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Archive for November, 2007

Look at them strutting around like bantam roosters at the Thanksgiving table, those little babies you made eat what was good for them. Well, now they are heads of their own families, thank you very much, and don’t have to listen to your table rules. No more tomatoes for them, never again. Oh, they had to eat them growing up or go without catsup. You reminded them catsup was also tomatoes, so if you don’t eat it in macaroni and beef and all the other dishes, no catsup for you. Ah, but they are kings and queens of their tables now and there are no tomatoes to be seen in their homes. They will never again drink your Kool Aid with only half the sugar called for. They will have the soft drinks denied them. And none of that healthful butter spread; only real butter for them. The list goes on and on. So much for feeding your children right.

Okay, they do still like sprouts like the ones you raised under the kitchen sink and they didn’t complain about the soybean sandwich spreads or wild onion you clipped from the yard. They loved the wild blackberries they picked for your cobblers. Your pumpkin bread is still a favorite. Even the roasted pumpkinseeds excite their taste buds.

A funny thing happened on their way to independence, though; they turned forty. Their mother can no longer rule their table, but their doctor can. They’ve kept fast food places in business for twenty years, and the piper must be paid. You’re sorry the truth of nutrition was announced to them in such a rude way, and that you didn’t get it across in the right manner, but are so glad they get it now and are adopting a healthy eating style. You know “you are what you eat.” You even know who said it first: Gaylord Hauser. His book has been in your kitchen for almost fifty years.

So here’s to the healthy next sixty years of your lives, Kids — except for this Thursday when we eat for the pure joy of eating. Happy Thanksgiving!

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target-dragonfly-0011.jpgI desperately needed a new second amendment warning sign for the inside garage door. The old target was beginning to look more like someone who had met up with a slasher instead of a gun-toting granny. So now the new guy above greets anyone who might decide to enter the house uninvited.

We met one of Jerry’s golfing buddies at Hot Shots in Daytona Beach a couple of weeks ago. Dave brought along his wife, her brother and his wife, the four of them comprising the most cheerful group of people you would ever want to meet. And believe me, when someone is holding a loaded 357 Magnum two feet from you, you prefer them cheerful.

For those who doubt God smiles on pistol-packing nuts, explain this. We ate at Aunt Catfish’s in Port Orange first and got the only waitress in Volusia County (I’m sure) who was a sage on local gun ranges. All I had to do was mention outdoor range and she not only told us of a local one, but also called her husband on her cell phone to find the directions! You tell me that wasn’t providence. We are saving that for another trip, though because we needed to buy extra ammunition and that range was very basic. We’ve scoped it out on the web and Strickland’s is our next stop.

Hot Shots was a well-run indoor range and we had a ball. Best of all we are all more comfortable with our weapons should we ever have to use them for protection.

Just curious about all the black smoke and lead flying around and nearly impossible to scrub off my hands, I Googled the subject later. My suspicions were realized. Lead dust and gasses from firing ranges can be very dangerous. All the clothes we were wearing went into the washing machine and we showered and washed our hair before bedtime. Apparently outdoor ranges have less lead contamination, but are still a hazard. The same precautions should be taken after shooting there. I know. I know. Growing up we never thought of “getting the lead out” after shooting cans at the caliche pit or riverbank, but we are wiser now—surprisingly. So we’ll take precautions, but look for us before long at the outdoor gun range.

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I’m cruising along feeling smug because the writers’ strike will have little effect on anything I watch. Well, who knew Meerkat Manor would be cancelled? Listen I need my fix, so I’m volunteering to personally write one script. Here goes.

Zaphod: Bark, bark, bark.

Rocket Dog: Bark, bark

Hanibal (glancing with his one good eye): BARK, BARK, BARK

Fun Loving Pups: Yip, yip, yip.

There, now how hard is that? Put the darn show back on!

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photosgag-0091.jpgphotosgag-0031.jpghawkpics-0161.jpgJerry and I both medaled in the Golden Age Games in Sanford, FL this week, he in golf, I in photography. I hardly broke a sweat, but again have plans to be ready for bench-pressing next year.

Sanford is the site of the original Golden Age Olympics (later changed to Golden Age Games) 33 years ago. It has grown to state and national competition. This week Seniors are hurling discus, throwing javelin, pumping iron, cycling, swimming, running and scores of other feats of athleticism. Most of the competitors are serious and train year round for the events. But they are quick to encourage newbies to give it a try. For those burned out on professional cry babies and steroid pumped athletes, you might enjoy seeing what raw sports competition is really about. You see it in Pee Wee games and you see it here. When Jerry entered bench-press about ten years ago I came away invigorated by the camaraderie and drive of the competitors. One would cheer and encourage another, then give his all to beat him out of the gold medal. I say “he” but include women in this, too. They were all amazing.

My “training” routine was exhaustive, too. I spent weeks searching for the proper mats and frames, then days printing, taping, stapling, applying stickers, etc. And then the doubts set in. Who do I think I am? I just snap pictures. Those other seniors probably have lenses so long they couldn’t lift them without weight training. I have this stubby little protrusion on front of the camera. Lens envy, that’s what I have plenty of. The desire to share the photos I love overcame stage fright and this is the result:

Two third and two first place ribbons out of seven entries. The masthead scene above won a third place as did my giant swallowtail butterfly. A shot of our granddaughter came in first in portraits. I understand the judge had a hard time deciding between the two grands, so I consider them both winners. Oh, and the biggie: A first and Best of Show for the photo on this blog of a red-shouldered hawk and squirrel. Best of Show! I feel like a German Shephard.

Now I’m off to pump iron. Next year, for sure.

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