November golf

Mr. Crawford paused for a complimentary Pale Ale at a favorite establishment.

The winds of November did not deter these Minnesota golfers.

Photo by Dick Crawford

Newspaper Publisher Richard Crawford (above) took a well-deserved break from refereeing a batch of political candidates intent on defaming and libeling one another in the publick prints, especially during the final week of this season's epic mud ball toss. That lucrative bi-annual event is a sporting activity the retired gentleman in the the right hand photo does not miss. 

He stands beside the kindly John Haglund, his neighbor and occasional partner, who himself has tossed a good-natured mud ball or two, generally lobbing them in the direction of his senior companion and ever-patient swing coach. 

The sun was shining brightly, the wind kept itself to a respectful speed, and a good time was had by all, bashing away at a nice, clean Titleist.

U2?

Stanley!
I popped to my feet in the Veteran's Hospital Outpatient waiting room, delighted that they were ready already for my annual physical. She smiled broadly, clipboard in hand, and directed me out of the room filled with aging veterans onward to the scale.
I set down my briefcase and stepped on the platform, proud of my recent weight loss.
She jotted down a number that was way too much. I was, you should understand, still wearing heavy street shoes with orthotic lifts and carrying a billfold thick with plastic identification cards.
"How tall are you?" I told her. She jotted that down too.
Then she guided me to the warren of examination rooms. We found ours and sat down together, she asked me how I was feeling today and I told her as she peered into her computer monitor.
"Let's me see," she said. "Your birthday is April 4, 1944?"

Silence. "No, definitely not. Not April 4."
"You're Stanley Jones, right?"
I retreated to the waiting room after our good laugh, now looking around for the other guy with that distinctive name still associated with a bumbling comedy team.
There he was, a good-looking 69-year-old silver-haired gentleman, whose dear mother had named him Stanley.
We exchanged a brief glance and smile in a golden moment of mutual commiseration.

Oh, be still my beating heart, tis only Lisa. . .

Panic seized the darkened household as the clock struck nine times tonight. Look, oh horror of horrors, only three candy bars remain on the serving platter. What, oh what, will we ever do if evermore beggars rap, rap, rap on our chamber door? (Quoth the Raven, Nevermore!)

Yes, another record-breaking year on Abbey Point has strained the confectioner's budget yet again. Last year there were 19 assorted trick-or-treaters. This year, if you don't count adult neighbors with long crooked noses, we had 22. We blame the rising overage on climate change -- it was, after all, a really warm night out, just perfect for Halloween. Or maybe the horde was drawn to the tasteful pumpkin decorations carefully set out by the mistress of the house.
So mysterious. So very scary.

A phone call to the Florida son . . .

Virg got out of the shower in sunny Florida this morning in time to check on the newly-opened markets and take a Skype call from his Mom in Minnesota. After a brief exchange about the scientific wonders of today and Virg's high-tech home office array, they discussed alligators sunning themselves on golf courses, the weather, upcoming holiday plans and the possibility of Mom's roast beef sandwich being delivered from Kell Avenue to Virg's Florida home. (Chef Marcia said she'd gladly make him one if he promised to eat it when it got there.) The Skype connection was clear and the pair resolved to make it a regular occasion before ringing off.

About cats and envy

It is good to have a nice thing, it is even better when others want it too.
This little story was written today by Sosie for her mother. It has a nice feel to it and an allegorical spin, and very bloggable. So enjoy it, as we did.
Hi Mom,
Snowball is curled up in her "winter cave" for a mid-morning nap. It is lined in black velvet and has an electric heat pad under the pillow. I bought it for her two years ago when we first took her in as she is old (her converted cat years equaled mine at that time) and deserves some softness and warmth, especially on dreary, rainy days when Mr. Shearer sees no reason for turning on the central heat!
For whatever reason, last year she stopped using it so I put it away on a shelf. Samuel found it and started using it so I brought it out again. When Snowball saw Samuel in it, she suddenly remembered that it is HER cave and she LOVES her cave and she has been using it ever since. She looks good in it, don't you think?
Solveig

"Be afraid. . . be very afraid."

(Ronnie, in The Fly, 1986)

Click to pick your favorite cookie. (They're going fast.)

Cookies, exactly as Grandma still bakes 'em

Emily and Grandma are stirring up a batch of Halloween cookies!
They are Ethel's Sugar Cookies direct from Betty Crocker's cookbook. Emily's Mom has banned our mischievous first grader from all computer games until she focuses better in school . . . but cookies and puzzles and reading and chutes and ladders and color crayons are still allowed. . . so it's going to be a very busy, creative evening for all of us.

Friday finale

The pumpkin placemats were out tonight, for good reason. If you've got pumpkin placemats and you don't use them in October, just when would you?

Our old family friend, Laurie Hartmann, dropped by after work for a pork roast dinner and a chat and we all enjoyed both, especially the finale, a slice of homemade chocolate layer cake, the remnants of which are displayed above by our cake model.
Laurie's engaged in a host of projects, managing the ever-challenging newspaper business, particularly challenging now during the silly season surrounding elections and their political advertising hijinks.
Good stories, good times.