Rollover Minutes

I was really busy in the kitchen on Christmas morning. I am an early riser so my job is to get the turkey in the oven. I tucked that bird into the heat and I was on to other kitchen stuff. I even made some breakfast for my dear wife. All of this preparation created quite a mess.

“I’ll clean it up. I don’t want you to run out of energy. We have a long day ahead of us,” she said.

I replied, “No, I’ll clean up. Use me up while you can. Do you think I have rollover minutes?”

Many wireless cell phone carriers have rollover minutes, but I do not. I have a small window of useful energy minutes in any given day. And even that window requires frequent energy renewal breaks (eating.) The window runs from 6 AM to 1 PM. After that I am done. Done, done, done.

One exception to the general rule exists. If I suck down a really big caffeinated Diet Coke at lunch, the window is extended for fifteen minutes. However, during that time I cannot stop talking and flailing my arms and legs. So those extra minutes are not particularly productive.

I want more minutes. Where could I get some? Someone said to try Red Bull, but it has been suggested that Red Bull would probably launch me into outer space.


I wonder if I would get back in time for my nap?

Christmas Debris

Even the treetops are done with Christmas. I took this photo one handed while pumping gas – true multi-tasking. The balloons look so stuck. They have lost their shiny edge and are now part of Christmas past.

Christmas sure produces a lot of debris. The wonderful, aromatic spruce tree will soon be dried up tinder stuck in a snow bank. All the fancy wrapping paper and bows are now wadded up and waiting for trash day just like the turkey carcass. And what about all the boxes?

Many of the boxes will go out with the recycling, but some will be saved for next year. Not all stores give out boxes with purchases. On December 10 my Sears store was "out of boxes." Out of boxes!??!! Were they not expecting Christmas shoppers? Did they not have enough time to plan for it? Were they caught by surprise?

So we will need some boxes in reserve for next Christmas. Which brings me to a question about box etiquette. What do you do when the person who opens the gift and ooh’s and ah’s about the name of the store on the box? For example, my wife’s favorite store is J Jill. When she gets excited about the J Jill box, what do I say if the gift is not really from J Jill? Do I ruin her excitement by telling her the truth or do I add to her Christmas joy by remaining mum?

I hate a moral dilemma right in the middle of a major holiday. I would rather be out on the treetops.

Male Nurse

I have crossed one more profession off my “what would you be if you had it all to do over” list: nurse.

You know about the severe nursing shortage in this country. It could be remedied easily by an influx of young males. But male nurses make up only about six percent of all nurses. Expensive studies have been done to determine exactly why males do not go into nursing. I could have saved them a lot of money. I know why. I learned when my wife was sick recently.

Males do not possess sufficient sympathy genes. It’s not that we don’t have any sympathy. When my wife gets sick I am very sympathetic for 24 hours, but then the genes wear out. They get tired. We just don’t have staying power when it comes to sympathy.

We get distracted easily and get off mission, especially if it is not our own mission. I can be providing the very best of nursing care when some very important game comes on the TV. I did not even know that the TV was on. Who knew that Ellen Degeneres would be preempted by some bowl game?

I can only prepare one of each meal: breakfast, lunch and dinner. I have only one tried and true recipe for each.

We get worn out quickly. Do you know how much work there is to be done in a household? As a modern male I share the work load at home – and my share is about twenty percent – or less. You mean I have to fill up the dishwasher and empty it later on? Both? I have to clean up after every meal? I actually have to do the laundry and not just put my own stuff away? One hundred percent of the workload is inhuman.

I am not sure how to remedy this situation. It appears to be a natural dilemma of the species. Quicker healing would be good. Robots hold promise. Until then, I have provided my wife with a male nurse action hero. He will spring into action on day 2. I hope that he is more useful than I am.

Fleece Navidad

The invitation to the small dinner party said that dress is “holiday – comfortable.” This certainly has caused confusion for me. Is it possible to be comfortable on a holiday? So much is expected that I am usually anxious.

I searched my closet in the “holiday – comfortable” section and came up empty. It was too far into the back of the closet and I could not see very well. I tripped over some old cowboy boots and a dusty Halloween outfit, but I don’t think that is the holiday they are talking about.

Maybe I could go as a St. Patrick’s Day reveler. I have some green Mardi Gras beads that would look great with my green fleece jacket and blue jeans. Or I could go as an Easter guy with my yellow fleece jacket and blue jeans. Maybe I could go in my Valentine outfit of my red fleece jacket and blue jeans - when I put my palms together at my waist I look like a big heart.

No, I can’t go as any of those holidays. I have to stick with the program. So tonight I am going to break out my red fleece jacket and blue jeans – red for holiday and jeans for comfort. Luckily none of the other dinner guests saw me on Valentine’s Day. I would not want to be caught wearing the same outfit twice.

Maybe I will dress up the outfit a little bit. I have some nice blue fleece gloves – or green fleece gloves. And I could add a matching fleece hat – in blue, green or red – I have all three.

Here's what I have chosen:



Do you think that they will let me in?

Fleece Navidad!

A Small Day

Yesterday was a small day – perhaps the smallest of days. I woke up in one of those dark places. No I am not talking about Buffalo! I’m talking about a dark place of the soul, or the mind or the ankle. Any old body part will do.

And I want to place blame.

The dog did it. When in doubt, always blame the dog. The dog cannot respond.

The snow did it. It was snowing when I woke up and it was snowing when I went to sleep. In between, it was snowing. I have been transported to the Yukon. We have had more snow so far this month than we had all of last winter.

The winter solstice did it. It came one day early just to upset me. It deprived me of light with these short days. What is the opposite of light? Dark. Exactly my point. This blame stuff is easy to prove.

I tried to be productive but eventually I surrendered and treated the day as a snow day. Two movies and a nap later, dusk was rushing in. It must have been about noon.

I shoveled the snow and wondered what could help me. I needed a lamp to light my way.



Oh, I guess I've got one.

I needed a life line.



Got that too.

Sometimes the best that I can do is find a piece of beauty...



and hold on for a bigger day.

How I'd Love to Strangle Thee

O Christmas tree! O Christmas Tree!
How I’d love to strangle thee.
O Christmas tree! O Christmas Tree!
How I’d love to strangle thee.
You piss me off ‘most every year.
But this is it, I shed no tear.
O Christmas tree! O Christmas Tree!
How I’d love to strangle thee.

~ lost verse to a Christmas carol

from the very dark ages

The best thing about buying a Christmas tree is that you do it only once a year. It’s like that prostate examination. You know you have to go, and it is always as bad as you remember.

The real problem for me in this process is that I am a perfectionist. So you take me to a place with hundreds of frozen trees that are piled up against each other, and ask me to pick out the best one? How many days do I have?

I figured out a way to make the buying process easier: I bought a house with low ceilings. So the tree has to be short. All my life I have wanted the tallest of trees, even though I have never had a house that would accommodate one. So I always overbought. The tree was too tall, too wide, too bushy, too prickly, too this and too that. Now I buy small – small tree, small problems.

I also have changed my method of choosing. I no longer have to see every tree at the nursery. I go on a very cold day and I hold up trees. The first one that my wife likes, we buy. I call that maturity. And learning how to survive.

Notice that I said “we.” Buying a tree is a matrimonial experience in my house. That way, I can make it painful for more that just me. My wife dreads the tree buying day because she has experienced so many bad ones with me. She watches to catch me in a good mood – not always an easy task. She feeds me so that I am not roaming on low blood sugar. She praises whatever small task I do so that I feel like a hero when tying down the trunk lid.

I get it home and wrestle it out of the trunk and past the storm door that wants to refuse entry to anything so wide and green. Now comes my favorite part.

I get out the tree bag in which I will wrap the tree for removal at the end of the season. This bag will stop those pesky pine needles from inserting themselves throughout my house. I find them in my ears in August. I am so smart to be so prepared.

The giant white trash bag comes with the instruction to insert the bottom of the tree into the hole in the bag. But there is NO HOLE in the bag! What happened? Did they run out of time at the factory? So I have to cut the hole – not a happy job for a perfectionist. Where should the hole be? How big should it be?

With the help of my ever patient wife, I get the tree into the stand. I then twirl for a half hour like a ballerina with my arms around the tree so that the best side will be showing. Is the Nutcracker about buying a Christmas tree?

There my story ends. I turn over the decorating job to my wife. I know better than to let my perfectionist, squirrelly brain get lost into decisions about ornament and light placement. I have learned a few things the hard way over the years. I will save my energy for the taking down part. I love to dismantle and destruct. It requires very few decisions.

Oh, I almost forgot. There is one more great part to this story. In the Spring I get to burn this tree! And I sing, “O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!” as the flames shoot to the treetops. Few things make me happier.

Flim Flam Flan

Flim, Flan, flan. It sounds like a Latin declension. I spent hours memorizing those in high school. But this is not Latin class. This is flan class.

I recently was called upon to make flan for a family member who was ill. Only an ill family member could get me to make flan. Flan is a cream based dessert, or so says wikipedia. I am one of the original dessert kings, but there are certain desserts which will not pass my lips: tapioca, custard and flan. There is a trend there somewhere.

The recipe on the little Jello box does not seem difficult. Pour the caramel packet in the bowl. Pour the dry packet into a pan and stir in four cups of milk. Bring it to a boil over medium heat while stirring constantly.

The nasty part was “stirring constantly.” I had to stand still next to the stove for what seemed like hours while stirring constantly.

I do not like to stand still. I like to multitask. But I did not want to report to the ill family member how I burnt the only package of flan in the house. So I stood still and stirred.

My back hates to stand still. It revolts and sends pains darting in all different directions. It wants to weave and bob but I cannot do so while attached to a hot pan by a wooden spoon.

Oh what we do for love.

I have been trying to think of what other activities require one to stand still for long periods of time.

Getting fitted for a suit. I can’t remember the last time I did that. They were still making cuffs.

Standing at attention in the Army. I have never been in the Army.

Waiting in line for tickets to the Red Sox. I only know people who do this.

My conclusion is that making flan is a unique torturous activity. I think it is on the short list of banned activities of the CIA. The pain of making flan must be right up there with child birth. Fortunately, I have not been there either.

Flim, flam, flan. I’m done, done, done.

Little Red Shoveler

I have been shoveling for only fifty-two of my fifty-seven years. I took off the first five years of my life and did not start in earnest until I was six. I was resting up. I knew how hard this type of work was in New England.

At six I took up my little red shovel and tromped door to door looking for paid shoveling jobs. I was a specialist in sidewalks. I never gave estimates. I would leave my pay to the kind hearts of my customers. Some were more kind hearted than others, parting with their dimes and quarters. This was not high stake shoveling.

As I aged significantly to eight, ten and twelve, the jobs got bigger, the pay a little better, and the work a lot harder. But I could bear down. Bend over and hump that long side of the driveway! Leverage that back!

The 2007 version of that shoveler has mellowed - not out of choice, but by necessity. My back just will not do what it once could do without pain. I now try to use my legs more. But mostly I take smaller bites of the snow, work slower, rest a lot and hire a plow to do most of the work.

The latest storm and my snow plow guy left a lot of clean up for me. I had to clear out a path for my motorhome so that I could soon make my escape to Florida. And my hot tub needed to be released from the grip of winter. Are you feeling bad for me yet?

But after all the work was done, I felt a lot like that six year old boy. We put away our little red shovel, we took off our snow suit and left it on the floor, and we took a nap.

Yoga Imbecile Drowns in Hot Tub

This is the headline that you could have been reading this morning. I was out doing my normal exercise routine in the hot tub. I start with 1,223 laps with flip turns. The laps are short, about 1.5 yards each, so I think that most of the aerobic content is in the turns.

Then I moved on to some vigorous yoga postures. I begin with Mountain Pose, or as it is known in Sanskrit, "someone's sticky." This is a real thrill for my neighbors. Cobra is good if I can keep my head above water. If not, it is bad.

My downfall today was the Headstand. It started out so well.

But in the bat of a closed wet eyelid it came undone. I was tumbling backward and diving down to the deep of the hot tub. I cracked my head on the sharp ledge. Was this it? Was this how it all would end?

I cried for help in an underwater way:

Fortunately my photographer, who is always standing by, came to my rescue.

I did one final yoga pose. In english it is called Embarassed.

Puck of Gold

As I get older, seemingly innocuous activities have a way of dredging up memories from deep in the past.

I have been helping my friend pack up his house to move after twenty-five years. Much of my energy has been in the basement and you all know what treasures are kept in the basement. Unearthed were the drum his dad made him, a large family reunion portrait showing his dad at a young age, his bow and arrow set, a small chair handed down by an aunt, his dad’s tools and so much more. My friend is a sentimental guy and each piece had a story attached to it. It felt like an archaeological dig with audio identifiers. It was rich.

As we unearthed more and more over the days, I thought back to my own storehouse of childhood riches. Mine is not really a storehouse because I am not much of a collector. I have the “kitty stool” from my home, so named because of the embroidered kitty that once covered it. In a basement box is a coal grate that my mother and I once gleaned from the dump. The well worn shoe shine brush of my school days sits unused on a basement shelf. Do they even sell shoe polish anymore? I have three pictures of me from my childhood and the one with my dad and brother sits on my bureau. A varsity letter is tucked in one of my bureau drawers. But that’s about it.

I used to have more, but during one cross country move I became vicious about throwing out old stuff. Out went the ten inch silver bowl that I won as second medalist in my local Jaycee golf tournament as a teenager. It was a pretty fancy trophy for a dinky little tournament. Out went a collection of little trophies from baseball and hockey. I thought that I was just too old to be holding onto this stuff. And out went my gold puck.

Several years later the gold puck reappeared in my life. The phone rang and an unfamiliar voice said,

“Is this Jimmy Hession?”

“Yes,” I answered with a questioning tone since only a few family members and some childhood friends call me “Jimmy.”

“Is this the Jimmy Hession that scored the winning goal in the CYO championship hockey game for St. Mary’s in 1967?”

“Yes it is.”

I can remember that goal in complete slow motion detail even though it was forty years ago. Some would say it was because I did not score many goals. I was fore checking the puck at the blue line. On the left board the defenseman tried to flick a pass by me but I kicked it forward and broke in alone on the goalie. I was coming in at an angle and as the goalie came out to meet me I slid the puck to my backhand and scored into the open net. I had been practicing that move in my basement for years.

On the phone was the team captain who had read an obituary for my mother in my old hometown’s newspaper. He liked to keep track of the players on the team, so he called me and we caught up. He filled me in on the whereabouts of many of our teammates and he sent me the original team picture. And then I thought of the gold puck.

After our victory we had a team dinner at the church hall. In front of each place setting was a favor: a hockey puck spray painted gold with the player’s number stenciled in black. Mine was “13.”

I remember the last time I handled that puck. It was in 1996 during that cross country move. I hesitated just before I threw it in the trash - maybe I should keep it? No. I was too old to be keeping these things.

There is an old Irish saying, “At the end of every rainbow is a puck of gold.” Or something like that. I miss my puck of gold. I miss my old number 13. I miss my childhood.

It is easy to rationalize my actions. I was saving my children the trouble of throwing out all of this junk when I am gone. But a hockey puck is not too large. They could have held it and wondered what it was all about. Or maybe they would have remembered the story about the day their dad was a champion.

It was only a small spray painted hunk of rubber, but I wish that I still had it in a box somewhere. It was the last tangible connection to an important day in an important time in my life. It was my puck of gold.

Forever Young

What age are you? No, I am not asking how old you are. I am asking, what is your internal age? What age are you in your head when you think of yourself? The forty-two year old character in The Gum Thief by Douglas Coupland claims, “It’s usually thirty to thirty-four. Nobody is forty in their head. When it comes to your internal age, chin wattles and relentless liver spots mean nothing.”

I am not asking how old you look when you look in the mirror. Forget about that lying visage. The lights are too bright and the images too sharp. Think darker. Think smokier. Think inside your head.

Twenty-two. That’s the age at which I live in my head. I think that there is a Sinatra song about it. “When I was twenty-two / it was a very good year.” Unfortunately any reference to Frank Sinatra is not a positive age reference. It certainly dates me.

When I think about myself, I first notice my hair. It is forever dark brown and bountiful. It flops across my forehead like an early Beatles haircut. (Another dated reference.) And it is with that hair that at age twenty-two I was in my prime. I had just finished my first year of law school and my grades were good. I was going to make it in the lawyer world.

And I was about to get married. I was crazy in love and looking forward to many years of marital bliss. Life was great. You can see it in the wedding pictures. Just notice my hair! At age twenty-two my life was filled with newness, excitement and possibility. Isn’t that the way life should always be?

Forever young. It is the youth in me that carries me forward. It is the innocence, the naiveté, the bravado that only the young possess. Bob Dylan captured it best in “Forever Young:”

May your hands always be busy,
May your feet always be swift,
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift.
May your heart always be joyful,
May your song always be sung,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.

What age are you?

Leaf Wars

I am ready for them this year. I have always been prepared, but this year I have changed the readiness status to “High Alert.” This year I will win.

I’m talking about leaves, and not just any leaves. I am talking about those sneaky kamikaze leaves from the Norway Maple and the Oak tree near my hot tub. They have spent all year since their budding last spring to find a way to infiltrate my hot tub. I will not have it!

I used to have a love affair with leaves. Check out my essay “The Burning Shirt.” But my raking days are now over, and these new pilot leaves are taunting me and trying to make my life miserable – even more miserable than it usually is.

Here’s the problem. If I take a nice long soak in my hot tub on a breezy day, the leaves try to join me. They do not combine to increase the water quality. They are the enemy.

Today was a particularly bad day with large gusts. So I got in there and assumed the position. I stood naked in the middle of the tub in my best defensive karate position. I don’t know any karate positions but I have seen enough kung fu movies. I fought off the incoming salvos of those persnickety pesky perpetrators.

My wife says that the sight of me alone should be enough to scare them away. I am not sure about that. I think that I need more.

After dark I am going to go out there again. I will turn the flood lights on the trees to illuminate their pernicious off casts. And I will light the glowing blue of the hot tub so as to back light me in my warrior glory. A scuba mask and shield of some sort will protect me. I will bay at them. Those twirling last twists of dying protoplasm will know that I mean business!

Victory is mine!

Thanksgiving by ESPN

Thanksgiving is traditionally a time to express gratitude. We say thank you for all that we have. In my house we are especially thankful for all the cooking done by my wife. But saying thank you is not enough and this year I want to do more.

Preparation of the holiday feast falls on my wife’s shoulders, as in many American households. I am determined to lighten her burden this year and I have signed up as her official assistant. In past years I have helped here and there, but this year I really want to be there for her. I want to be her Sous Chef – no, I want to be her Do Chef. Whatever she needs done, I will do it. Whatever. Whenever. I will be there.

And I don’t want her to have to be calling to me all day and begging me to do stuff. So I have devised a fool proof system which will build on the strength of our long term marriage.

She is going to send her instructions to me by mental telepathy and I will receive them using Extra-Sensory Perception (ESP.) In my house we call this ESPN because it is an acronym that is easier for me to remember. She will think, “I need him to mash the potatoes,” and I will leap from my seat in front of one of the three football games that are on today and run to the kitchen to complete the task. The ESPN will run in only one direction because I do not want her to hear what I think or say to myself when she sends me instructions. It is hard to be filled with gratitude for an entire day.

Another important aspect to this new system is that it has been set up to be an experiment because we will need scientific evidence that it works. Therefore, my wife cannot supplement her mental instructions with verbal ones. If by some chance I miss one of her messages during a really important play, then in that one instance she will have to carry on alone.

At the end of the day we are going to review the results. I may not be home by then so we will do it by telephone conference. If I were home her verbal report might have interference from all that ESPN stuff still floating around. And I want this to work well for her. It is all about her.

I just know this is going to be one big success. I can’t wait for Christmas. I wonder what games will be on?

Social Networking

Warning: I am about to reveal my ignorance. Many would say it is not for the first time.

Do you remember the old AT&T phone commercials with “reach out and touch someone?” They were trying to get us to use our telephones more and the add was effective. I am expecting that any day now the “new” AT&T will come out with an ad with the tag line “reach out and touch everyone constantly.” Because that is where the world is heading.

Ease of communication has exploded with the cell phone and the internet. And now the internet is available on your cell phone, so that the world is with you at all times, if you want it to be.

I remember back in the olden days when the new ability to send and receive an email was very exciting. I liked that type of communication better than the telephone. I could pause and consider, maybe for a day, before answering. The interaction was in my control and on my terms.

But the old email was not good enough for many people. AOL began an online “buddy” system. AOL would inform you when your buddy was online and you could exchange emails your buddy. It was closer to real time connection. I never wanted to be anyone’s buddy.

Next came IM, or instant messaging. I have never done IM. All I know is that school kids did it constantly when they were suppose to be doing their homework. And there were chat rooms. All of this let people stay in touch with their friends.

And cell phones became more and more prevalent. And minutes became cheaper and more available so people used them more. And don’t forget text messaging. That’s where you tediously type short messages to others on your cell phone – not unlike the buddy system.

A new term, “social networking” was born. More modern online versions of social networking include Facebook and MySpace. I actually am a member of MySpace so that I can get announcements about my son’s band. I don’t use it for any thing else. Once in awhile I get emails through MySpace from young women who will be in my area soon and want to meet me. I think that they are probably selling Girl Scout cookies.

Lately social networking has gone mobile. You can now keep up with all of your friends or network from your mobile phone. You can even track where they are. One service will let you receive real time restaurant reviews with pictures from your friends and tell you whether they are in the restaurant or on the street outside. That is how good the locating service is. You can walk around and know the locations of all of your friends who want to be known. And they can always find you. You can always be in touch

I suppose all of this is wonderful, but I don’t know why. Why would I want people to know where I am? Why would I want them to be able to get in touch with me instantly? Why would I want to look at their pictures? I just barely tolerate talking to people on the phone. Why would I submit myself to all these other invasions of privacy?

I am missing something here. Millions of people are making use of the new social networking technology. My son sends 3000 text messages per month! To whom? About what? I just don’t get it.

And what does that say about me? It says that I am a crotchety, old, boring, introverted loner. This new technology is not being built for me. I am not the prime demographic here. Yes, I am missing something. But am I missing out?

Please, let me know what is going on here.

Donuts Make Scents

I have been looking for the connection between donuts and sex for a long time now. I intuitively knew there had to be a point of intersection, but my decades long search proved fruitless and stale until now.

My love affair with donuts began at a very young age. The dentist made me do it. Our family dentist, a high school friend of my father, was in Ball Square in Somerville, Massachusetts. Typically we would make the trek on Saturday morning for the torture session (a long and painful story for another day.) The reward for going was a trip across the street to Gail Ann’s Donuts. I can see, smell and taste the jelly donut, and the honey dipped, and the chocolate covered, and the lemon, and the powdered sugar and the cinnamon sugar, and the glazed cruller. My eyes are glazing over as I think about it.

A sugar high cannot be beat. It has helped propel me through most of my life. A couple of years ago friends and I made a pilgrimage to the newly opened Krispy Creme store. I stood in line watching the donuts glide down the conveyer belt to the waterfall of liquid sugar. I can still feel it in my body. I just wanted to jump over the rail and insert my head and mouth under that waterfall. Ohhhhhh boy!

So it came as no surprise to me when the findings were published for a study on the “Various Aromas Found to Enhance Male Sexual Response” by the Smell and Taste Treatment and Research Foundation of Chicago. The second place winner was a combination of donuts and black licorice. I do not know what the licorice is all about, but I certainly know about the donuts. It just proved what I already knew. Truthfully, it completed my life. Donuts are an aphrodisiac – the poor man’s Viagra.

By the way, the first place winner was a combination of pumpkin pie and lavender. There is historical evidence that proves the accuracy of this finding. Who were the first settlers of America? Pilgrims. What did they eat at the first Thanksgiving? Pumpkin pie. How many Pilgrims were there? Not many. How many Americans are there now? 301,139,947 – I looked it up. How did we get from fewer than 100 to 301,139,947? Pumpkin pie. It could not have been donuts because Dunkin’ Donuts did not begin until 1950.

I am keeping these findings a secret in my house. I want to make sure that my wife still makes her famous Pumpkin Chiffon Pie for the holidays. And I promise not to ruin my Thanksgiving meal by filling up on too many donuts. Maybe.

Yellowstone

We spent last night in West Yellowstone, Montana, a great little tourist town. We headed into the park early and were quickly stunned by the ride in. Within the first hour we had seen a bald eagle in a nest, a mother elk with her baby lying beside the river, and a small herd of bison including many babies. What a great start.

One of our first stops was a geyser basin. I suggested that they were named after me - as in “guy”ser. My wife thought that “geezer” was closer to the truth. I saw all 4 types of thermal features: geyser, hot spring, fumarole and mud pot. I only can write this because I looked it up again in my little book. My mind can no longer hold so much new information at once. I can say that all four involve hot water. I also saw a “bacteria mat.” I did not get too close. I don’t know what it is. It sounds bad. “Fumarole” - I think that it really is a type of pasta or Italian soup - or maybe a smelly roll.

As usual, I think it is always about me. There was even a street sign about me. The sign said “Caution Wildlife on Road.” That’s me! I am having a wild life on the road.

We attended a Junior Ranger presentation, just my speed. It was about horns and antlers. Did you know that there are 4 types of animals in the park with horns and four with antlers? And only one sex has antlers, but I forget which one. And you can tell the difference between male and female horns? I knew all of this and more for about 5 minutes but I have already forgotten all of it. Memory loss is a new way of living in the moment. I could go back to the same presentation tomorrow and enjoy it because I would be learning it all anew.

I spent most of my day buying t-shirts for myself. I pretended to enjoy Old Faithful and the tour of the Old Faithful Inn, but really my mind was on t-shirts. At this rate I may have a whole new wardrobe by the time I get home.