What Would Granddad Think?

I never knew either of my grandfathers; they both died before I came along. Nonetheless, I often find myself thinking about my dad’s father these days. My grandfather was an extraordinary letter writer, and the letters he wrote to Dad in 1942 and 1943 are a family treasure. Dad gave the letters to Nana, and no Harris family gathering was complete until the letters were brought out and a few of them read aloud.

In one letter he said he grew up taking one bath a week. Then, “your mother” insisted he take two baths a week. And now, “your mother and Jane” were telling him he should take a bath every day. In the middle of another letter a page is covered in ink. On the following page, in the style of a play-by-play announcer describing a running back moving from one spot in the house to another, he explains how the ink got on the paper. One of the letters is an essay on the fanny.

The letter I keep thinking about these days begins, “The headline in tonight’s Sun-Telegraph is ‘Allies pushed back 5 miles in North Africa.’” (That is not a direct quote; I don’t have a copy of the letter and I’m relying on my memory.) My grandfather then told Dad that had the Allies pushed the Germans back, it would have gone unmentioned in German papers. Or if it was, it would have called an Axis victory. I don’t remember if he used the term “strategic redeployment,” but that is what he was getting at. My grandfather went on to tell Dad that press freedom was one of the things we were fighting for. That we were stronger because of our freedoms, including freedom  of the press.

So I wonder: what would my grandfather say about the current president and his calls to silence those who disagree with him?

Curmudgeon's Day

Monday is Curmudgeon's Day, and I plan to properly celebrate the occasion.

Oh, yes, I’ll be cantankerous,

Nasty, mean and rancorous.

My words will all be slanderous;

My attitude so awfully cancerous.

And I’ll be feeling rapturous.

Telling folks they look cadaverous.

A man shouldn’t act that way;

Is that what you’d like to say?

Well, it doesn’t matter anyway –

’Cause Monday is Curmudgeon’s Day.

A Stormy Night

As I got dressed this morning, I noticed a drop of dried blood and a small scratch on my right shin. How did that happen? It wasn't there seven hours earlier, when I got out of my pants and into bed. "Must have scratched it during the night," I thought. But, how? There was nothing to scratch it on. Perhaps I had an itch and scratched it. Perhaps. Given my lack of agility, though, the effort required to reach my lower leg while lying in bed is unlikely to be forgotten in a hour or two.

Wait. There was that kiss. A few minutes after midnight, I was awakened by a gentle kiss on the cheek.

"Who are you?" I asked the lady seated on the edge of the bed.

"Stormy," she said.

"Stormy?"

"Stormy Daniels. My name has been all over the TV news and the Internet."

"You're not that Trumpian trollop everyone is talking about, are you?"

"Yes. Yes I am," she said.

"What are you doing here? Why are you in my apartment?"

"Let me show you," she said, getting out of her clothes and closer and closer to me.

And for the next two hours, Stormy did show me. A lingering kiss left me ready to bask in the afterglow. But Stormy couldn't stay.

"I guess you've heard, The Donald gave me a check in the six figures after our little tete-a-tete."

"Well, I can give you a check in the three figures, as long as two of them are to the right of the decimal," I said.

"That won't be necessary. I feel like I should pay you."

"Huh?"

"You ever look at The Donald's hands? How small they are? Well, they say a man with small hands is small somewhere else, too."

"Are they?"

"It's always been the case with the men I've known, And I've known more than a few men," Stormy said.

"Where do I rank among the men you've known?"

"There might be one or two as good as you. But in my experience there are none better than you."

Obviously, my leg was scratched when Stormy and I were passionately rolling around on the bed. That's my story, anyway, and I'm sticking to it.

Notes from the Home- January 18, 2018

FAKE NEWS ALERT!!! Any current reports of me being full of shit are false, fake, bogus, counterfeit, fabricated, fictitious, forged, fraudulent, phony, spurious, and untrue. It is possible that I was full of shit last week, though I doubt. And, there is a chance, though small, that I will be flush with feces in the future. But for this week, any reports of me being full of crap are full of crap.

The flu stopped by Covenant Woods and nestled up to me. He was content to cause discomfort and considerable achiness for three days. But on Sunday, and especially Monday, he led me on a series of hurried, unpleasant jaunts to the bathroom. Four bowel movements in twenty-four hours, each one smellier and messier than the one before.

It was a shitty situation. Before going to bed Monday night, I cleaned off myself, the wheelchair, and sundry surfaces as best I could. Tuesday morning, I could not call Russ and ask him to pick up some sterilizer and deodorizer - he was sick, too, maybe because he had been to see me over the weekend. What was a boy to do? I turned to Alisha, who is the Covenant Woods' activities director. I do a little proofreading for her each month. The last time I proofed something, Alisha said if I ever needed something from the store, she'd be glad to pick it up for me.

Good to her word, Alisha did my necessary shopping. When she returned, she put the change on the table and showed me the Pine Sol, Lysol, Clorox Disinfectant Wipes, and Pro Chem Spotless she'd purchased. Then she proceeded to use them with a vengeance. It was as though the haz-mat unit was on the job. She even wiped the almost two-years worth of accumulated dust off my wheelchair. Wow.

As of now -Thursday afternoon - my biggest concern is getting my legs back to what was normal for them a week ago. Whether as a direct result of the flu, or perhaps because I stood up as seldom as possible for several days, the old legs feel older and weaker than before. Transferring from the wheelchair to the bed is now more difficult, in terms of both strength and balance. And while I haven't fallen while clinging to the counter as I pull up my pants, I keep thinking I will.

The left leg is not cooperating at all. Not that it ever did. In the pre-flu era, however, I could pick up my left leg and put it across my right knee. With it there, I put a sock on my left foot. After getting a sock on the right foot, I hoisted the left leg again, put it across the right knee and got my foot into appropriate trouser leg. With the pants started on the left, I moved to the right leg. Once trousered, I got the left leg off the ground sufficiently and at the proper angle to put my shoe on. There is a brace on the left shoe, which makes putting it on difficult in the best of circumstances. Warren and Curtis, the night security guys, have helped me every morning. Good thing, too. Otherwise I'd be sitting in bed all day.

This morning, I darn near got that sinister limb to get where it was supposed to go. If Russ is feeling better this weekend, I'll ask him to come over so we can work with the leg. Maybe we can get a leg up.

Lust to Dust

One night when I was nearly drunk,
I sez, "Sweet Lass, ain't I a hunk."
She looked astounded,
Said, "You've come ungrounded.
Why you're a tub of flabby gunk."

That chick had lots and lots of spunk,
But would not join me in the bunk.
She said she was proper
And my plans came a cropper.
I guess I'll go become a monk.