In Support of Defenestration

After a Christmas Eve service at our church, we invited people over to our cottage for food and conversation and general conviviality. My long-suffering wife, Lisa, and I were talking about something and she used the term "non sequitur," which is Latin for "it does not follow." An example would be this: "Life is life and fun is fun, but it's all so quiet when the goldfish die." A friend, not only well-educated but smart in addition, asked simply, "What does that mean?" So we told him and he was fine going forward.

Later, we got to talking about how Bryan was confident enough to ask the question. And I felt a tad bit convicted because sometimes when someone is using a term or reference I don't know, I'll just nod my head and go along without having the guts to admit my ignorance.

I decided right then to suck it up and ask the question from now on. Like, what do you mean when you use that term, or reference a written work, or talk about some occurrence about which I know nothing? Instead of acting like I know what's being said, I will just go ahead and ask the question. What a startling concept! Self-education at it's finest!

And that's how I learned what "defenestration" means. And it's a word I WILL use.

Ah-Nold, I'm not

I've decided not to enter the 2014 Mr. Olympia Contest. I gave it a lot of thought, talked to Arnold, and decided to let it go. However, that doesn't mean I don't head to the gym anymore. I like to go, think about working out, look at the free weights and machines, and then do about seven hard minutes on the elliptical trainer. Then it's chocolate milk and maybe a couple of doughnuts to hasten my recovery.

There are characters at the gym. One of my favorites is the guy who grunts and shouts and drops weights when he's finished a set. I have noticed that these guys only grunt and shout and huff and puff when females are present. Maybe just a coincidence.

I tend to avoid mirrors for obvious reasons, but there are plenty of Mirror Men at the gym who can't help themselves, flexing and prancing and grimacing. When they're through, the gym attendant has to come by and get the kiss marks off the mirrors.

Others perform a couple of half-reps in the machine, stay seated there, then chat with friends before their next set. This ties up the equipment, but at least I give them credit for being at the gym. These people are usually my age or older. I don't have the heart to tell them to move on; besides, it gives me an excuse not to perform that particular exercise.

And those are just the men who work out at my gym. The women are a whole different category, as always. So I'll write about them later. Right now, I hear the refrigerator calling.

Probably not Probable

I just heard on the news that our leaders in Congress (sorry about the contradiction in terms) have reached a bipartisan agreement to extend the ban on "undetectable firearms" for another ten years. Think about that for just a minute. That should be plenty of time to prompt a question or two.

Time's up. So, how in the world are the police going to enforce a ban against something that's "undetectable"?

The idea from these politicians is to make it illegal to have one of those plastic guns that aren't detectable, the kind that can slip right through airport screening without being, um, detected.

Okay, so I can accept the premise that one does not want people boarding aircraft packing heat.

But the question comes back. Ban or no, if the firearm is undetectable, how in the world will law enforcement be able to arrest someone for having something that is undetectable? Probable cause? If a person looks like they might be the kind who would be carrying around an undetectable firearm, should they be searched for something that can't be detected? And if the cops don't find it, doesn't that make the person guilty? The fact that the officers couldn't find the gun on the person must mean that the person has it, right?

I thought so. Next stop? A law to ban silent prayer.

Policeman: Hey, you, were you just praying silently? Being: No, sir. Policeman: I'm arresting you on probable cause. You looked like you were praying silently. Being: But, officer . . . Policeman (taking out his handcuffs): You have the right to remain silent, you have . . .

Cozy Consolidation

We are now living full time in our country cottage up against the mountain, woods all around, a lovely meadow out the front door, and nice neighbors halfway up Paris Mountain who fire weapons on Saturday afternoons. In other words, bliss. The condo we're about to put on the market has about 1,800 square feet. The cottage has 1,030. In other words, for you math majors out there, we have 770 less square feet, which makes us truly appreciate the 30 in our 1,030. We have learned a great deal about efficiency, and these truths have set us free, in a sense.

We have learned to be efficient with space. My long suffering wife, Lisa, is an expert when it comes to making good use of space. She amazes me how she can create useful storage out of nothing. Take closets, for example. We have three, the largest just big enough to hold two cats at once. However, I have learned that one clothes hanger can support three pair of slacks, four shirts, five neckties, and a belt. Who knew?

And a tiny utility room that housed one shelf and the electric control panel has been transformed into an efficient little pantry that contains enough food to last through the end of the year, two bins of pet food (one feline, one canine, interchangeable), a trampoline, a life-sized stuffed American Bison, and a wine cellar.

I suspect we will learn more about consolidation of available space. For example, Lisa looked at me the other day and asked, "Dear, do you think you could learn to sleep standing up?"

Just think how much room that would save.

The Marriage Bed

Women live longer than men. It has been documented all over the place. In the United States, the average life span for women is 117.4 years. For married men in the United States, the life span is 23.6 years, after which they become brain dead from watching too much Mixed Martial Arts shows on TV, along with endless football games. They continue to breathe, but they're not really living. This all came to me today when my long-suffering wife, Lisa, and I were making the bed. We had just brought in the sheets and pillowcases from our clothesline and were putting the bed together. The final step, putting the quilt on, revealed that there was more quilt draping over the side on my side of the bed than hers. We tried to even it up, without much success. Then it occurred to me that it didn't make any difference. "You're going to get the covers anyway, sometime during the night," I said.

Lisa said, "That's right." And she was. Somehow, no matter how many covers I start out with, she ends up with approximately 82% of them. I don't mind very much because I don't really need those covers most of the time. Still, it was a revelation.

Women also live longer than men as recompense for having to visit a gynecologist on a regular basis. But that's another story for another time. In any case, I don't begrudge women the extra years. They earn it.

A Dry Sense of Humor

Now that we're fully moved into our "mountain cottage," we have a few adjustments to make, most of which will cost money. For instance, we have a clothes washer. We do not have a dryer. Well, in a sense we have a dryer because there's one at our condo, which we are about to put on the market, and the appliances all stay. In an emergency, we can dry our clothes there. But that's a one hour round trip, and when the condo sells, it might be considered tacky for us to drop in on the new owners and ask if we can dry our clothes. Maybe we could put that in the contract. Or, maybe not.

So, when we have freshly-washed clothes to dry, we wait until it's sunny outside and hang our laundry on a clothes line. With clothes pins. The old-fashioned way. With a long, forked stick to hold up the line when the load gets heavy. There's nothing like the fresh smell of clothes dried in the sun on a line. Brings back memories of my childhood. The clothes are a little stiff because they haven't been fluffed in a dryer. I tried to make that work outdoors by clipping a few of those softener sheets between undies, but it didn't seem to help. The clothes were still pretty stiff. I used one of my socks to tap a nail in the wall where my long-suffering wife, Lisa, wanted to hang a picture.

I guess one of the bigger adjustments came when we realized that, on occasion, while our clothes were drying on the line, insects would take up residence in our jeans and t-shirts. For instance, Lisa had a big, black spider emerge from her unmentionables one morning. I was in Newberry, but I heard her rather salty commentary.

And for me, I must say I discovered something that works better than caffeine in the morning. A katydid in my Fruit of the Looms worked way better than coffee.

We're researching dryers.

Keeping Tabs on Thomas

It's a good feeling to finish something that took nearly six months, and to be pleased with it. I'm talking about completing the sequel to Signs of Struggle, my debut novel in the general fiction field. I had no intention of writing a sequel, seeing SOS as a stand-alone story about a man in mid-life struggling with his demons and partly succeeding. Then my publisher said her mother wanted more about Thomas O'Shea, my protagonist. The publisher echoed her mom. And then several people who read SOS said they wanted to know more about Thomas. So I thought, okay, I can do that. And now I have. The sequel, A Far Gone Night, continues the story of Thomas O'Shea and his stumbling pursuit of the lovely and prickly Olivia Olson. All the usual wackos show up again, led by Lunatic Mooning, the Ojibwa Indian who runs The Grain o' Truth Bar & Grill in sleepy Rockbluff, Iowa. And there's also Sheriff Harmon Payne, Arvid Pendergast (who keeps playing dead to boost his business), and the rather straightforward barkeep/rassler/future surgeon - Bunza Steele. New characters include Clancy Dominguez, ex-SEAL friend of Thomas, and Boots Bednarik, bookstore owner. And of course there is the alluring and persistent writer, Suzanne Highsmith.

Throw these characters together and toss in a nude, dead body of an Indian girl floating in the Whitetail River, and things get interesting and interestinger. I'll keep you posted. Next stop: My book concierge, the gifted and talented Rowe Copeland, and then off to the publisher. No idea when the book will be ready to pick up, but I'll let you know.

Now, while sitting in a faculty meeting earlier this week, I found myself sketching notes for book number three in the life of Thomas O'Shea. And thank you all who purchased SOS and have even recommended it to your book clubs. What fun! I love writing!

Clinton High, co 1963

Quite a few years ago my father-in-law remarked, upon attending his high school's 50th reunion, "What were all those old people doing there?" He had a point, of course, and it was an insight into his attitude that his classmates might have been old, or certainly looked old, but that didn't apply to him. I can relate. I attended my high school's 50th Reunion a little over a weekend ago, and it was an unqualified success. Some of those people looked, even acted, old. Most didn't look old, were in good shape, and were fun to be around. Names tags with our high school pictures on them were useful, but in many cases not needed. People looked good.

We all seem to have adjusted, at least the 180 or so who were there. Since we graduated, there have been quite a few changes in our world. Electricity, automobiles, and indoor plumbing were science fiction back then. Paper was a new thing, and quill pens were only for the rich kids. Also, there was no such thing as sex. Then the world changed and we went along with it.

Some of my classmates (Martin Luther, Jane Austen [our Foreign Exchange Student], Carl Sandburg, had gone on to their just reward and were missed.

A reunion after fifty years is significant. It provides one with perspective not otherwise achievable, a perspective that lends depth and understanding to the seasons of life, the joy of old friends, and optimism for the future. One perspective is why those old girlfriends came up to me, slapped my face, and stalked away. I would say, "What is that for?" and they would stop, turn around, declare "You know what you did!" and march away, sometimes to applause from other women. No idea. None.

Other than those embarrassing moments, it was great fun. We're already planning a gathering again come spring. And, Lord willing, I'll be there again. Expecting to be slapped.

The ladies, they love me (or, more accurately, Thomas)

In the last few days I've had two very interesting people provide observations on my debut novel, Signs of Struggle. They are both female, astute, interesting, and opinionated. They are also well-read. One is twelve years old and the other is ninety. The 12-years-old girl is the precocious daughter of one of my colleagues at the college, and has become a big fan of SOS. She gobbled the book up and declared it good and much better than anything written for people her age. She said, "It's got lots of action and moves fast and I liked the colorful characters. Much better than YA novels about teen angst." You gotta love it.

The other reader is my wife's aunt who lives in North Carolina and is a voracious reader herself. Her daughter (my wife's cousin) came to a book signing and bought two copies - one for herself and one for her mature mother. The seasoned citizen is a strong Southern Baptist, god-fearing, and wonderful woman who is an example of virtue and humility for all in the family to emulate. We went to visit her recently and she had not only read the book, but offered several observations, including one that I had been too hard on the pastor (a corrupt individual on several fronts). I reminded her that he was not a Southern Baptist, which eased things a bit. She went on to say she enjoyed the book and was curious about how things were going to work out between Thomas O'Shea, the protagonist, and Liv Olson, his romantic interest. I told her to please stay tuned, that the sequel, A Far Gone Night, might be available by Christmas.

Although some have characterized SOS as "a man's book," others have characterized it as "mainstream fiction," and still others call it a "detective series," it is important to note that it definitely appeals to a very comprehensive spectrum of readers, both sexes, and a multitude of ages.

If you haven't picked up a copy, consider doing so. I'm pretty sure you won't be disappointed.

Heading Home

A friend of mine recently blogged that he and his family had been living in the same place for something like nine or ten years now, and it seems like home. I know what he means. Lisa and I are in the process of moving into our little cottage from our condo half an hour south. We realized we'd lived in the condo for nearly nine years. That kind of stability is a rare thing for us.

My long-suffering wife was an Air Force brat and survived multiple moves, including giving up her senior year in Florida in order to be an outsider in Massachusetts when her father was transferred. Not fun at all. Marrying me seemed like it would be a time of living in a couple-three places until we were out of school, then settling down.

But no, I am not a stable person, and our itinerary of living places is now up to eighteen (18). Every time the Criminal Records Check showed up at my job, it would be time to shove off again. Although this move is just across town, it is still a move. And we like our new place a lot. And we're not inclined to move any more. And we aren't going to, either, unless God tells us to, and presents three forms of photo I.D. as well. One can't be too whimsical.

We both feel confident that we can call the Carenen Cottage home. It just feels like it. Of course, there is that nice, wooded lot up on the mountain with the fantastic view stretching out below. And sometimes we think about driving by just to see if it's been sold yet (It hasn't). And, well, never mind. We're staying. After all, the dog and two cats like it just fine where we are, and that's final.

More than just the page numbers

I was in the crowd when my friend, Will Shakespeare said, 'Things done well and with care, exempt themselves from fear.' We were friends back then, poaching deer after school; that is, when he wasn't sneaking off to Anne Hathaway's cottage to say hello to that early cougar. Anyway, what he said remained with me over the centuries as I began writing the sequel to my debut novel, Signs of Struggle. I hadn't planned on a sequel, but a few people for whom I have great respect, and my publisher and her mother, wanted more of the adventures of Thomas O'Shea, my protagonist. And, by the way, why didn't he hook up permanently with that delightful and spunky Olivia Olson? I read that Steve Wright once said, "I'm writing a book. I've got the page numbers done." I have mine, too, and not only do I have the numbers done, but I have words on all of them. Three hundred plus pages, and I wrote the last one on Monday. Now I am going to let it sit until after my high school reunion in early September. After that, I'll go straight through and make it better, turn it over to my book concierge who will make it even better. Then, she will send it on to my publisher who will make it even better. Hoping to have it out by late November/early December. But it's a long process and I'll just have to wait and see and start writing something else. So stay tuned for more info on A Far Gone Night.

Anyway, good to have it finished. Some writers suffer from a condition very much alike to post-partum depression when they finish a book. I do not, but I was briefly borderline-morose. However, the Red Sox season buoyed my spirits. Not to mention the care and comfort provided by my long-suffering and supportive bride, Lisa. So, thank you for reading this blog, and know that I'll keep you posted on publication dates. In the meantime, if you haven't already done so, go to Amazon or Neverland Publishing and pick up a copy of Signs of Struggle. You won't be disappointed.

I'm a Lumberjack, Part 2

Being a lumberjack is more than a hearty breakfast and a brief nap to be prepared to function at top shape. It is also about the proper attire and the proper skill set. I have both. Attire includes an old pair of jeans, preferably with bloodstains on them. I have such a pair; a good bit frayed at the cuffs, bloodstains on the right thigh, threadbare in several places. One also needs an old, long-sleeved flannel shirt to protect the arms from scratches, gouges, and dismemberment. Bloodstains are good for the shirt, too. But in the summer, I usually just wear a t-shirt, valuing comfort over safety. Heavy work boots are ideal. I have a pair that, together, weigh about 37 pounds and take 17 minutes each to put on. They once saved two states from a huge forest fire in North Carolina, but that's another story. Gloves are good, too, but not critical.

As for skill set, I have that, too. But I must say it is in a constant state of sharpening. Just as it is key to have a sharpened set of teeth on the chainsaw, it is critical to be constantly improving one's skills. Chainsaws really can be fun, and I'm happy to say that I've discovered that anew this summer. But having fun with chainsaws should take a back seat to being talented with a chainsaw. Finally, when one is bringing down a big tree, and I took down several this summer, one should know how to make sure the tree falls exactly where one wants it to fall. To that end, I dropped two 30-footers at the exact spot where I wanted them. Then I proceeded to cut them up into firewood and fencing. On the other hand, to be candid, I was not so successful with two others. I notched them in the direction I wanted them to fall, then proceeded to cut until I heard the distinct sound of wood cracking, yelled "TIMBER!", and stood back to watch them land where I wanted. And then sprinted away as quickly as my lead feet could carry me because the trees decided to fall 180 degrees from where I planned. Had I stood in place very long, the tree would have hammered me into the ground like a tent stake.

That can be humbling because, once that tree is down, everyone can see that I screwed up. On the other hand, it inspires me to set to work quickly to cut up the evidence.

Now, sadly, there are no more trees to cut down. The property is as my long-suffering wife, Lisa, wants it. BUT, on a recent trip to Connecticut to see our older daughter and her husband, we learned they are seriously considering buying several acres of land and just might need an experienced lumberjack to help them clear out a tree or two. One can only hope

I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay... (Part 1)

Before I get too far into my joys as a lumberjack, let me give credit where credit is due. The chain saw was invented by two Scottish doctors back in the late 18th century, Dr. Chain and his partner, Dr. Saw. Actually, I am kidding about that. They invented the chain saw as a means of generating more clients through grisly accidents caused by their invention. Of course I’m kidding about that, too. Actually, it was invented for the purpose of excision of diseased bone. So, there you have your brief trip down memory lane.

I have a chainsaw, and it’s fun. The property we recently purchased had several big trees that shaded a section of meadow where my long-suffering wife, Lisa, planned to create several garden beds. The trees had to go because they were going to keep sunlight away from the garden. So I bought a chainsaw and prepared to begin the fun of cutting down trees, yelling “TIMBER!” at the top of my lungs, hearing the snap of wood as the trees began to topple, then running for safety, usually directly under where the tree wasn’t supposed to go. Three weeks later, I still have a knot on the side of my right calf where one of those stupid trees failed to follow my instructions.

Moving on to the preparation phase of lumberjacking, it is essential to have a lumberjack breakfast before one begins working as a lumberjack. Food is fuel, just as chainsaws need gasoline to operate, and I need plenty of fuel to work efficiently and well. For me, that means (several) scrambled eggs with cheese and a little onion mixed in, lots of sausage patties, homemade bread with butter, milk, coffee, bacon, and if possible, hash browns.

Once breakfast is consumed, it is time to allow the food to settle. This requires a brief nap of about forty-five minutes, followed by stretching, starting up the chainsaw, and walking to the lumberjacking site while the saw warms up.

My next blog will go into more details about the joy of lumberjacking. Stay tuned.

*&%^$#@^*&^$

Asshole. Shit. Fuck. These words do not offend me; after all, I’ve been around a long time and in a lot of places, including the military. To be offended means I have to take offense, and I don’t. I pray these first three words of my blog do not offend you, dear reader. But they do indicate what I call the coarsening of America. English is the language with the largest lexicon in the world, so why not take the time to come up with a better way of expressing strong feelings? I know those first three words of this blog are used for emphasis. While it works, it saddens me to see them used so often, especially in the social media. In literature, I understand. In movies, I’m not so sure. But when I go to Facebook those words are all over the place. See for yourself.

That’s not to say I’ve never used such strong Anglo-Saxonisms myself. But I do rarely, and only in my private, personal life, when no one is around. At specific times. Such as when I see a snake. By surprise.

Instead of writing, “Fuck you, England, you assholes are full of shit,” this Irish guy wrote “A Modest Proposal.” And isn’t that better?

Left field for the Sox or industrial gaskets?

I was driving around the other day, not lost yet, and saw a business that announced "Industrial Gaskets" and I wondered, where did that idea come from? I mean, when asked as a child, "What do you want to do when you grow up?" imagine this, squeaky little voice and earnest facial expression: "I want to have an Industrial Gasket store!"

It set me to wondering what happens to lead people into different capacities as adults; I mean, do children want to grow up to be podiatrists, mattress salespeople, septic tank specialists?

I wanted to play professional baseball. For the Red Sox. Left field. I gave it up when, at the age of 15, I realized I couldn't see well enough to distinguish between the rotation of a curve ball and the spin of a fast ball. Two pitches that didn't break on two consecutive at-bats resulted in two beanings that drove the point home. But at least I got to first base, although they had to point me in the direction. Explains a lot, I think.

Then I wanted to be a writer, but why? Maybe it was the positive attention from my friends for writing grisly, warped-humor poems in high school. More likely, it was a creative writing teacher when I was a senior who encouraged me, and still does. Maybe it was the fun of making things up that people liked.

So that's what I am now - a writer. Pretty happy about that. I would've made a lousy industrial gasket guy.

Whale-watchin'

Some of you reading this doubt that there are demons. Had you been on a recent flight with me from Charlotte to Seattle, your minds would have been changed. I don't know the filthy little brat's name, but he emitted shrieks and shouts accompanied with outright temper tantrums and screams of "NO!" for about four and a half of the five and a half hour flight. His parents were incompetents, so everyone else on the flight suffered. He should be a prize when he's fourteen.

Other than that, our cruise to Alaska turned out well. There's a whole subculture of people who cruise their lives away; some of these folks had been on fifteen or twenty cruises. This was our first.

Alaska is breathtaking. The scenery, the people, the wildlife all made the trip a pleasure.

They love their wildlife in Alaska. Even in the little towns there are places where creatures could hang out. For instance, I saw a Moose Lodge in Ketchikan and an Eagles' club of some kind in Skagway. We saw a black bear crossing a city street in Ketchikan, bald eagles all over the place (including one in a tree that we got within six feet of before it took flight), and eighteen hump-backed whales in one place - a rarity.

Speaking of whales, there were quite a few on the ship. One had red hair and an attitude. And I must say, I have never seen so many morbidly obese people in my life. With "dining anytime" privileges, I had a pretty good run at being a fat boy myself. I was on first name terms with the sausage chef, Guido; and the bacon chef, Arnauld.

My long-suffering wife, Lisa, ate fruit and salmon. That's why women outlive men. More sense.

Even at night there were interesting amenities, such as first-run movies in our cabin. We watched "The Life of Pi" one night and I told Lisa when it was over that they'd never get me on an ocean-going vessel. She gave me a strange look. Women.

So now we're back at the Carenen Cottage and a simpler life. My diet starts today, and I'm sure that somewhere, somehow, Guido and Arnauld are cheering me on.

SNAKE! Revisted

My friend Mike, a noted snakeologist, came by Sunday afternoon to check out the dead monster snake's carcass. Mike brought his snake directory with him. My adversary was not listed. I repeat: It was not listed!

None of the 3,426 snake pictures (in color) looked like the vicious, aggressive monster I had dispatched. Mike did tell me, after careful examination of the snake's head, that it was not venomous, which provided some comfort.

And so, I remain in the dark. Had I killed the last of a previously-thought extinct species? Could I sell it on Ebay? Did it have a mate that would come looking for me, seeking revenge, striking suddenly from the cover of a rose bush?

In a bit of a mental health exercise, I have decided to just forget about SNAKE. I had gone decades without meeting its like, and mathematically, I would probably never see another. That's why, when I take short strolls around the cottage, I carry a stout walking stick. And a taser. And a shovel with a twelve-foot handle. And a shotgun. Taken together, those tools help me forget about SNAKE.

Mental health can have many faces.

SNAKE!!!!

SNAKE! Of course, that one word grabs everyone's attention. On Saturday afternoon I was reclining on the sofa, at least the part my Zimbabwean Cattle Retriever - Crested dog, Roxie would allow me to enjoy. Then I heard my long-suffering wife call from outside, "John, come quickly!" So I did. She was looking over the edge of the front porch, pointing down into our flower garden. It was a SNAKE! It slithered back into the bushes.

I hate snakes.

Lisa went inside. I peeked over the railing and there it was again, enormous, farther out in the yard. SNAKE! My heart went pitty-pat. My body went to the out building for a shovel. I came back. It was still there. Defending my family and territory, I drove the shovel down and nearly cut it in half. Still, it slithered away around the courner when I pulled the shovel back. It's guts were emerging, yet it was still alive.

I pursued but could not find it. I poked around with the shovel, wishing it had a longer handle, and the SNAKE emerged, weaving back and forth. I nailed it again, shouting ancient Irish epithets and channeling St. Patrick. It would not die, striking again and again at the shovel. Creepy.

Finally, I finished it off, separating the head from the body, then went inside to Google its identity. I knew if it had been a black snake I would have left it alone, even though I think I mentioned that I hate snakes.

It is dead now, dumped on the dry bird feeder so our friend Mike, an expert, can identify what I killed. Lisa is sad. She is more of a naturalist than I. Google confirmed my suspicions that it was either a King Cobra or a Green Mamba. Mike's coming over tomorrow after church. He'll know.

Stay tuned, dear reader.

Blow Westward, Winds of Prayer

Like many of you, I have family and friends in Oklahoma, and I am happy to report that they were all okay through the recent swaths of destruction wrought by those sinister storms. One friend, a former colleague, lives in Shawnee, but she and her family were spared. Prayers answered, for sure. I have never been in a tornado or even seen one. There was an afternoon when I lived in Iowa and was driving toward Cedar Falls for a meeting. I turned the radio on when I noticed the weather ahead of me looked peculiar. The sky was black and green with dense clouds swirling low to the ground. The radio announcer started reporting that a tornado was just seen at such and such a place in Cedar Falls, and another one, and still a third.

At this point I made the wise decision to not drive on into Cedar Falls, just a few miles away. I turned off the highway and parked along a gravel road near a deep ditch. Shortly after, the all clear was sounded and I went on in.

My sister and her husband live outside Bixby, near Tulsa, and they have what she calls their "hidey hole," a concrete and steel tornado shelter deep into the ground. It has a heavy steel door with steel rods to hold it shut, steel steps leading down, and a heavy concrete and earth dome with a ventilation pipe overhead. Inside, there are two chairs, a table with a radio on it, and flashlights.

They spent time down there these last couple of days.

There are two old musicals that I enjoy. One is "Music Man," set in Iowa. I am partial to that one, being an Iowan. The other is "Oklahoma!" which is pretty good, too. But now, thanks to the tragedies these last few days in that fine state, I can never again hear the overture from the musical that sings forth, "Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweepin' down the plains . . . "

Please keep those people afflicted by the wind in your prayers

At least the shirt was clean...

People rarely ask me for advice, and I'm okay with that. As a result, however, sometimes I kindly offer advice, even though it has not been sought. Here's my advice to you: Don't put an open tube of Super Glue in your mouth. You're welcome. No charge.

Understand that this advice comes from someone who hit himself in the head with a baseball bat when just a mere boy, who walked into a stop sign and split his head open resulting in profuse bleeding for which I was unaware until the lady at the dry cleaners screamed, and who was struck on the head by lightning shortly after being married.

Head issues. I'll admit it.

The reason I advise against placing an open tube of Super Glue in one's mouth is born out of experience. A few days ago I was gluing a chair spindle into the place it was supposed to be. So I placed the Super Glue in the hole in the chair and some more on the spindle Then I replaced the spindle in the proper place, but that took two hands; one to hold the chair and one to push the spindle.

What to do with the Super Glue? I figured I could gently hold the tube in my mouth, and I could. Still, some oozed out onto the roof of my mouth, which I worked with for the nest few days, making funny faces for which people held me accountable.

My younger daughter asked me why I didn't hold it with the opening outside my mouth, and I told her, "I didn't want to get any on my shirt."

At that, she began laughing much harder and longer than I thought necessary, without explanation.

Anyway, as the Animals warned in their hit single, "The House of the Rising Sun," just be sure you " . . . don't do what I have done."

You're welcome.