Welcome to Big Old Goofy World . . . a place where I can share my thoughts, hopes, and dreams about this rock that we live on and call home.

Sunday, March 17, 2024

Cheese, Please

Whining is what it is . . . whining.

Every so often a person needs to complain.  I know that I do.  Let off a little steam.  Release some pressure.  Complain.  The wife calls it “whining.”  But it works for me.  Author Franny Billingsley says, “I adore complaining—it calms the nerves.”  Franny sounds like my kind of person.

 

Probably the most common retort that people encounter with their complaining or whining is: “Do you want some cheese with that whine?”

 

Your darn tootin’ I do!  Cheese, please!

 

It might be that I have been super crazy busy at my university job working six days a week and several evenings for the past month and not having a break that has made me whiny lately.  It might be that I am getting older and crankier to the point I am embracing my inner Henry Fonda from On Golden Pond.  Twenty/twenty hindsight is much more nostalgic when life was much better than today . . . could be that sort of thinking.  Maybe it is because I see the finish line as I am nearing full retirement.  Maybe I’m tired . . . hungry.  Who knows?  All I know is that I need to vent . . . and, yes, I will take some cheese with it.

 

One of my complaints—which seems to be everyone’s complaint—it about this constant circus of politics.  Especially during a presidential election year.  I’m sure everyone is aware that it is a presidential election year . . . it is historic.  On one side there is a septuagenarian . . . on the other side is an octogenarian.  Old!  They are both old.  One has been the president or at least a clown in office depending on who you ask.  Historians have not been kind to him and nor should they be.  He is running again for the third time after losing his re-election bid to the sitting president—the octogenarian.  Their age is showing.  They have had their moments of elder-ism—forgetful, incoherency, brain farts, gaps in memory, plain old “old”.  Things that I am experiencing as I enter the “golden years”.

 

Those are our choices.  With 332 million people in our country and this is the best that the political parties can come up with.  It’s sad.  It’s embarrassing.  There are not a lot of choices.  Thankfully the septuagenarian has demonstrated over and over again what a terrible human being he is.  His terribleness is quite public and recorded for all to read and see.  It is a joke that such an individual is even being considered to lead our nation.  It is an insult to all of us as citizens of our nation . . . insult to our intelligence and morals.

 

At the same time the octogenarian is an accomplished politician.  Pretty much a “lifer” when it comes to politics.  That should be a warning sign and a clear strike against him as his past is right there for public consumption.  He’s got the experience since he’s done it for so long . . . good or bad . . . but, hey!  Surely there is some younger and fresher blood out there!  Also, his age is showing, as are all our ages.  It probably won’t get any better as time goes on.  He is a nice grandfatherly figure . . . but, really—is this the best that we can do?

 

Politics of any sort . . . suck.  Nasty business.  And this is what we have right now.  Not much of a choice.  It will come down to choosing the lesser of what many consider the “two evils”.  I’ll take grandfatherly over the one constantly being hauled before grand juries.

 

That is my political rant . . . and rant it was.  Probably didn’t make much sense, but I feel better.

 

Gas prices.  The oil companies succeeded in luring us asleep as they slowly lowered prices over the past few months.  Almost convinced us that they were “good”.  Now they are slapping us awake with the bleak reality of soaring prices at the pumps.  Some say that it is because the price of oil is up on the global scene.  Others have said that the warmer winter has seen an increase in the seasonal demand . . . that more people are driving.  Still others say it’s because the refineries are shifting from the winter blend to the summer blend . . . summer blend costs more to make, thus someone must eat the price of it all.  And there is the fact that OPEC is playing economic bully politics and holding back the supply.

 

Excuses, excuses, excuses!

 

All I know is that I’m nearing the point that I need to take out a second mortgage to be able to make my commute back and forth to work.  The savings that took months to achieve have been completely wiped out in a matter of weeks.  Do I buy into the causes suggested for this gas pump robbery?  Nope.  It is simple greed and power at play.  The companies and corporations keep getting richer while the masses feel the pinch.  That is the way of economics.  Economics is the real religion across the globe.

 

Which brings me to inflation.  The price of everything keeps going up.  A price increase in one area necessitates a price increase in another.  Tit for tat. Inflation is a human-made concept . . . a state of mind . . . a fantasy.  It makes no sense.  Technology and industrialization have made the products we buy supposedly cheaper and better.  Made it possible to save money for the expense of production, thus saving money for the consumer.  Yet, that loaf of bread bought in 1960 for 23 cents now costs $2.01 on the average in 2024.  None of us can barely afford to make a “wish sandwich”.

 

I don’t understand inflation.  All I know is that it is making life miserable and difficult.  I feel for those who have seen their lives squished and impossible by the rising cost of inflation.  I’ll blame the companies and corporations—the rich as they seem to be getting richer as inflation climbs.  Someone is profiting and it ain’t us people from the middle down.  It’s crazy.

 

Same goes for real estate.  As I near retirement the idea of moving to be closer to the grandchildren is a thought the wife and I have bounced around.  But who can afford it?  Since the pandemic real estate has become an unaffordable circus.  When the wife and I bought our house fifteen years ago, we probably paid more for it than it was worth.  At the time we could afford it.  Since then, it has tripled in value.  That’s wonderful.  Turned out to be a great investment.  The problem?  We can’t afford to purchase anything comparable . . . and trust me, it is not a mansion on Easy Street.  It is a fairly common and plain ranch house . . . very much middle class.  Housing is crazy expensive . . . unaffordable . . . and frustrating.  It would be close to financial ruin for us to move.  Inflation or greed?  I feel for those who are just starting out.  It is hard.

 

Wah!  Wah!  Wah!  I need more cheese!

 

The list could go on and on.  I’ve a few bones to pick when it comes to war.  The Ukraine . . . a world war with Russia that the world is letting little ol’ Ukraine fights for us.  It is a war that the world’s nations are happy to let them fight so we don’t have to.  War by proxy.  That is the American way, too.  History shows that as a nation there has only been approximately ten years that we have not either been at war or in a military conflict.  History will also show that we have funded lots of wars and military conflicts across the globe.  Israel’s war against Hamas—or is it the Palestinians—doesn’t seem to be much different.  We have dumped a whole bunch of moola into funding those wars that are supposedly not ours.

 

There has been a lot of destructive waste created by those two wars.  The mass destruction in material and human lives is disgraceful.  It will take generations and decades to recover and rebuild . . . if they can ever really recover from such devastation.  It is “black” mark against and on all of humanity.  Whole generations have been wiped out.  War—any war—is not good.  It goes against God’s desire and demand for love . . . to be God’s loving creation . . . God’s family.

 

Got to throw in there global warming or climate change—whatever you want to call it.  It is not a myth.  It is real.  The average temperature is rising every year and doing so quickly.  This has been one of the mildest and driest winters in Montana.  Even the old timers are getting anxious.  This is not normal.  Snow pack is at 87% when it is typically over 100% at this time of year.  Spring has sprung and it shouldn’t.  With the snow pack and moisture, we have gotten it is going to be a long summer of smoke and fires.

 

Since moving to Montana fifteen years ago, the state has moved into a growing drought.  Across the state the climate ranges from “abnormally dry” to “extreme drought”.  This winter isn’t going to improve it.  Hopefully we will get some late season blizzards and snowstorms.  Global warming and climate change are real.  It is not some fantasy of the liberals.  It is real . . . and it is scary the impact it is having.

 

At the same time, it has extended tourism in Montana.  With warmer weather the tourists have come . . . in droves.  The annual plague.  But I probably shouldn’t complain.  Tourism is big business in Montana.  Tourism provides 43,900 jobs.  Brings in 12.5 million visitors in a state that just has a little over a million inhabitants.  Those tourists spend 5.82 billion dollars while enjoying Big Sky Country.  It produces 315 million dollars in taxes for state and local governments.  Tourism is a big deal in Montana . . . but, boy, what a hassle.  Tourists . . . they are everywhere!  It has practically gotten to biblical proportions . . . like a locust plague.  Yet, they are a necessary crisis no matter how frustrating it is for us locals.

 

Whew . . . this is wearing me out.  The list could go on and on.  There’s plenty to whine about . . . to complain about.  I could rant about being privileged . . . immigration . . . other people whining . . . Republicans . . . Democrats . . . and, always, taxes.  There are gender issues.  Issues about personal freedom and the individual’s right to control their own bodies.  Shoot, I’m probably only scratching the surface, but the cheese is running out.  Whining without cheese is not the same.  It is just ungrateful belly aching.  I have had my say, and I feel better.  Much better. 

 

I have been told that I have that right.  Someone told me that it is “freedom of speech”.  Mokokoma Mokhonoana says, “Most people mostly use freedom of speech as freedom to bitch.”  Well, I have expressed my right.  At the same time, others have the freedom to not listen.  I imagine that will happen.  Yet, I feel better now that I’ve gotten it all off my chest . . . at least for a couple of months . . . after all, it is an election year.

 

In all honesty, my life is not so bad.  I have a wonderful wife who tolerates me . . . dogs that love me . . . a house over my head, food to eat, and a family that continues to amaze and grow . . . grandchildren that are a joy . . . and, I can still get out of bed on my own every morning despite all the complaining from my body.  Life is good.  Whether I believe it or not, I am blessed.  We all are.  If the truth be known, I would rather count my blessings.

 

Besides . . . there is no more cheese . . . and I feel good.


 

Friday, March 15, 2024

The “Walk”

The best part of my day—Monday through Friday—is when I return home from work.  As I open the door to the humble abode I am greeted by the exuberance and joy of our canine children.  Both Quinn and Birdie jump up and down practically knocking me over to gain my attention.  Birdie lets out a heartfelt “ah-roo” signaling her excitement at my presence.  It is a welcome that destroys the roller coaster effects of a day at work.  It is an acknowledgement of love and desire.  It feels good to be loved and wanted.

On the other hand, the wife greets me from the comfort of her recliner in the other room with a simple, “Hey.”  I’ve learned after forty-some years of marriage that demonstrative displays of love and affection are saved for the grandchildren, dogs, and children (in that order) by the wife.  Yet I know that a simple “hey” hides the deep and abiding love she holds for me . . . after all, I am her “one and only”.  She thanks God every day.  She couldn’t handle any more of me than already has.  And I appreciate it.  We understand each other.  She understands me . . . really understands me.  I am an introvert and we introverts are not extravagant practitioners of abundant and public affection.  A simple “hey” suffices.  “Hey” says it all.

 

But nothing beats the welcome I receive from my furry loves.  Grandchildren come close, but nothing compares to a sloppy canine kiss and “ah-roo”.

 

Someone once told me that the reason that dogs get so excited when their owners leave for any length of time is because they think they are never going to come back.  Then when the owners return, they are surprised to see them.  Surprised that they have returned, they welcome their owners with joy and excitement of the father greeting the return of the prodigal son.  It is practically biblical in proportion.  Whatever the case, I revel in their greeting.  It feels good.

 

Yet, I know my dogs.  There are other motives behind their greeting.  Especially for our Borgie (Border Collie/Corgi mix) . . . it’s the “walk”.  My presence signals the evening walk.  Birdie becomes my shadow.  Wherever I go . . . whatever I do . . . she is beside me, staring me down with those big brown eyes, pleading, “Walk me!”

 

And it works.

 

I walk the dogs on most days when I get home and before we have supper.  The wife likes this arrangement because it gets the dogs out of the house—in particular, out of the kitchen while she cooks.  It is her “break time” from the dogs.  Before the dogs, it was our children.  In particular, our daughter.  Our daughter was a talkative tyke who was constantly bending her mother’s ear throughout the day.  Non-stop chatter.  For relief the wife met me at the door with daughter in hand, pointed me back out the door, and sent me out for a walk with the daughter.  Her last words were always, “Don’t hurry back.”  Hand in hand, I walked the blond bomber . . . chattering all the way.  It is still one of my fondest memories of my daughter.

 

The “walk” is the highlight of Birdie’s day.  She lives for the stroll around our small community.  Quinn, our miniature Dachshund, not so much.  Where Birdie is excited, Quinn is reluctant.  Who could blame her?  She is little.  She easily walks under Birdie—doesn’t even have to duck her head.  Her legs are short.  Her belly is inches off the ground.  In her mind “walk” is a journey of a thousand miles.  Typically, my pedometer tells me my average “walk” is 7000 steps.  That translates into well over 30,000 steps for Quinn.  I can understand her reluctance . . . but she goes.  Within half of a block, she becomes a willing and enthusiastic participant.  Birdie’s highlight becomes her highlight.

 

Understand, I am no rookie when it comes to walking dogs.  I have been doing it from the beginning with all the dogs we have been graced with in our lives.  The “walk” has always been a part of my journey.  They are our adventures.

 

When we first moved to Kearney, Nebraska to serve a congregation, the “walk” was with our Scottish Terrier named Pettie (Pronounced “Petey” . . . I know, I know.  The wife is from Kentucky and that is how they talk down there.).  We arrived in Kearney a motley crew . . . a one-year-old infant, a pregnant wife (bearing our second of four children—the previously mentioned chatter box daughter), and Pettie who had had a litter of puppies right before we moved.  Needing a respite from the craziness of setting up house, taking care of a toddler, and corralling wandering puppies, both Pettie and I took our first walk in our new neighborhood.  We hit the streets to explore our surroundings.

 

And what a beautiful neighborhood it was.  Manicured lawns.  Beautiful flower gardens.  It was picture perfect.  House after house looked like they were plucked right out of Better Homes and Gardens!   One house even had a great big sign out front proclaiming it the “yard of the week”.  It was magnificent.  Beautiful.  Awe inspiring.

 

I stopped to admire the “yard of the week” in all its splendor.  While admiring all that splendor, Pettie decided to take care of other important business and proceeded to take a dump.  Right there in front of God, all the heavenly angels, and everyone in the neighborhood she left a deposit right out front.  Not having doggie bags back in those dark ages, I hurried us home as quickly as possible.  It just did not seem like a neighborly act on the part of Pettie and me.  We had announced our arrival.

 

Adventure.  That is what the “walk” represents for the pups.  It is part exploration . . . part exercise . . . and all social.  It is constant sniffing, pausing, and reading the “pee mail”.  We humans have email, canines have “pee mail”.  Unknow to the human olfactory, “pee mail” is spewed across the landscape.  Apparently, it is everywhere . . . on a bush, rock, tree, pole, and in the grass.  Stop and go. Stop and go.  Ever ten feet we paused so the latest message from Bowser from down the street could be read/smelled.  More times than countable, I have nearly had my arm ripped from its socket or dropped on my backside because Birdie dug in to read/smell a newly discovered message from the town poodle demanding immediate attention.  Heaven forbid if I rush her through the latest doggie gossip!  There must be millions of dogs in town . . . at least it feels that way as much as we stop to catch up on the “pee mail”.

 

Unfortunately, my two dogs don’t read the same messages or read at the same speed.  When one stops, the other wants to go.  Stop and go.  Stop and go.

 

It is one thing to read the “pee mail”.  Dogs are social creatures with impeccable manners.  It is rude to leave a message unanswered or to not leave a few “pee mails” around.  They must be responded to in kind.  So, of course, my pups contribute willingly—and often—to the ongoing conversation.  It is the way it is.  It is not stop, read, and go . . . no, it is stop, read, pee, and go.  I guess one good correspondence deserves another.  I guess I should admire this genteel practice in my dogs.  I know a lot of people who never respond to anything.  I don’t want anyone to say my dogs are cretins who don’t follow canine protocol.  I raised my dogs better than that.

 

Another great distraction on the “walk” are other critters.  It is amazing how many critters inhabit our small community.  We have never gone on a walk without encountering some sort of creature.  Mostly we run into other dogs . . . either being walked, behind fences, or on a chain.  Being social, my dogs want to greet these other dogs.  What ensues is a barking constant and Quinn straining like crazy to how everyone that despite her minute size that she is the toughest dog in town.  We have encountered herds of deer . . . some are playful, most are skittish.  We have stumbled into a rafter of wild turkeys . . . up to seventy at once.  The pups like to chase them . . . and, yes, turkeys can fly.  Rabbits often catch the pups off guard.  Quinn, being a “hunter” often finds mice (dead and alive).  Occasionally we run into a cat or two.  Once we met an owl.  We stop and talk to horses who are friendly and curious.  We greet the cows out in the fields.  See a lot of birds.  Hear the coyotes.  Catch a Sandhill Crane here and there. We are never alone when we are on walks.  Never a dull moment on the “walk”.

 

Another part of the adventure is the actual skill of walking two dogs on two separate leashes at the same time.  At first it was a walking circus with a lot of stopping to untangle the leashes which usually involved a whole lot of unrepeatable words on my part.  I do a lot of hand exchanging with the leashes—front and back.  I have become quite skilled at keeping them from tangling up.  Every so often Quinn will stop when the leash gets under body.  She waits until I free her and then we are off.  Plus, we look peculiar when we walk because of the sizes of the two dogs.  I don’t care because the pups are happy.

 

And . . . that is what matters.  We are all happy.  The “walk” provides us with great joy . . . fresh air . . . exercise . . . adventure . . . and companionship.  My dogs love me.  I love my dogs.  Walking my dogs is the least I can do for them after all the love they shower upon me.  I think I might be wrong . . . maybe the greeting at the door isn’t the best part of my day.  Maybe . . . yeah . . . the “walk” is.  Hmmmm . . . who would have thought?

 

(The picture and poem at the top of this blog is by the wife, Dana Keener . . . she says it well.)