
What’s best for all.

.

There may be guilt,
Or thoughts of regret.
But you can’t match,
The love they will get.
.
Please don’t abort,
A gift so great.
A life’s in your hands,
Don’t hesitate.
.
If you’re undecided,
Just ask me.
If not for someone like you,
I simply wouldn’t be.
.
If you need forgiveness,
For letting me go.
You did me a favor,
I want you to know.
.
Among the many things,
That I’m grateful for.
It wasn’t just my life,
I’ve added three more.
.
Not that I wouldn’t have,
Had a great life with you.
You wanted more for me,
And I know that’s true.

.

Thank you for me,
Sorry for the pain.
Though difficult to say,
Your loss was my gain.

.

Copyright November 2011

johnstonwrites.com

Retirement is not without Hassles: Drinking and Driving #103

At one point in my life, drinking and driving were arguably a tolerable, even acceptable, combination. Keep in mind that I am of retirement age!  I remember stories of early “Indy 500” races where a pit stop might involve more than just milk.  I also remember, as a teenager, scoring a six-pack and driving the back roads of lower Michigan with the top down on a sunny afternoon, or cruising Main Street with a pack of cigarettes and a flask.  The only thing really illegal about my actions was the fact that I was underage to drink.

My dad bought a 1964 Mustang convertible that I borrowed to pass my driver’s test at age 16.  It was just before drugs made their way into the high schools and experimentation with alcohol was a ritual of growing up.  Unfortunately, too many times the lethal combination of drinking and driving effected the lives of young people and fortunately awareness and laws changed.   It’s a serious, criminal offense.

Convertibles, on the other hand, have always been a part of my life, from that very first taste of having the “top down.”  My wife and I each currently own a convertible, not necessarily compatible with the Oregon weather.  We bought them in Texas, and got a lot of good use out of them there.  It’s rare when we get to put the “top down” here.  However, the last couple weeks have been the exception.

The dogs also enjoy “top down” weather, and with their harnesses attached, we can take them out for a ride to “blow the stink off.”  If the top isn’t down, they love to stick their heads out the window and feel the force of the wind in their furry faces.  We had the opportunity to drive to the Coast this past weekend.  It was 90 degrees in Portland, so we left with the “top down.”  By the time we reached the peak of the coastal mountains at about 1600 feet, the temperature began to plummet.  My wife was begging me to put the “top up” as the thermometer showed 65 degrees and falling.  I reluctantly obliged, preferring to turn the heat up instead.

As I was driving, the words “top down, bottoms up” crossed my mind, and I wanted to write a silly poem about it.  In fact, I couldn’t get those words out of my head, but it didn’t seem like an appropriate combination for modern consumption.  DUI is now a top-of-mind topic, and certainly not a humorous topic.  I made a compromise, and below is what I came up with, envisioning a group of guys and their dog out for a “Road Trip” with a designated driver.

I do have to admit that when I think of “bottoms up,” it’s not all about drinking.  I remember cruising down Main Street in my Dad’s other car, a Ford Country Squire station wagon. There was no alcohol involved, but lots of immaturity.  I was driving and had access to the power switch that controlled the rear window.  It was truly the “rear” window that night, as we covered the glass with aluminum foil to block the view inside.  The foil was thin enough that it didn’t effect the operation of the window as it lowered.  Three of my friends lined up in the back on their knees and pulled down their pants, showing clearly that the  “moons” were exposed that night. After a couple of drive-by “moonings,” we came to our senses and split to somehow avoid prosecution for public exposure.  The next morning, however, as my Dad heated up the car to go to church, you could clearly see the outline of three butt-prints in the foggy rear window.  Here’s to “bottoms up!”

Road Trip

Top Down,

Bottoms up.

Summer breeze,

Happy pup.

 .

One dog,

Three guys.

Long drive,

Who buys?

 .

Beer buzz,

Green light.

Sun Shines,

All’s right!

 .

Open road,

Not a care.

Glass of wine?

Fresh air.

 .

You drive,

I’ll drink.

He’s drunk,

You think?

 .

Bottoms Up,

Whisky Shot.

Top Down,

Hits the spot.

 .

Empty glass?

I’ll pour.

Where to?

Liquor store.

.

johnstonwrites.com copyright 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Retirement is not without Hassles: Date Night Day #97

It’s the middle of the week, and “Date Night” tonight.  Other than that, I have nothing on my calendar today – isn’t retirement great!  My working wife still recognizes today as Wednesday (Hump Day), but since every day is the same for me in retirement, I distinguish it as “Date Night Day.”  Each day of the week I now associate with a specific activity rather than the traditional “MTWTFSS” labels that working people use.  I know it can be confusing, but “what day it is?” really doesn’t matter to me any more.

I’m a little off on my days this week, since the first day of this week was a holiday for my wife. I now only know the first day of the week as “Trash/Cleaning Day,” and had to combine it with yesterday’s “Cooking Day.”  I also had to put the trash out a day early and call my sister a day late.  By the way, she retired last week from being a school teacher.  The only problem is that she was typically not working in the summers anyway, so it really won’t be until school resumes in August before she begins to enjoy the benefits.  The summer months will give her time to practice her newly defined days of the week.

Today I’m back on track, but where will we go on Date Night?  It has to be somewhere we’ve never dined before, but can be in any price range.  With company in town and our vacation schedule, four weeks ago was our last outing.  Revelry was the name of the restaurant here in Portland, and it was our 1,209th different dining experience in the 17 years we’ve been together.  That’s an average of about 1.4 new restaurants that we’ve gone to every week! Since Revelry, we’ve dined in 14 additional new places while we were traveling.  Typically, it would be more when we’re on the road, but Viking Cruises provided most of our meals in France.

We have had a wide range of dining experiences, and our favorites we save for special occasions.  However, some restaurants have NOT been so great – here’s a poem, written a few years ago, to describe such underwhelming experiences:

 

What’s in my Soup?

What’s that in my bowl?
Is this some kind of joke?
It’s swimming laps,
Perhaps the backstroke.
.
“He won’t each much,”
Replies the waiter.
If he’s not careful,
He’ll wear it later.
.
Humorous old bits,
But nothing is funny.
When you have a bad meal,
While paying good money.
.
Dining disasters.
I’ve had my share.
Expecting well-done,
It comes out rare.
.
Lost reservations,
Poor service.
A closed door Kitchen,
Makes me nervous.
.
Not what you ordered?
Too well done?
Or something flies out,
When you lift up the bun.
.
A worm in your veggies,
A spider in your greens.
That’s garden fresh,
Is all that means.
.
Crack a tooth?
Piece of glass?
Or maybe worse yet,
A bad case of gas.

.

I once found a staple,
At a Chinese Buffet.
What’s this sticky stuff,
On my serving tray?

.
Is that a hair on my plate?
Or just a crack?
In either case,
Please take it back.
.
Is today’s special,
A few days old?
Is that blue cheese,
Or some kind of mold?
.
And when dining outside,
Take extra care.
Things can happen,
From out of nowhere.
.
Here’s an example,
That threw me for a loop.
A bird flew over,
And pooped in my soup.

.

Copyright 2012

johnstonwrites.com

 

Retirement is not without Hassles: Amour #92

 

Bless these skinny little legs.  I always thought of myself as a man with a  big upper body and little sticks for legs.  Almost like a cartoon character!  The older I get, however, the more appreciative I am of my slender gams.  I thank my lucky stars, physical therapists, chiropractors, and others who have assisted me through my running streak.  There have been no shin splints, fractures, knee problems, or ACL issues.  I’ve been fortunate that they’ve kept me moving forward.

Today truly felt like the end of the week.  Despite being retired for 5 full months now, I still have a sense for the days of the week.  Trash containers were out in the adjoining neighborhoods this morning, so I knew it was “Friday.”  Since every day is the same now, I’ve stopped identifying the days of the week in the traditional manner.  I don’t know if I ever want to loose that “Friday Feeling.”  It was always my favorite, especially when it led to a three-day weekend.  Some people feel that in retirement every day should be a Saturday.  For me, when Saturday arrived, it was already half-way through the weekend, so I will always try to hold on to that special Friday high.

I woke up last night with a severe headache. despite not having a single glass of wine.  The jet-lag really hit hard about 2 a.m., but I was able to get back to sleep after guzzling some water.  I feel pretty good this morning,  Since, in retirement language, it’s “Lunch Day,” I plan to get together with some former co-workers for some wings and maybe a beer.   Having some “my time” yesterday was really much needed after a dozen days of constant companionship.  I’m also enjoying this morning’s solitude, having sent the working wife off to the salt mines.

I’m thankful for our seventeen years together as a couple.  While we were cruising down the Seine River, I wrote this special poem for her to celebrate our love.  Every once in a while my poetry gets a little mushy – don’t worry it won’t happen too often:

Amour

.

Eiffel Tower sunset,

Twinkling lights.

It was the first,

Of romantic Paris nights.

.

Monet and Macaroon,

Bottle of Sancerre.

Another Paris Memory,

We’ll forever share.

.

Lost in the Louvre,

And on the Metro, too.

But, Time after time,

We whispered , “I Love You.”

.

Surrounded by Stained Glass,

Those magic words we’d say.

Three-star dining,

Or a late night café.

.

Hand- in- hand,

We’d slowly walk.

Feeling love,

With little talk.

.

Like underneath the Arch,

The heights of Sacre-Coeur.

And Moulin Rouge memories,

Our love will long endure.

.

Thoughts of water lilies,

Or fountains at Versailles.

And castles built with stone,

No love has stronger ties.

.

Up and down the Seine,

Or high atop a chateau.

These are the words,

I’d want you to know.

.

Drifting down the river,

History on each side.

Spending time together,

Love our favorite guide

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On a sandy beach,

Where lives had been lost.

There’s nothing more precious,

Lost love the greatest cost.

.

And when we’re not alone,

Friends are at our side.

But there’s nothing finer,

Than being with my bride.

.

It’s “amour” in French,

A more romantic sound.

And strongly felt in  Paris,

Where signs of love abound.

 

copyright 2017 johnstonwrites.com

 

 

Retirement is not without Hassles: Wit-tie Guy #83

For the first time since retirement at the beginning of this year, and maybe a few weeks before that, I wore a tie tonight.  We went to a fancy Paris restaurant (3 Michelin stars) for a romantic dinner that was planned a month in advance of our Paris trip.  Unfortunately, both of us had a bit of a stomach bug, so it took the sizzle out of the evening.  The restaurant required a jacket and I added the tie.  Men in Paris do tend to dress more on the formal side, so I certainly did not feel out of place on the short walk from our hotel via the Champs Elysees.

It’s tough when you save all your life for retirement travel, and you sometimes feel nothing but guilt as you start to spend it.  There are so many homeless families on the streets of Paris (and everywhere else for that matter.)  Not to mention, those individuals who have to work all their lives and never experience the freedom of retirement.  We helped a couple of these challenged families tonight, but they will probably never experience a dining extravaganza like we just experienced.  We are so fortunate, but our small fortune only goes so far!

Question:  Since none of our travel companions actually saw me in the tie, does that mean that it didn’t really happen?  Here’s a short poetic take on ties:

Tie Guy

.

The shine on my shoes,
Wasn’t always there.
Back when I had,
Much longer hair.
,
Patched blue jeans.
“Doors” t-shirt.
When being carded,
More than hurt.
,
The Draft a scare,
Career unsure.
My biggest joy,
A concert tour.
,
My radical pledge,
Avoid a tie.
The compromise,
Buy tie-dye.
,
Putting on a tie,
Back then meant.
Joining the ranks,
Of the Establishment.
,
A tie was a symbol,
Many would insist.
Of being a traitor,
And a Capitalist.
,
I also felt,
Every tie was bad.
Not just the ones,
Picked out for Dad.
,
Ties were ugly,
Too wide or thin.
And wearing one,
An unforgivable sin.
,
I’d tie one on, though,
Every chance I got.
Be it alcohol,
Or shameful pot.

,

Those days long gone,
And much of my hair.
I paid too much,
For silk neck wear.
,
Designer ties,
Are like a noose.
We think much better,
When they’re loose.
,
Women flock,
To guys in ties.
Are these men,
Considered wise?
,
And who invented,
The bolo tie?
Is this a good look?
And, if so, why?
,
My ties now stored,
On an electric rack.
To college days,
You can’t go back.
,
I wore one today,
I can’t deny.
So am I now,
A wit-tie guy?
.

copyright 2011 johnstonwrites.com

 

Retirement is not without Hassles: Hungover #78

We’re headed to wine country this morning, with plans to stop at four different wineries and have lunch in between sips.  We’re entertaining friends from back in Indiana, and it looks like a great day to work on tomorrow’s hangover.   They are on vacation, and I’m retired, so why not take the time to enjoy life together over a glass (or more) of Portland’s great vino?  Here’s a little reminder to myself about what to expect tomorrow:

My Hangover’s Hungover 

Too many drinks,
With little to eat.
This morning I’m lucky,
To stand on two feet.
.
Yesterdays breakfast,
Is on the front lawn.
I seem to ache more,
As the day goes on.
.
Hung at my hang out,
And drank until drunk.
Last night is a blur,
And I’m still in a funk.
.
My Hangover’s hungover,
Longer than should be.
I have a headache,
Of the worst degree.
.
It’s no wonder my friends,
Have left me alone.
All night paying homage,
To the porcelain throne.
.
My Hangover’s hungover,
Much longer than fair.
I’m feeling so bad,
And need nursing care.
.
What’s the recipe,
To cure this malady?
Hair of the Dog,
Is just not for me.
.
Run down and ragged,
My head could crack.
Shouldn’t have chugged,
That first six pack.
.
Plop, Plop, Fizz, Fizz,
I need a quick cure.
How much pain,
Can one man endure?

.

Wrung out, strung out,
And in no condition.
I hurt everywhere,
And have no ambition.
.
I can’t remember,
What happened last night.
My eyes just can’t take it,
Turn off that damn light.
.
I had foolish thoughts,
After drinking alot.
That’s when I ordered,
A second, last shot.
.
My hangover’s hungover,
I drank until drunk.
I must have imbibed in,
More drink than I thunk.

.

Copyright 2010 johnstonwrites.com

 

Creature Features: Chew on this #77

I had to throw away a few more arms and legs this morning.  Our schnauzer, Tally, was busy chewing away last night on stuffed animals.  Here’s a poem I wrote a couple of years ago about her nasty little habit:

 

Stuffed

 

She likes to undress them,

With her sharp teeth.

Our dog likes to find out,

What’s underneath?

.

She’ll act like she loves it,

Assure it – No harm.

Then gnaw on a leg.

And chew off an arm.

.

If it squeaks,

She’ll tear that out.

Dissect it’s insides,

And spew it about.

.

Off comes it’s head,

Oh, here are its eyes.

She’ll rip it apart,

No matter what size.

.

Today was another,

Stuffed animal feast.

There’s nothing left,

Of this cuddly beast.

.

Despite how cute,

Destruction her quest.

Until it’s an empty shell,

She simply won’t rest.

.

Just like Thanksgiving,

She’s fond of the breast.

But it’s the stuffing,

That she likes best.

.

Then after a while,

She’ll cast it aside.

And for dessert,

Enjoy a rawhide.

.

Who’s the next victim,

Of this Canine Crime?

No more- she’s stuffed,

For now it’s nap time.

.

copyright 2015 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

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