Author: Pat Cashman

A couple of weeks ago, I had been driving all day and felt as whipped as a crew of galley slaves. I searched through the deepening night gloom for any motel with a vacancy.

Just when I thought I was going to have to pull over and sleep roadside for the night, I saw a sign blinking up ahead—heralding the Trail’s End Motel.

Indeed it was—even though with a few burned out lights it read rail’s E d Mo e .
But the smaller sign below contained the good news: VACANCY. (Actually it read VACA. But thanks to my longtime “Wheel of Fortune” viewer-ship I figured it out.)
I strolled in to the motel office wearily. Behind the counter was a guy who looked so creepy that even Norman Bates would have turned around and gone back to his car. But I was so tired that a bed of nails sounded appealing.
After checking in, I walked down several doors to my new venue—number 11—and even though I was yet to lay eyes on it I was already writing a blistering Tripadvisor.com review in my mind. I knew it would have to be a doozy to top some I had seen previously on-line.

There are some masterpieces. Here is a sampling of one motel in particular:
The Travelodge in Jersey City. (I have corrected some—not all—of the grammar.)

“This place was the worst motel I stayed in. The rooms smelled nasty. The sheets, TV, mirror and refrig was dirty beyond words. There was flies everywhere. I complained with the front desk manager and they refused to help us—and spoke with another manager in the morning and complained and he did not do anything either. On top of that the TV channels suck and they were one channel of porn.”

OK, that sounds bad. I mean, what kind of dump only has one channel of porn? But a single review is not a fair reason to condemn a place like the Travelodge in Jersey City. So here is another:

“This was the worst experience of my life. Not only was the room dirty and dingy with bugs and blood on the walls, the bathroom was broken. We asked for our money back, management refused and changed our room to #40. A very tall man who said he has lived there for the past 3 yrs. asked us if we were interested in selling drugs for him. Again we complained to the manager and he said, “This is New Jersey. Next time stay at the Plaza in New York City.” All night, people of all sorts come and go from room #40. If you value your life don’t stay there. It is a nightmare, creepy. Room tip: Stay away!”

Again, that is just another person’s opinion—and perhaps they are just the fussy type.
So here’s some more about the Travelodge in Jersey City:

“Ugh! The roaches chased us! As soon as we entered the door the bugs scattered…we were so afraid to leave our luggage open—we thought they would like to come with us. Stay away! Horrible place!”
OK, but what about the bed? Was it comfortable? How many bugs did it have? A more helpful review might have at least mentioned those things too.
Here is another:
“Please, don’t ever go there in your life. We changed three times of room because the bed had hairs on it.”
Again I would want to ask “What kind of hairs? Human? Goat? Panda? Specifics please!”
To be fair, not all of the Jersey City Travelodge reviews complained about hairs, dirt and roaches. This one had a refreshingly different theme:
“After staying a few days in this place, I was covered with sores that I scratched at night. I didn’t know what it was until my friend told about the bedbugs there. I had to move and wash everything in bleach and hot water.” See? No complaints about porn or hairs.
As for my experience at the Trail’s End Motel, I will keep my review brief and to the point:

“Nicer than the Travelodge in Jersey City.”

I picked up a new dictionary at a bookstore recently. Remember bookstores? They were places that sold important literature by authors like Dickens, Tolstoy and Trump.
As for dictionaries, they were volumes containing loads of words such as “loads”, “of” and “words.”
But I noticed that the dictionary I picked up the other day was far heavier than those I remembered. It was nearly hernia inducing.

Hernia. noun.
A condition in which part of an organ is displaced and protrudes through the wall of the cavity containing it.
Eww!

I had picked up the heavy reference book to look up the word ‘historical.’ I figured the definition must be pretty obvious, but wanted to confirm it:

Historical. adj.
Causing unrestrained laughter. Very funny.

Oh, wait a minute. I’d accidentally looked up ‘hysterical”—as in, “hysterical joke.” Example: “Parallel lines have so much in common. It’s a shame they’ll never meet.”

(Yes, I actually found that cited as an example of a hysterical joke.)

But back to ‘historical”—and/or ‘historic.’ I wanted to be clear on their meanings because I see one word or the other posted in nearly every small town, burg and road stop in our state.

From “Welcome to historic West Seattle” or, “You are entering historical Burien”—it seems that every town in this country is worthy of attention, historically speaking.

This is different than towns that simply try to grab your attention as you approach.
For example, here is an actual—and intriguing—one:

KETTLE FALLS
1640 friendly people and one grouch.

I parked my car in downtown Kettle Falls and walked into the grocery store. The man behind the counter started yelling, “You can’t park THERE!”I knew in an instant he must be 1641. NOTE: Turns out his name is Roy. Meanwhile, in the town of Roy, you can pretty much park wherever you want.
But travel anywhere and you will discover that almost every town, every place claims to be a significant repository of past events.

Raymond in Grays Harbor County has three downtown buildings on the National Register of Historic Places. That’s pretty cool. But it also the town where the band Nirvana played their first ever gig. Cooler.
Dayton, near Walla Walla, has the oldest train depot in the state. I found the brother of Roy from Kettle Falls sitting in there. He was also in a bad mood. He’s been waiting for the southbound for three years.
Speaking of Walla Walla, part of its historical significance may be because it is the state’s only town named twice. It is said to have come from a typing error in the 1800’s—and they decided to just go with it.
Some places are not only historic, but also linguistically noteworthy. La Conner, for example, means “the Conner.” La Center means “the Center.” Lacey means “the Cey.”
And so on.
If you ever travel to Cape Flattery you will quickly discover why it’s called that. A woman named Doris will walk up and compliment you on your shoes.

Your treatment at Cape Disappointment will not be nearly so gracious.
I digress.

The point is that our Puget Sound neck-of-the-woods is filled with rich history—loads of it. (Another digression: Wouldn’t “Neck-of-the-Woods” be a great name for a town? Especially located not far from “Stomping Grounds?”)

Besides small towns, a traveler can also stay plenty busy checking out all the state’s historical road markers. I pulled over to read one last week just outside of the town of Manson. It said: “You’re almost to Manson. And no, we’re not named after that guy.”

Perhaps there’s a road marker with this inscription: “ACME Road Markers. We make all kinds. Visit acmeroadmarkers.com.”
Meanwhile, somewhere, there must be a place that admits to no historical importance—a place without bragging signage, notable heritage or a local museum.

It would be that rare hamlet where nothing ever happened: “Welcome to Glimpton Falls. You might as well keep going. Nothing to see here.”

Remember that universal schoolroom nightmare?

It is the one where you show up for class one morning—and discover you have forgotten to wear any clothes. Of course once you awaken, you realize the dream is absurd. Unless you are Tim Kosebud, my long ago fourth grade classmate.

He arrived at St. Francis elementary one wintry day—and while taking off his long overcoat —discovered he had somehow forgotten to don a pair of pants. Since St. Francis was a parochial catholic school, Kosebud was definitely not wearing the recommended uniform. A furtive call to his mother saved the day—as she soon arrived with his pair of salt-and-pepper corduroy pants.

(A few years later, Tim got himself into trouble again when he tried to sneak beer into school—and it wasn’t even good beer. Very flat. At least the nun who taught our class said so.)

I remembered episodes like those a couple of weeks ago at the 80th anniversary commemoration of that school in Bend, Oregon. Given the honor of emceeing the event, I took some time to think back on old school days, classmates and teachers. Even old food.

I remembered a baloney sandwich I had hidden behind a drainpipe during my 7th grade year. I had planned to devour it just after a big test—but forgot. When I checked last week the sandwich was gone—including the baloney. As for the test, it was an essay—and also baloney.
The gathering last week brought together former teachers, former faculty, former staff and former students. They were all located through the website FormersOnly.com.

There were even three people who had been in the original classes 80 years ago—an amazing occasion.
But some people expected to be on hand failed to show up. Tim Kosebud was a no-show—perhaps still embarrassed over the pants incident. Nonetheless, his absence was unexcused.

Another old classmate of mine—Danny Heckathorn—did arrive. But he was a bit late and suffering from jet lag. No wonder: He had flown in from Bellingham earlier in the day.

I began my presentation by bragging a bit—announcing that I had just signed a three-year deal with Netflix. After the applause died down, I explained just what a great deal it was:

The first three months are free, and then it’s just $9.95 a month after that.
There had long been a rumor going around that Danny Heckathorn was a straight A student at St. Francis School. But most people did not believe the rumor, so Danny stopped spreading it.
I too was not a great student. But perhaps that was because I was not cut out for academia—I wanted to be a dancer. My dream was to be the first-ever male belly dancer.
But a brutally honest instructor finally gave me the bad news: I did not have the navel for it.
No question about it though: St. Francis School gave many students an important foundation. Webster’s defines foundation as “a supporting undergarment.” So we will always think of the school as the corset of our education.
The school opened in 1936—so I asked the assembled group to imagine what the world was like eighty years ago.

Think of it. No You Tube. No Facebook. No Instagram, e-Bay, GPS, blogs, Starbucks, Microsoft, Amazon, Wal-Mart, Prozac or Viagra.

And no Google—nor Bing. Except for Crosby.

There were no zombies on TV. There was no TV.

A tweet was the sound a bird made. Even swifts. But there was no Swift named Taylor.
1936 was Kardashian-free—along with Justin Beiber, Adele and Larry the Cable Guy. But if there were a Larry the Cable Guy, the cable would have referred to telegrams, not TV.

Real Housewives were real housewives.

There were no iPhones, pods or pads—and drone was what certain priests did from the pulpit.
Green was just a color, blackberry was a fruit—and phones made calls. Only calls. And they were hooked to a wall.
People wrote letters; they did not text. LOL did not stand for anything.

A trump was a card you played in bridge.

The net was something only used by fishermen, acrobats—and people serving school lunches.
And if you heard the words “Harry Potter” you assumed it was referring to a hirsute guy with a kiln.
Today, the old St. Francis School has been converted into a hotel—and a brewpub. So Tim Kosebud doesn’t have to sneak beer in anymore.

In fact, he is welcome there—as long as he remembers his trousers.

A smallish news article may have escaped your notice last week. It didn’t show up in many newspapers. In a four pager, it would have landed on page five. But it caught a friend’s notice and she sent it on to me saying, “This sounds like something you’d find interesting.” A compliment? Perhaps not. But she was right.

In a town not far from Atlantic City, N.J. called Egg Harbor Township, a fellow named Leroy ‘Blast’ Bill Black passed away a couple of weeks ago. The newspaper in Atlantic City dutifully published his obituary. In fact, there were two obituaries for him—appearing one on top of the other.

But it was not an accidental double printing. It was two different obits: one by “Blast’s” wife—and the other…by his girlfriend.

Awkward.

The newspaper decided that instead of fighting with the two women—who were already sad enough—they would just publish both versions.

The differences between the two obituaries are not very noticeable. Except that in the wife’s version, she is referred to as Mr. Black’s “loving wife.” The other obit mentions his “longtime girlfriend.”
And it is only in the girlfriend’s version that Mr. Black’s nickname “Blast” is included. No explanation for it is offered. Perhaps he loved dynamite.

But the idea of printing two—or even more—versions of obituaries is intriguing. After all, no one observes anything—be it colors, music, politics, you-name-it—in the same way. And, just as surely, no one views his or her fellow humans in quite the same light.

If he’s on your team, an outspoken athlete is fabulous. But to a fan of another team, he’s the biggest loudmouth on the planet.
To some, Lincoln was our greatest president—but to others, he was just a tall guy with a beard who enjoyed live theater.

There are those who might think that when a local hero rescues an annoying kid from a well, he should get a medal. Others might be rooting for the well.

That’s why when each person’s story is written—or at least his or her obituary—more than one point of view might provide a clearer picture.

What follows is a completely invented example of such dueling obituaries—that when combined, might shed light on a fictitious fellow we’ll call Phil Zogginwheeler:

FROM HIS WIFE: “Phil ‘The Sneak’ Zogginwheeler—married for 27 years to his loving, faithful wife, Helen—died on Tuesday at the age of 55 when, wearing only underpants, he fell three stories out of another woman’s apartment window.”
FROM HIS GIRLFRIEND: “Phil ‘Sweet lips’ Zogginwheeler died on Tuesday at the age of what seemed like 35—while leaving the apartment of the love of his life, Rita Muldoon. He was forced to make the fatal exit when he saw another woman—he never loved—coming up the apartment stairs yelling at him and waving what appeared to be a tire iron.”
WIFE: “Zogginwheeler, an unemployed musician, leaves behind Helen—who agreed to marry him instead of Earl Clankfelder, her high school boyfriend. Clankfeder, retired software CEO, currently travels by yacht from his six homes around the world. “
GIRLFRIEND: “Zogginwheeler was enjoying a surprise birthday party from his girlfriend Rita when the accident occurred.”
WIFE: “Zoggenwheeler’s wife Helen was about to surprise him when he leapt out the apartment window.”
GIRLFRIEND: “Mr. Zogginwheeler was the most romantic person ever—he loved long walks on the beach, a nice glass of wine and evenings under the moonlight.”
WIFE: “He enjoyed spending hours wandering around the beach with his metal detector—always also knocking back three or four bottles of Carlo Rossi. He spent most nights out in the yard sleeping it off.”
GIRLFRIEND: “In recent weeks, Mr. Zoggenwheeler proudly displayed a new tattoo shaped like a rose—along with the words ‘To My Pretty Rita, She’s My Little Sweet-a!’ He loved showing it off when not clothed.”
WIFE: “In recent weeks he was gone on business a lot—rather surprising since he hadn’t worked in six years. However his loving wife, Helen, dutifully kept house and took care of the bills while he was away—including three from a place called “Skin Ink, Inc!”
GIRLFRIEND: “He always did things for others—like his girlfriend Rita, who’ll always remember him for the gorgeous jewelry, beautiful flowers, romantic nights and wonderful vacation trips.
WIFE: “His wife Helen will always remember him for the things he did for others.”
GIRLFRIEND: “Funeral services will be at Willoughby’s Funeral Home at 2 pm, Friday. He will later be cremated.”
WIFE: “Funeral services will be at Willoughby’s Funeral Home at 2 pm, Friday.
Then he’ll be set on fire.”

Surely you have things you believe fervently.

Me too.

I believe those supposedly healthful magnetic wrist bracelets do not do anything except set off airport metal detectors. I believe the main reason people wear the bracelets is because they look cool. Which they do, by the way. I believe Wonder Woman wears something like them—but I’m certainly not going to tell her my opinion.
I believe that astrology has about as much to with real science as pixie dust. I believe a Virgo is just as likely to behave like a Sagittarius. A Pisces is not demonstrably different than an Aquarius. And a Taurus would not be a thrilling car even if it were called a Leo.

I believe that there is no way to successfully eat a meatball sandwich—which by design is intended to squirt meatball bullets out all sides.

I believe that the main reason I don’t like the TV show Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader? is because it constantly reminds me that I’m not. I don’t know what school the featured fifth graders attend, but I certainly didn’t go there. I wish those smarty-pants fifth graders would behave the way they should—spending less time doing homework and more time texting.

I believe that none of those golf videos and devices that you see advertised on TV will improve your game a bit. When the guy on-screen says he can make you into a great golfer by sharing a simple secret, he is lying like a bathroom mat.

Who would believe that a $29.95 video holds the key? Green fees for a single round on a so-so public course cost more than that. Tiger Woods never watched a golf video—unless he was on it.

I believe you will learn more by buying the ancient classic, Dorf on Golf. I saw a video copy at Goodwill yesterday. If you still have a Beta player, it should work for you.

I believe that all the fit people appearing in those exercise equipment and diet commercials—have never been out-of-shape or flabby in their entire lives. You know the ones I mean. The Bow-Flex guy with the Quonset hut abs? He was born looking like that. In fact, his stomach is a deformity. This I believe.

I believe it is possible—if you have a Costco card—to never pay for a meal again. Here’s how: Show up at Costco with several quick changes of disguise stuffed into your purse or coat pockets—things like fake eyeglasses, paste-on beards, etc. Once inside Costco hide the disguises somewhere in the store. I put mine behind the half and half in the dairy locker.

Then wander through the store stopping at every little sample food table in the place. The average Costco has a dozen going at any one time, hawking samples from butterhorn slices to little dollops of yogurt. After you visit each one, go around again—and then again.

After several trips, the people manning the booths might notice. “Hey, weren’t you already here?” At that point, you should head to the half and half, grab your disguise gear—and make your way to the Costco restroom. Change into a simple disguise and then start making the rounds anew. In a short time—and a few changes of disguise—you will be well fed and on your way home.

Speaking of Costco, have you seen those $89.95-and-up electric sonic toothbrushes that operate on rechargeable battery power and feature hundreds of twitching bristles? Customers circle them like crows around a freshly smashed roadside possum. Customers figure the toothbrush may be expensive but sure beats the cost of a trip to the dentist, right? Not so fast.

I believe that those so-called adult electric toothbrushes are easily trumped (or clintoned, if you prefer) by the versions for little kids selling for around five bucks at any grocery store. If an adult can just get past the fact they are brushing their teeth with a device featuring My Little Pony—they’ll get a brushing every bit as fine as one that costs sixteen times as much. This I really believe.

And I have long believed—and still do—that the greatest gig going is the one being enjoyed by local TV weather people. What a great set up!

Think of it! You waltz into a TV station, put some mousse in your hair, chitchat briefly with the news anchor—then turn to a camera and give a forecast.

The next day, should that forecast turn out to be completely erroneous—you waltz back into the station, put more mousse in your hair, chitchat briefly with the news anchor— turn to the camera and give a new forecast.
You offer no explanations and no apologies for the day before—just a new forecast.
How sweet is that job?

I believe it is the second sweetest. (See ‘astrology’, above.)

Not so very long ago, in the restroom of a Washington State ferry where I had gone to rest, I noticed a small warning label on a hand-towel gadget. You’ve seen the kind. You pull down on a swath of dirty cloth towel —and a new section of clean towel is exposed from the roller a few inches at a time. Then you dry your mitts and walk away leaving the dirty cloth for the next person.

Such towel dispensers are becoming rare. The kind containing actual paper towels are much more common. Sadly, some restrooms have no towel dispensers at all—just air blowers, which are fine I suppose for people with both water and time on their hands.

EXCLUSIVE BREAKING NEWS: Some people do NOT wash their hands after using the rest room. Some of them, in fact, are current prominent government officials or others running for office. Their names will be revealed in an upcoming column strategically timed for the November General Election.
But back to that warning sign.
It read: “Do Not Put Head Inside.”

Whenever one might see a warning like that they would tend to think: “Well, of course you shouldn’t put your head in there! Who would even think of putting their head in there? It’s a HAND-drying gadget! Why would anyone need to dry their HEAD after going to the toilet anyway?” (In fact, I remember seeing a guy who got his head completely soaked in the restroom of the Cathlamet to Vashon. The captain had swerved suddenly to avoid a wayward kayaker—causing a headfirst tumble into the urinal.)

But there must be a reason that particular warning label had been placed on that particular ferry towel dispenser. It must be because someone, sometime, somehow—HAD put his or her head inside one of those things.

Maybe the person had been drunk.
Maybe they had been dared.
Maybe the captain had swerved to avoid a wayward kayaker.
But for some reason, someone had put their noggin in there—and something terrible had happened.
Did you miss that story? I did too.

Perhaps we overlooked the news headline that blazed across the front page of this very publication:
FERRY RIDER SMOTHERED
BY HAND-DRYING GADGET,
INVESTIGATION REVEALS!
APPEARS TO HAVE BEEN WEIRD
ACCIDENT, SAY AUTHORITIES!
WARNING SIGN SHOULD HAVE
BEEN PLACED THERE,
SAYS VICTIM’S LAWYER!
THIS NEWSPAPER’S HEADLINES
GETTING WAY TOO LONG,
SAYS EDITOR!
But a hand-drying gadget? There must be more obvious places not to place a human head—and signs to warn us. On garbage disposals for example.
Or:
Do Not Put Head Inside George Forman Grill!
Do Not Put Head Inside Running Lawn Mower!

Public aquariums should have warnings clearly posted: Do Not Put Head Into Tank Full of Piranha!
After all, warning signs are a relatively modern phenomenon. We have got so many of these days that hardly anybody pays attention to them. Especially those pesky stop and yield signs.

Sometimes the problem is that signs are just poorly placed. I saw one recently that warned of dangerous footing—but the warning was placed above a doorway. By the time the warning could be read, it would be too late. It would be better if the sign was at eye-level and read: Get Ready For A Little Surprise!
Studies show that Stone Age cave dwellers did NOT post signs that read: Watch For Low-hanging Stalactites! Those same studies also show that many early men were named Lumpy. (However, some historians insist that early man DID put up some hieroglyphics that translate to: Do Not Put Head Inside Saber-tooth Tiger!)

Maybe a state transportation official knows why that warning sign on the ferry’s hand-drying gadget is deemed necessary—but if it saves even one head, it will be worth it. Which reminds us that a safety notice would have been helpful during the French Revolution: Do Not Put Head Inside Guillotine!
For that matter, think of all the wars, territorial disputes and family feuds that could have been averted if only there had been signs clearly posted: Do Not Put Head Into Other People’s Business!

In closing, I submit for your consideration the below sign—actually two of them that join together to complete a single thought—that I photographed at a rest-stop outside of Ellensburg.
Controversial? Perhaps. But few can dispute it.

In between a hectic schedule of loitering and lollygagging, I found time to turn on TV the other day. The remote landed on a nightly cable news program—one of those where the host talks faster than an auctioneer, and the guests are lucky to squeeze in a couple of gerunds or a dangling participle before they are interrupted.
You might have noticed that some of those shows ever have reasonably non-confrontational names these days like On the Record and Your World. (The show titles Polite Conversation and Reasoned Discourse are not currently being used.)

Hardball is just about the most contentious name going right now since Crossfire went away some time ago. But after the dust settles following this election cycle, look for grittier show titles: The Ruckus Factor, Hostility & Stones and Cockfight Tonight.

Getting back to that show I was watching—a smug, self-congratulatory commentator was saying, “Putin should get his just desserts!” For some reason, I was more interested in his choice of words, than his opinion. I wondered, what exactly are “just desserts” anyway? Why should an apparently well-fed guy like Putin get ANY dessert?

Dessert is a special reward that comes after eating a meal. Certainly an egotistical near-dictator should not be given chocolate mousse, baklava or even fruitcake.

When I was troublesome as a kid, I never got dessert. And that was merely for getting my clothes muddy. I never even thought about invading neighboring countries.

It turns out that “desserts”—when used in the Putin context, for example— is just another of those many words that are sometimes misspelled—just as the word ‘misspelled’ is often mispeled.
We know that the word “desert” refers to a dry, barren expanse of land—such as the Kingdome during the Mariners games of the 1980’s. But desert—when pronounced like dessert—also refers to a deserved punishment or reward. So a guy like Putin—if punished in an appropriate manner—would get his “just deserts.” Like, say, an oily pudding made out of sand.

One of the facts of life is that few people ever do seem to get their “just deserts”, no matter how you spell or pronounce it. The school bully, the grouchy store clerk, the haughty cheerleader, and the manufacturers of Big Bertha—they all might get their comeuppance in the movies, but rarely in real life.
That’s why a news story from some time ago caught my eye. It had to do with a Virginia man whose pet shar-pei bit him. So he decided to beat the dog to death with the butt of his rifle. Nice guy, eh? Unfortunately for him (and fortunately for the dog), the gun went off mid-beating—and the guy wound up accidentally shooting—and offing himself—instead of the dog. Granted, that is not a funny story—but somehow there is a certain justice in the outcome. And if a shar-pei could grin, that one would.

While driving home late one night several years ago, I noticed a set of headlights coming at breakneck speed behind me. The headlights, it turned out, were attached to a car—and the car was attached to some inebriated guy who thought he was in a NASCAR race.

After sitting on my bumper for a few seconds—and honking (I had the audacity to be driving at the speed limit)—he suddenly blew past me along the shoulder of the road, and rocketed out of sight. I figured that would be the last I’d see of him, but there was some dessert waiting for him down the road.
Rounding a bend about ten minutes later, I saw a couple of police cars just pulling up in front of a paint store—where moments earlier, the would-be Richard Petty had plowed into the front entrance. He was just climbing out of his car as the cops arrived—his embarrassed face made all the redder by a can of vermillion semi-gloss. I felt somewhat bad for him. But not THAT bad. I hope they let him off easy—like three consecutive 99-year sentences at Monroe.

Not the reformatory. Monroe.

So while it does not happen as much as we would like, when just desserts (or deserts) are actually dished up—the taste is sweet.
I should know. I can still remember a college roommate that just did not work out. The situation became unbearable.

How would you like it if your jerk roommate was a disgusting slob, always leaving smelly clothes and dirty dishes lying around? Well, my roommate certainly like it either.

I think that’s why he finally moved out. No warnings, no goodbyes.

He just deserted.

A neighbor friend keeps a huge schedule board in his family kitchen. I mean huge. And I mean schedule. It is not HIS schedule mind you—it is for his kids this summer. It covers almost an entire wall and looks like something you might expect to see in a war room at the Pentagon.

All the events, appointments and exact times of the kids’ summer itinerary are written out: Monday—7: 30-8:30am, swim lessons; 8:45-11:00am, violin lessons, 11:15-1pm, baseball practice, etc. It is an appointment calendar so complete that the only thing not officially planned is breathing.

When I was a youngster (back in the previous century) nobody kept a summertime schedule for my siblings or me. Oh sure, I had the occasional Little League game—but once the game was over my day was free. And I was very well rested, as you would expect from someone who sat on the bench for several innings.

During the school year, I had to be dragged out of bed each morning. But in the summer, I bounded up at morning’s first light. Then, I would move quickly across the room, close the curtain and go back to sleep.
Not that those days were not filled with activities.

They were.

First, I was a voracious reader—familiar with all the writings of the Roman scholar Voracious.
But I also had a wide range of interests from Superman to Archie. I was not fond of Baby Huey, but forced myself to read him anyway so that my summer education would be well rounded.

Then, my brothers and I would go outside and play with our “guys. “A guy was our generic term for those tiny plastic army soldiers and cowboys. Our guys never stood around and discussed current events. They were always fighting. And there were never any tiny plastic girls trying to step in and be reasonable.
For my birthday one year I got a G.I. Joe. Perfect! Now our guys had a giant to fight.

One summer I briefly started a new hobby: making model cars and planes. I wasn’t any good at it—and the completed models never looked a thing like the ones on the box cover. A friend who lived down the block was far more skilled, and spent hours at it. He told me he enjoyed the challenge of following directions and assembling complex objects. But years later, he admitted he just liked being around the glue.

For summers without an actual schedule, there was still a lot to do. Building forts, for example. The easiest fort was right there under the bedroom blanket cover—just use a baseball bat as a tent pole, and presto. My brothers and I would all huddle inside, oxygen-deprived but happy. That is until the youngest brother—we called him Windy—put an abrupt end to things and forced immediate evacuation.

He was the same one whose spontaneous bubble creations forced immediate evacuation from the bathtub too.

For several summers, I did have one regularly scheduled week: summer camp. It wasn’t one of those specialty camps that are so much in vogue these days—church camp, soccer camp, computer camp, chess camp, math camp, toenail clipper camp—it was just camp.

There was no real schedule—except for the mosquitoes, which were so well fed they made the crows look small.

The place was about sixty miles out of town, right on a big lake—perfect for swimming, if 40-degree water and leeches didn’t bother you.

Everyone slept in big tents with wood floors and ants—except for the camp counselors who slept a few miles away in a Best Western with cable TV and a mini-fridge.

We campers ate in a mess hall where they served mess three times a day. The camp experience was…Hell. But as hells go, it was sure fun. Pure, lazy fun.

For the counselors, it was hazy fun. They’d discovered marijuana growing wild just off the nature trail.
Nowadays, many would say there is every good reason to keep kids’ lives more fully scheduled. After all, there is a widespread belief that left on their own they will get into mischief. Mischief, of course, is something that should not be gotten into until kids reach adulthood.

Then—once they are politicians, CEO’s or college football coaches—they can have at it.

I was 12 years old, and everyone else had left the dinner table twenty minutes earlier. But there I remained seated while under the baleful eye of my mother. “Keep eating it until you’re done,” she said. The “it” she referred to was a hunk of suety oleginousness; a clump of sebaceous adiposity. Or, as it is more commonly known: fat.

My mom quite honestly believed that “fat is good for you”—and therefore my siblings and I were required not only to finish every meal she laid out for us, but also every component part of it—including trimmings, stems, skins and, yes, fat.

The problem with fat—be it from beef, chicken, ham, turkey or salmon—was that I simply could not swallow it. I could chew it for hours—even days—and make less progress than a slug traveling from Tukwila to Pullman.

Big Bertha could tunnel through the planet quicker than I could ingurgitate a glob of gristle. Even a gun to the head would not speed things along.

Occasionally, if lucky enough, I would pretend to cough—launching the fatty chunk into my cupped hand and then onto the floor where I hoped the dog would gobble it up. If our family had owned a dog the ruse would have worked better.

But pet deprived I sat forlornly at the dinner table chewing away on indigestible fat lumps like a cud-chomping cow.

Cows apparently have a couple of stomachs. So ‘cud’ is food eaten earlier that then comes back into the cow’s mouth to be chewed again until going into the second stomach.
It’s like beginning to watch an episode of “Hoarders” on one TV—pausing it—and then going to another room in the house that also has a TV and resuming. Except “Hoarders” is even more disgusting than the cud thing.

In fairness, my mom may simply have been ahead of her time regarding the idea of eating a diet high in animal fat. After all, the FDA, nutritionists and just about everyone else disagrees these days about which foods are healthy.

Take butter. Please.

All of sudden, new studies say that butter might actually be good for you. And it is certainly better than those margarine substitutes. I know what you’re saying: “I can’t believe that ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter’ is not better than butter, but in fact butter is better than ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter!”

But it turns out that butter contains cancer-fighting fats, protects against arthritis and hardening of the arteries—and helps promote a healthy brain and nervous system. That is the good news about butter—so start spreading it.

The most popular special diet these days is something called “Mediterranean.” A guy I know—eager to eat better—just found out it consists of fruits, vegetables, fish and whole grains. He was hoping it meant spaghetti and meatballs, beef kabobs and pepperoni and cheese calzones. Hold the butter.

So what IS good for you?

Granola, right? Wrong. Most of it is loaded with sugar. On the other hand, a tablespoon of sugar contains zero granola. So go straight to the sugar, even though it’s really bad for you. My mom may have admonished us to eat our fat—but she never said; “Now you kids eat every bite of those powdered doughnuts!”

Trail mix is healthy for sure, yes? Nope. Too much sugar and calories there too. Plus more salt—and less fun—than a margarita. Experts say it would be better to bring a spoon on your hikes—and eat portions of the trail itself.

Anything that is processed is bad for you. No one is quite sure what that process is, but it’s bad. Like the political process, for example.

Perhaps you have heard about something called a “Paleo” diet. It refers to the Paleolithic period of human history. I’m not sure what the diet is about, but it sounds prehistoric—probably meaning a diet rich in insects, hyenas and fossils.

Personally, I prefer the next period—the Mesolithic—where the cuisine and selection of beverages was better. But while the Mesolithic is closer to our modern times, make no mistake about it—the Mesolithic period was extremely primitive. People had only stone axes, crude farming implements and basic cable.

Little is known of their fat consumption—but since most people back then didn’t live beyond their 30’s, their diet didn’t kill as many of them as Saber tooth tigers.

But fortunately the Mesolithic people lived in an age where the study of nutrition was unknown. Besides, they were the Dark Ages so no one could really see what they were eating anyway.

Uh-oh! Even as I finish writing this, my tongue has discovered an old piece of forgotten fat in the corner of my left gum. Luckily, my mom is not around to know.

And I DO now have a dog.