The supper menu called for a breakfast sandwich (sausage, egg and cheese) served on one of those multi-grained Bagels that Wifey likes. 

I made a command decision and opted for English muffins instead. 

When I say 'opted', however, that really means that I had to come up with plan b, because there weren't any bagels. 

Here's why...

Having just ascended the basement stairs, I saw Satchel surrounded by what surely must have been all the pillows from the den, gnawed to a fare thee well, their freshly gnawed contents throughout the floor. 

It looked like Hells half acre.

My mouth was open. It was beyond open, it was agape. No words came out. Even my adjectives would have to wait.

 Satchel Paige, my floppy eared hound dog who was given to me to ease the pain of not having my grandkids close by, had retrieved the bag of multi-grained bagels--the kind Wifey likes--from the kitchen island. The same kitchen island that is, um, er, was--beyond his nimble reach and sturdy mandible. 

My inability to speak---along with the realization that Satch had just consumed and or scattered the entire bag of multi-grained bagels-- the kind Wifey likes--converged at the same time, and for the next 30 seconds I let fly with nearly all my adjectives, wiping the dust from several that haven't been used in a while.

Bagels. 

Everywhere. 

In all shapes and pieces, chewed and unchewed, not to mention  the larger bagel pieces he took and hid in the corners of the sofa and chair, like he does when hiding his bones for later. 

I was in full afterburner, my phrases spoken in a tongue that fast became a blue streak, but as my mouth was coming in for a landing here's what I saw...if you look close he has a bagel 'stogie' in his mouth. 

Get a dog, they said. It'll be fun, they said.

A GIRL TO LOOK UP TO



Lane Elementary Class of 75- Joy Culpepper on back row,
runt George front far left

By 1975, the tallest girl at McKibben Lane Elementary was a young lady by the name of Joy Culpepper. We were all in our last year there, and like a lot of kids, all of us had spent our entire school career at Lane. It’s quite possible that Joy was the tallest girl in each grade previous, but there is no supporting data to verify that claim. As one of the kids closest to the ground, everyone was usually taller than I. I was a runt among runts, as it were.

As girls go, she was one of the good ones. She could hold her own when it came to kickball and basketball—well, in basketball she commanded respect. Like I said, she was the tallest girl in school, which meant she was taller than most of the boys in class as well. In todays' parlance, she would be considered to have 'Playground Creds'. In those days, one’s prowess on the playground had far reaching effects that could result in an extra milk or dessert at lunch from one of your peers or the loan of a pencil or paper when caught short.

 

Joy Culpepper had playground creds.

On occasion, she would chase me down and place me in a headlock or grab my arms and spin me around. Such was life in those halcyon days of grammar school.

I recall her having announced to our class an older sister Brenda who was a participant in the Miss Georgia pageant; her older brother Lee went to Lanier High, where the greatest ROTC program in the world was located.

On another occasion, Joy got up and sang in front of the entire student body—the Mac Davis song “Baby don’t get hooked on me”—and it was obvious her playground creds had transferred over to the lunchroom stage. I was amazed because how could a kid, 6 feet tall or not, have the guts to get up and sing in front of people? I was mortified! If I was so much as asked to go to the chalkboard to work a math problem, I peed a little.

Well, I had a recurring thought about Joy over the years--the main thing I thought about, though was DID I EVER GROW UP TO BE AS TALL OR TALLER THAN JOY CULPEPPER?!?

Why that thought stayed with me I can't explain—there were several boys in the class who were much taller than me but I always figured that was normal--perhaps it was sexist in a way to think I might at least be able to attain the height of the tallest girl in school, thereby having some modicum of self-worth.

Thru the power of social media, several of the Class of 75 have become re-acquainted. Joy has a beautiful family and now lives in South Georgia. Her family looks like the family in the picture frame you buy at the store. Her kids are all tall, in fact, taller than their Mother. Her husband Stan is as tall as a Redwood as well, and a nicer man you can't find.

And today, I had lunch with my lifelong friend Joy Culpepper Crawford, her husband Stan, and one of their beautiful daughters Karly. It was wonderful to reminisce and it made my heart smile.
And after 42 years of wondering if I ever got at least as tall as Joy, the answer to my question was finally answered…(see the photo)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Playground Creds, 42 years later

Thanksgiving Eve

The cover thief laying next to me is 'breathing heavy'.
When I breathe heavy she calls it snoring.

She's tired because she did a days work then came home and did another 2 days work getting ready for tomorrow, where it will be utter and complete chaos.

All her kids are home and that makes her heart as full as the house is tonight, which contains 7 adults, 3 kids, 5 dogs, 4 cats, and 1 beta fighting fish.

There will be another dozen descend on us tomorrow, but for now she can breathe as heavy as she wants.

This girl--this wife of mine--never ceases to amaze me.

Creme De George

I like Saturday because I get to hang out with my best girl, Wifey.

Today was no exception, but it wouldn't be complete had we not incurred what started out as a routine task but quickly became an adventure- a quest, even.

When we recently celebrated Wifeys birthday, she had a cocktail that quickly became her favorite.

It's called an Aviation.

This particular cocktail got started ions ago, kind of went extinct, but more recently is out of moth balls for a resurgence. 

 

Regardless, Wifey loved this drink and what Wifey wants Wifey usually gets. It only stands to reason that we attempt to duplicate the cocktail at home.

The Aviation is comprised of gin, lemon juice, maraschino liqueur and creme de violette, which is also a liqueur. And based on the events of today, it may be easier just to order one the next time we go to Dovetail, the restaurant where Wifey and Aviation first met.

 

It is complex, if not complicated because

a) it ain't beer

b) two of the ingredients aren't readily available, and

3) my auto correct just tried to correct the word 'liqueur' to 'liquor', which only adds to my frustrated ability to communicate. 

Armed with my phone, Google, and wi-fi, I did the rational thing and called the nearest adult beverage store.

 

"Yes Sir, do you folks by chance have a couple of liqueurs I need, one is Maraschino liqueur and he other called Creme De Violette, in order that I make my wife her favorite cocktail and as a result she finds favor in me?"

The lord as my witness, this is the way my brain and the voice inside my head asked the question to the man on the other end of the phone.

In reality, it came out like this (It is important to note here that English is my second language, Southern being my first):

"Yessir, dew yew folks have 2 of these lick-kewrs I'm needin'? Ones called Mary-sheen-oh cherry not the cherries but the lick-kewr and the otherns called Kreme Dee Vie-oh- let-tay?"

Out of the corner of my eye in the middle of my inquiry I had noticed Wifey looking at me as if I had just transformed into a unicorn.

 

I have seen this look before, and quickly surmise that she is impressed with my tenacity, persistence, and ongoing pursuit to keep her to a standard of living to which she has been long accustomed.

 

Wrong look.

Wifeys face is red. Her eyes are tearing up, her mouth is agape and there's no sound coming out. She is doubled over. Then she takes in a breath and starts to laugh from the deepest place in her soul. She starts mimicking me in the same voice I used (not the inside my brain one) and admits she may have even "peed a little".

 

She's roaring and laughing so hard she cannot contain herself. In another moment she has me laughing, about to wet myself.

Well, we finally found the stuff after the fifth attempt.

Liquor store #5,  the Macon Beverage Outlet (who knew, right?): "Yes Sir, we have it" the young lady said. "Maam, I said, hold on to that bottle I will be there in half hour to pick it up- my name is George!" She agreed, so Wifey and I took off out the door to get what has to be the rarest and hardest to pronounce beverage in the universe.

We walked in the place, and began to look around. Not having said one word, the girl behind the counter noticed me and immediately held up the bottle of the unpronounceable lick-kewr.

Wifey starts laughing, I start laughing. I said " How'd you know it was me?!?"

She said

"You look like a George"

Wifey said " He acts like one, too!

All is well, Life is good. Now if you will excuse me, I've a cocktail to make.

 

Post Election Thoughts

I suspect most of us feel the same way.

I'm glad its over.

The fighting, the commentary from both sides, the rhetoric, the lambasting--OH, THE HUMANITY! or lack thereof. He said, she said, they said, and the propaganda machine called the Media sliced it, diced, it, spun it, shunned it, 'splained it, and turned it ALL into an ice water enema of epic proportions, pitting Us against Them, with no one knowing who THEM was, were, or are. When you added religion, race, ethnicity, social class, and whether you were left right handed, we had all the ingredients of a civil war.

In short, it was a doo-doo sandwich, served without bread. Relationships suffered, friends were unfriended, as the entire ordeal played out on television, talk radio, and social media. Facebooks, Tweets, Snappychats and Instagratification Grams made me think of the Wizard of Oz-"Pay no attention to the Man behind the curtain.."

It was, like my grandfather said in referring to life in general, "one continuous damn thing after another."

Amazingly, on the 9th day of November, the Sun rose in the East as always. Most folks got up and went to work, kids went to school, and dogs and cats went outside to pee. Half of the Population did this with hurt feelings because their team lost, while the others celebrated their teams victory.

The propaganda machine is still figuring out how to make it look that they had a firm handle on the situation the entire time, while the ghosts of Edward R. Murrow, Walter Cronkite look down on them in disgust.

Roosevelt died, MacArthur got fired, and the world kept turning. America needs to give itself a swift kick in either the gonads or ovaries, and go back to being Americans. Divide yourselves over what counts--sports teams, music preferences, brands of cars, clothing and fast food joints. Argue about long or short hair, your favorite season, and white or wheat bread. But at the end of the day you must be part of something greater than yourself, and that is to be a Free American who lives in the greatest place on Earth.

RIP, Spanky the Wonder Dog

We picked him up on Christmas Eve that year. A little black ball of fur with two black eyes. The only thing white on him were his exposed teeth, a result of a bad underbite.

It didn't matter.

Sue took one look and made the same sound she made when the doctors handed her a newborn child on three separate occasions.

In ten seconds she transformed into one of those women who carry their dogs in a purse. When she put that dog in her purse, like Rosanne Rosannadanna said,"I thought I was gonna die.." She was, for a time, like her little dog, insufferable. They also became inseparable.

The little black fur ball was named Spanky shortly thereafter, and proceeded to take over the entire family.

An honest and sincere attempt to housebreak Spanky would prove fruitless. His motto was surely "The world is my urinal, I shall not want..."

We bought pee pads by the trailer truckload.

Of course Spanky didn't dare sleep on the floor, he slept in our queen size bed, firmly planted in between Sue and I, his 12 pounds feeling like 125 as we fought for cover.  Our nightly ritual back then consisted of tussling with each other, me taunting him while he barked, then eventually jumping off the bed to go get Sue. I left for Iraq for a year and upon my return Spank had worked his way to my side of the bed, sleeping there nightly with his head on my pillow. My first night back, he beat me to bed by 10 minutes then growled when I tried to move him. Every night for two weeks after that I was awoken by his breathing in my face as we shared a pillow.

A few years ago I had a hospital stay, and upon my return I was greeted by the Spankster, who licked me until I was a slobbery mess.

My Mother, never a lover of animals (but they all love her) brought Spanky french fries when she visited. He never forgot her for it nor would forgive her for it when she showed up empty handed.

As he got older he was unable to jump on the bed or couch, having to be picked up. We eventually gave up trying to housebreak him or fight for the covers. It was Spankys world and we just resided in it.

He had been getting sicker and weaker in the last couple of weeks, so we knew it was time. I drove him to the vets office, him barely able to hold his head up, but he licked my hand, then giving me an extended glance with those black eyes of his.

Seems like perhaps he knew.

 

Not hardly a day goes by that I don't see someone's posting on social media about their beloved pet crossing the rainbow bridge. It's like a member of the family, they say.

I held my little buddy while the Vet prepared the shot.

No pain, no suffering, just like they said. The humane thing to do, not letting him suffer, just like we all said. 16 years for a dog is a long time, just like we all said. He had a charmed good life, like I said, and like Sue and the kids said.

You're not about to get an argument from me.....

But it's just a dog, like they said.

 

And here I am, just another guy whose dog was being put down.

Man up, I said, as I held our ever faithful Spanky Doodle Dandy, the French fry eating, cover hogging, pee wherever you want to member of our family for the last 16 years, the tears running down my face and my heart breaking into a million pieces.

Just like they said.

Skittles or Shi**les?

Dear Skittle People;
Just purchased a bag of AMERICA MIX Skittles because when this boy tastes the rainbow, by God it's going to be a Red,White,and Blue American rainbow---which brings me to the issue.

The American mix is red white blue and lighter blue; specifically, the lighter blue skittle in question is 'Yumberry'.
 
Well, folks, I've got news for you.

If incorporated with a handful of other skittles, it taints the others; if taken by itself, it must be taken the same way one would take medicine-- in short, there is nothing 'Yum' about this skittle.

I would suggest renaming it to dingleberry or even polecat pissberry, because it is nasty. Let's dance with who brought us, ok? Please ixnay on the isspay. I have to go take a pull off my listerine bottle now. 

George Fisher
Skittle Eater

P.S. Bet you thought I was going to say the light blue one was a shi**le, didn't you?