Stuck In Ohio

 A Mr. Cranky's 'hood column. What are the four seasons of Northern Ohio?

👀 Mabel Amber, who will one day from Pixabay

This is: A weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids and my great-grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted. Reading via monitor/tablet is recommended for maximum enjoyment.  

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering. Intended for H. sapiens that are — in the words of the late, great bon vivant and polymath, Professor Y. Bear — "Smarter [and cooler] than the av-er-age bear." 

About

Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlereader 

"There are seasons in every country when noise and impudence pass current for worth; and in popular commotions especially, the clamors of interested and factious men are often mistaken for patriotism." -Alexander Hamilton 

{I see what you did there.}

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies (and Gentlereaders),

Fall (aka, almost winter) has come to my corner of Flyoverland and I'm still Stuck in Ohio (there's a bumper sticker...). I've been temporarily living here for 36 years. I was born and raised in Western Pennsylvania and all but one of my six siblings still live there, four above ground and one below. 

My big brother Ed was the first one that I remember calling Ohio the Flatlands after I landed here, and promptly got stuck. He was living in southwestern Pa., not far from the West Virginia panhandle at the time. He's now on the West Virginia side of the border — same difference. 

Lots of hills and lots of economic stagnation. Lots of relatively cheap houses too, but prices have risen in the more desirable spots. Ohio's no slouch when it comes to economic stagnation but we do have Columbus, which is rockin', and which is flat. 

I left Pennsylvania for Texas in the fall of '84 seeking a geographic cure for a broken heart. Pure serendipity; an opportunity that appeared when I needed it. 

I had the best year of my life there (so far) that included meeting my wife and stepdaughter. The bad news is that it culminated in getting stuck in Ohio, a long story that I will spare you.

{I think I speak for all of your gentlereaders when I express my sincere thanks.} 

You're welcome, Dana. My apologies to those that like living in the Flatlands. It's not you, it's me. If it makes you feel any better the woman that I ran to Texas to try and forget (I'm not foreign legion material) used a variation of that classic line on me. 

Also, Texas (with the exception of the mind-melting heat), with one of the world's larger economies and a legislature that only convenes for 140 days every other year (by law), is a tough act to follow. 

{You should've joined the circus.}

Oddly enough, Dana, that never occurred to me. Ironically enough, a bit of research revealed that the Cirque du Soleil started up in 1984. I coulda been a star! Why are you laughing? Anyways, speaking of panhandles, Ed, you ain't seen flatlands if you haven't seen the Texas panhandle. But I digress. 

{As your gentlereaders have come to expect, if not necessarily love. Will this column be returning to Ohio anytime soon?}   

Fall is my favorite season in Ohio. Spring (aka, still winter) is often wet, cold, and snow-covered. 

{Living southeast of the Lake Erie snow machine might have something to do with that, you should move to Southern Ohio. Milder weather.}

Hmmm... the Cincinnati side or the West Virginia side?

{Well, a lot of West Virginia's really pretty, almost... heavenly.}

I once knew a guy that said he was going to wait till the last person moved out or died and then make an offer.

{Are you trying to offend as many gentlereaders as possible?}

Sorry, offended gentlereaders, it's not you, it's me. Summer in Ohio this year (aka, construction) was construction in the rain this year. On the other hand, gnats and mosquitoes had a hell of a summer. 

{Geesh, I'm outta here, go for a walk or something will ya?} 

In the name of sucking it up Buttercup, let me unequivocally state that fall in Ohio can be amazing. 

It never rains every day, even in a year like this one. And even though the Stickies are wearing masks again, and even though there's already talk of reviving the unmitigated disaster called remote learning, migrating geese will soon begin staging in the parking lot of the recently abandoned nursing home across the street from Casa de Chaos.   

It warms my calloused heart to see all the trouble people go to in these parts to avoid disturbing our temporary guests even though they often leave unwanted souvenirs behind and even though I'm jealous that I'm not headed south for the winter. 

I heard my first distinctive HONK just the other day, the same day I saw an eagle, first one in a while, patrolling overhead in search of breakfast when I was on my morning walk.

Soon there will be that perfect morning or three when the sun melts the light frost covering the Kool-Aid-colored leaves and renders the resulting water drops as diamonds dripping from the many tall, old trees in old Mr. Cranky's neighborhood.  

Wouldn't it be cool if the hair of H. sapiens of a certain age turned various bright colors instead of grey or white (but didn't fall out)?

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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Pittsburgh, Pa.

 A Mr. Cranky's Neighborhood episode

Image by Hands off my tags! Michael Gaida from Pixabay

This is: A weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids and my great-grandkids — the Stickies — to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — A Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering. Viewing with a tablet or a monitor is highly recommended for maximum enjoyment.  

About

Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlereader  

"I am a friend of the working man, and I would rather be his friend, than be one." -Clarence Darrow

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies (and Gentlereaders),

This column/letter is about Mr. Cranky's original neighborhood, my hometown actually, Pittsburgh (with an h), Pa. Pittsburgh, by the by, is the hometown of Mr. Rogers. Cosmic coinkydink or cosmic consilience?

Anyways... The Burgh just turned its back on 1,000 full-time, union construction jobs and kissed off 3,000 steelworkers.

I was skimming a local business publication that serves the Hootervillle, Ohio region and came across a story about U.S. Steel canceling a $1,500,000,000 project to update its Mon Valley Works.

If you're not a Yinzer you're probably unaware that the Mon Valley Works isn't, technically speaking, actually in Pittsburgh, it's spread out across an adjacent "borough" or three. 

Locals know, more or less, where the borders are. But to most out-of-towners (and many Yinzers), lost and/or dazed and confused even with the help of GPS as they try and navigate the City of Bridges — and one-way streets, dead-ends, and death-defying hills — it's all Pittsburgh. 

To me, the Mon Valley Works is a perfect (and rare) example of the enormous steel-making complexes that were all over my hometown when I was a clip-on tie-wearing, daydreaming, Catholic grade school kid gazing out of schoolroom windows when sister Mary McGillicuddy was expounding on the esotericities of English grammar.

Mon Valley, by the way, is short for Monongahela Valley, named after one of the Burgh's famous three rivers, the semi-mighty Monogahela. 

{You just like writing the word Monongahela.}

Monongahela? Why yes, Dana, I do.  

Now, although the Mon Valley Works is about 100 miles southeast of Hooterville, the Hooterville region is the former home of all sorts of former enormous steel-making complexes, pieces/parts of which are still hanging on. The majority are now rusting hulks or hopeful empty fields. 

So the American steel industry is of interest to we flatlanders. There's no shortage of my fellow geezers/geezerettes that used to make steel, some of them while employed by U.S. steel.

Second paragraph of the article by Marc Levey of the Associated Press (AP):

"Project permits initially stalled by the pandemic never came through, U.S. Steel has added capacity elsewhere, and now it must shift its focus to its goal of eliminating greenhouse gas emissions from its facilities by 2050..."

Well, I thought, that sucks sweaty socks, and moved on. 

Recently, however, I came across a different article about the same subject; I confess I can't remember where. That article placed the blame squarely on regulators at the Allegheny County Health Department, the country wherein Pittsburgh is located.   

I returned to the original article and read it slowly, carefully, and in its entirety. 

Hoo-Boy...

From paragraph 17, "...the Allegheny County Health Department halted the permitting process because of the challenges the coronavirus posed to the public comment process."

Looong story short (based on the article in question and a bit of googlin'). 

Two years ago, in May 2019, U.S. Steel announced plans to turn the Mon Valley works into a primary source "...for high-strength, lightweight and flexible steel that feeds the automotive sector" via a process that was the first of its kind in the U.S.

The plan also included partially shutting down some of a highly polluting, locally controversial coke-producing operation, and adding a new emission control system. 

A thousand construction workers and three years later 3,000 current steelworkers would be breathing a little easier, literally and figuratively.

Fast forward to 4/30/21. U.S. steel announces that while the project updating the coke plant will go forward, the rest is canceled. 

In the last two years, U.S. Steel spent $170,000,000 on the project before deciding to give up. From paragraph 17: "...the Allegheny County Health Department halted the permitting process [a year ago] because of the challenges the coronavirus posed to the public comment process. My emphasis.  

Apparently, there was no possible way to gather public comments in the midst of the Wuflu Plague. 

County officials are accepting no blame; the usual suspects are pointing fingers at each other. Allegheny County and Pittsburgh are Democratic strongholds. My old man's Democratic party (he died in '69) would've never allowed this to happen.

My father's Democratic party, the working man's person's party, is now the Depublican party — often hard to distinguish from the Republicrats, and now the party of tech oligarchs, teacher's unions, and Wokies.   

 

What Have You Learned, Dorothy's?

My Dear Stickies, firms and entrepreneurs are about results. Without a facility and/or profits, there is no business. Regulators (bureaucrats) — competent, incompetent, well-meaning, or otherwise — are all about process.

No one who works for the Allegheny County Health Department will experience having their lives or paychecks disrupted because of this cluster suck. FYI: A cluster suck (sucks sweaty socks on steroids) is worse than a... well, you're likely familiar with the other version.   

Although the county and the city are both Depublican strongholds local Depublican officials will not pay a price. One-party rule, particularly by the party that has abandoned the working person, doesn't work very well in the Rustbelt. 

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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Spring

A Mr. Cranky's neighborhood episode

Image by Bessi from Pixabay

This is: A weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids and my great-grandkids — the Stickies — to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — A Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering. Viewing with a tablet or a monitor is highly recommended for maximum enjoyment.  

About 

Glossary

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"The first day of spring is one thing, and the first spring day is another. The difference between them is sometimes as great as a month." -Henry Van Dyke

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies (and Gentlereaders)

It must be Spring. 

In the course of a single recent day, I encountered the three wise men for the first time in a while, Picasso man wheeled his way down the sidewalk in front of my house as I was looking out the window, and my favorite Morman — the 80-year old that lives next door — was in his backyard prepping his Can-Am Spyder for fresh adventures.

Consilience or cosmic coinkydink?  

"Get your motor runnin'

Head out on the highway..."

If not for the fact he's much more likely to be seen on the back of one of his two-riding lawn mowers than his motorcycle when the weather's nice I'd get him a leather jacket with Missionaries on Motorcycles written on the back.

While walking around my very quiet and very old neighborhood, I refer to the age of most of the houses and many of my neighbors, I've been trying out a new greeting when I encounter a fellow Citizen of the Republic of a certain age. 

"Good morning and/or evening (I never walk in the afternoon), looks like we've survived another Northern Ohio winter and the plague!"

Some version of "Well, so far anyway" is the reply I almost always receive unless it's one of the very few people I encounter regularly and who don't regard me as a potential threat. The demeanor of most, often as not, clearly expresses that they're prepared to sic their dog on me if I should do or say something that confirms their suspicions.  

When I cross paths with younger adults I limit myself to good morning and/or evening. They usually toss one back at me but often look surprised. 

Why's that geezer talking to me? I wish I had brought the dog.       

Teens almost always look startled and uncomfortable and mumble a half-hearted reply or none at all. If there's more than one there's often giggling and speaking in hushed tones as they walk away trying to make sense of what just happened.

The elusive, unaccompanied younger kid(s) also is likely to look startled and uncomfortable and also mumble a half-hearted reply or none at all. Their demeanor displays a fight or flight response as their eyes dart around in search of the best escape route. 

There's a reason the expression Northern hospitality is not a thing. 

[Maybe it's just you?]      

Entirely possible, Dana. I may have the soul of an artist but it's trapped behind/inside the face/body of a non-speaking extra in an old school gangster movie.

Assuming he's lived long enough to have grey hair and has no visible scars.

We have new streetlights, or rather, new streetlight bulbs on some of the streets of Hooterville. The old bulbs were encased in a sort of shroud/cover that diminished the harshness of the light a bit. The shrouds/covers didn't do much to reduce the light pollution in our little Ohio "city" but they helped.

The new bulbs are just sort of there. No cover, quite bright, and high-tech looking. Hopefully, there's a phase two pending in which the shrouds/covers will return.  

Not that (almost) any location in Northeast Ohio is good for stargazing despite the fact there's no shortage of ruralness in the region southwest of the thriving megalopolis of Cleveland.

Lake Erie not only produces lake-effect snow once it freezes over in the winter it generates a lot of cloud cover a lot of the time.

And now, since multimedia entertainment is considered cool and cutting edge, I'm a cynical old crank, and it's my column, here's a video version of an old Randy Newman song, Burn On, about the time the Cuyahoga River caught on fire in Cleveland. 

"Cleveland, city of light, city of magic."

The good news is that both Lake Eire and the Cuyahoga River are in much better shape than when the song was written. The bad news is that most of the factories and steel mills (and thousands of jobs) that caused the problem are now polluting China.

[Is ruralness a real word?]

Absabalutely, Dana. 

[Wait-wait-wait. You said almost any location. Where...]

Observatory Park. Described by Google Maps as a "green space for hiking and stargazing." I've never been there but now that I know about it I might pay a visit... after the plague is under control.  

I'm embarrassed to admit that even though I've been temporarily living in Ohio for 35 years I only recently became aware of its existence. Observatory Park I mean, not the Buckeye state. 

A quick bit o' googlin' revealed that it's one of only 8, or 10, or 27 parks recognized by the International Dark-Sky Association in the US. (I love living in the Information Age.)

Anyways, it's located in a rural part of Geauga County (between me and Cleveland) that has minimal light pollution, and the folks that run the park work with local officials to keep it that way. Unfortunately, it's as subject to cloud cover as the rest of this region so clear nights are catch-as-catch-can.

Maybe I could get a room... 

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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Halloween 2020

A Mr. Cranky's Neighborhood Episode 

                                           Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay 

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids and my great-grandkids — the Stickies — to advise them and haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering

About 

Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"From ghoulies and ghosties
And long-leggedy beasties
And things that go bump in the night.
Good Lord, deliver us!" -Depends on who you ask...

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies (and Gentlereaders),

We're having a perfect fall here in my little corner of Flyoverland. 

Whatever combination of weather conditions that are necessary to produce optimal leaf coloring have apparently occurred and my twice-daily brisk walks around the neighborhood to avoid having to engage in more serious forms of exercise are in technicolor. 

[You're fortunate enough to live in a neighborhood chockablock with stately old trees and you don't know why they...]

I did, Dana, but I can't remember. 

[You're writing this on a computer, why don't you just open a new tab and look it up?]

Because I wouldn't remember why for more than a minute or two because I'm... moderately old. The good news is that getting old provides clarity as far as what details are worth going out of one's way to remember. Given that details are literally infinite and our memories are not this is quite useful. 

This is quite useful because being as present and wide open as possible to whatever I'm experiencing here and now is much more important than sweating the details... or even making sure I take a picture with my phone.  

[I guess... It must be a geezer/geezerette/geezem thing.]

Actually, it's a sexy senior citizen thing. 

While admittedly I'd be unlikely to go to a Halloween party even if we weren't still battling the Wuhan Flu, or march in Hooterville's legendary Halloween parade even if it hadn't been canceled, I've had a great idea for a costume that would be quite easy to put together. 

I'd rent or borrow (can you rent a regular suit?) whatever sort of suit is currently favored by the lobbyists that infest the Swamp that included a bright red "power tie" of the sort favored by the Donald. 

What makes a power tie a power tie anyway? I've never understood the concept. Hang on a sec', I'll be right back...

Okay, according to Balani Custom Clothiers, "It's called the power tie for a reason, and by wearing a red tie you are implying you mean business. Just like Tiger Woods wears a red shirt to convey dominance, the red tie is a reaffirmation of strength, authority, and dominance within the professional world." 

Good to know. Hmm... I wonder if the name Tiger Woods is a carefully considered aspect of Mr. Woods shtick. Tiger of the woods as in golf clubs and/or tiger from the woods as in, well, a tiger from the woods.

[Ahem...]

Anyways, I'd also wear a large, tacky tie tack fashioned to look like a dollar sign and prominently display a large, gold-trimmed crack pipe in my vest pocket. I'd carry a large green shopping bag with the following printed in gold letters on both sides. 

                                      Hunter (Biden) the Gatherer

                                       "You ain't seen nothin' yet"

                                              Cash preferred 

[You should be ashamed for spreading Russian dissinformation. Besides, other than smoking a little crack, nothing he did was technically (that we know of, at least not yet) illegal and he never told his dad... unless he did. And even if he did his dad probably doesn't remember.]  

Two points of information for my dear gentlereaders. A tip o' the hat to Scott Adams for Hunter (Biden) Gatherer.  

Also, if you're saying to yourself, "I don't get it," you're either indifferent to current politics, are not entirely unwisely trying to be indifferent to current politics, or are living in an efficiency apartment in the information silo on the left side of the barn. 

I mentioned in a column about Halloween 2019 that Halloween lights, which didn't exist when I was a kid, had popped up here and there. I'm delighted to report that there are more of 'em this year. I think it's an anti-plague and Purple Press perpetually promoted political polarization countermeasure. 

Not only that, it appears that the number of households that have decorated for Halloween, which has been in a slump, is up this year. For whatever reason, there appears to be a record amount of jack-o'-lanterns, real ones, on display. 

The Stickies went all out this year, unfortunately/fortunately, they went all out early. The pumpkins are rotting, the faux cobwebgraphy is looking somewhat bedraggled, and the scarecrow with a Frankenstein-like face has a pronounced posture problem that makes him look like he's overdosing on fentanyl.

[Unfortunately/fortunately?]  

Well, when the light is just right, the deteriorated display looks quite menacing.

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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It’s called the power tie for a reason, and by wearing a red tie you are implying that you mean business.  Just like Tiger Woods wears a red shirt to convey dominance, the red tie is a reaffirmation of strength, authority dominance within the professional world.

Picasso Man

A Mr. Cranky's Neighborhood story

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandchildren (who exist), and my great-grandchildren (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

                 (Image by Thanks for your Like • donations welcome from Pixabay) 

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering
Blogarama Readers: Blogarama renders my links useless, click on view original

                                                  Glossary  

                                                    About

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"Picasso said, 'Art is a lie that tells the truth.' What if you just want to tell the truth and not lie about it?" -Nicolas Cage


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (& Gentlereaders),

The other morning I was lost in the midst of some random ruminations while purposefully perambulating — letting my mind wander while taking one of my one mile, twice-daily walkabouts in my personal hood — when I crossed paths with Picasso Man.

Not having seen him in quite some time I had assumed that he was either as rehabilitated from whatever afflicts/afflicted him as he was ever likely to be and is no longer walking his circuit,

Or,

That the only affliction he suffered/suffers from is old age and that he had come to the conclusion that his daily walks didn't help and that he and his wheeled walker now stayed home.

But,

I may be full of crap, a phenomenon that occurs with disturbing regularity.


The potentially specious speculations above are just that. I actually have no idea as we've never exchanged more than casual, polite greetings. I don't know what motivated/motivates his purposeful perambulations.

I do know...alright, I'm still guessing...I'm reasonably sure he doesn't want to discuss it. It might just be because he strikes me as too tired to bother. I know from personal experience there are all sorts of too tired to bothers and I try to tread carefully.

The closest we've ever come to a conversation was briefly trading observations about a bark, bark, barking dog in someone's backyard that we both think desperately needs a referral to a dog whisperer.


When I used to see him all the time it was always on my morning walk. 

Not having seen him in a while, and me being me, I had created a Picasso Man scenario in my head based on nothing more than my imagination.

I (pictured him/hoped that nowadays he was) eating warm bagels on cold, damp mornings and longing for hooge, yummy, real bagels from New York city — Damn the Gluten! Full speed ahead! — instead of the tiny, bland, generic bagels we have available to us here in the greater Hooterville metropolitan area.

He and Sylvia once spent a three day weekend in the Big Apple. He wasn't impressed, but he had fallen in love with real bagels.

I imagined him watching the Today Show and missing Tom Brokaw, Jane Pauley, and his younger self. He had always had a crush on Jane that he had diplomatically never mentioned to his late wife.

But, there he was.


He was pushing/being held up by his flimsy-looking wheeled walker.

I'm amazed, that to the best of my knowledge, the crappy looking wheels have never gotten stuck, or sent him flying, as he valiantly navigated what used to be sidewalks but now are more like gentle obstacle courses.

Not so gentle when icy or snow-covered.

Picture mostly more or less normal-looking sections but where you have to watch out for subtle up-croppings (in front of ginormous old trees attempting to dislodge or crack the concrete with their roots) or subtle drop-offs from subsidence.

Picture sections that have nearly vanished into the Earth and are now grass-covered. What used to a sidewalk now resembles random stepping stones with no rhyme or reason.

Picture sections that appear to be constructed of enormous, flat stones that are slippery when wet, dangerous when iced over. I'm guessing they're actually made of concrete but have been there so long they've been worn smooth.

Picture... well, you get the picture.

And there are obelisks! Perhaps my hood is even older than I thought?

Most intersections no longer have them but there are still some narrow, six-foot-tall concrete obelisks coated with seriously faded paint (red letters, white background) with the street name spelled out vertically and St, Ave, Ln, etc. tagged on at the bottom.

 S
 T
 A
 N
 T
 O
 N
Av

The letters are carved/cut into the concrete.

[Which has what to do with anything?]

I'm painting vivid word pictures here, Dana. Also, I just think they're really cool.

[Are you ever going to explain why you call this dude Picasso Man?]

I guess I better. We've crossed the 600-word line already and I'm (semi)firmly committed to observing a 1,000-word limit.


Picasso Man is somehow simultaneously blurred, jagged, angular, rounded, bent, and crooked.

He looks like what I suspect many people, certainly me, imagine one of Picasso's less bizarre-looking subjects might look like in real life.

He's very small and looks as though you might see him bouncing and flying down the street like a tumbleweed if the wind picked up.

He has a seemingly permanent stubble on his cheeks and chin that looks like boar bristles.

He always greets me with a wide grin that reveals a limited amount of blurry, jagged, angular, rounded, bent, and crooked teeth.

He gives the impression that he's about to run out of gas, or that he needs to get home and plug himself in. I've seen him pause as if he's powered by the sun and has to absorb a watt or two to keep going.


I'd like to know his story but I'm afraid that if he stopped to talk for too long he might not be able to start again. He does seem a little stronger than when we first met.

I wish my daughter walked around the neighborhood. He'd tell her his story, he wouldn't be able to help himself. It's a gift/curse she inherited from her late mom, the force of nature only one of you Stickies got to know.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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Cranky don't tweet.

          

The Three Wise Men

A Mr. Cranky's neighborhood column

-Image by Prawny from Pixabay-

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandchildren (who exist), and my great-grandchildren (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

                  
Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering

                                                  Glossary  

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Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"The Supreme Court has ruled that they cannot have a nativity scene in Washington, D.C. This wasn't for any religious reasons. They couldn't find three wise men and a virgin." -Jay Leno

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (& Gentlereaders),

There are three gentle men who live in my neighborhood that my daughter has nicknamed, respectfully not sarcastically, the three wise men. Fortunately for her, unlike her old man, sarcasm is not an automatic, go-to reaction.

I don't see them very often and I'm always surprised when I do because they're obviously living in a different movie than I am so they sort of jolt me out of my comfortable rut for a few seconds when I encounter them.

Recently, while puttering about in the kitchen, I happened to look up and out of the picture window that looks out across a narrow side yard and provides a scenic view of a small porch/main entrance of the house next door where My Favorite Mormons live.

[Readers of a certain age may remember the sitcom, My Favorite Morman, from the early sixties.]

As to the why of said picture windows scenic view, both of the houses in question are very old and were modified multiple times before me and mine came along. There are myriad examples of odd architectural juxtapositions throughout the neighborhood.

Two of the three wise men were making their rounds, collecting aluminum cans
from various porches throughout our hood that people set aside for them so they can make a few extra bucks by recycling them.

One is actually more likely to encounter only two of the three gentle men in question as one of them has health problems that often keep him at home.

All three of them are developmentally disabled, a term I much prefer to the one commonly used till recently. This is one occasion in which I'm comfortable siding with the armies of political correctness.

Just a sec', I better check. I'll be right back...

Hoo-boy, I may not be woke after all. The proper term depends on who you believe. Ain't livin' in the information age great?


Anyways, one was as tall as the other one was short. They were wearing matching bright red Ohio State jackets and knit caps. The tall one was tossing cans off the porch. The short one was picking them up, one by one, and putting them in a trash bag.

When they were done the shorter one linked arms with the taller one as they toddled away, seeming to need the support.

My daughter knows them better than I do. When I occasionally encounter them when I'm in the midst of one of my two (in theory) daily one mile walks, I can see, and feel, their apprehension.

I always make a point of smiling broadly and saying, "Gentle men, how are you today?" to put them at ease. They always seem relieved and respond with a generic, "Good, how are you?"

If they notice the pause between gentle and men they're unimpressed, but it makes me feel kind, literary, and lyrical.

That rude noise you just heard was a snort of derision by Dana.

I don't know if their apprehension is the result of my physical appearance — large head, no neck, tank shaped torso and a mug that I'm told makes me look like I work for Tony Soprano if I'm not smiling — or the fact they've probably taken a lot of crap from not so gentle men.

I hope it's the former but it's probably both.


It's a very long walk from their house, at the other end of the neighborhood and far beyond my one-mile circuit, to the bridge that crosses over a large creek (that locals claim is, and label accordingly, a river) to downtown Hooterville (my label) where they do their grocery shopping at the Sparkle market.

[Other readers of a certain age may remember another sitcom from the sixties called Petticoat Junction that featured a town named Hooterville.]

(Rusty) Hooterville is a bit different than the one in the sitcom. Drucker's store is now a saloon called the Dream Bar. Homer Bedloe is long gone and the train still runs. Now it's subsidized by The Fedrl Gummit and loses $1,200,000 a year.

The Shady Rest Hotel, now called Uncle Joe's Motel, owned and operated by Betty Jo Bradly, has been closed by a temporary restraining order since the city went to court seeking to have it declared a public nuisance after a recent spike in heroin overdoses as well as long unaddressed building code violations.

[Ahem...]

I'm on it, Dana.

The reason my daughter knows them better than I is that she gives them rides if she sees them walking to or from Sparkle Market. She not only doesn't look like one of Tony's employees she's one of those people, like her late mom, that people immediately like and trust.

I don't have that gift. If I pulled up and offered them a ride they would probably run. But I am pretty good at preventing people from sitting next to me on a bus just by looking at them. In my defense, I only do this if there are other seats available, and people are always pleasantly surprised if I smile and turn on the charm. Well, usually.

My daughter is the reason that I know why one of them often stays home, and where their home is. She also informs me that the short one (oops, height-challenged?) is the de facto leader and that they all have jobs working for a local non-profit that employs developmentally disabled(?) folks.

Sometimes, when I'm thinking about/bitching about my anemic fixed income and/or my health problems I think about the three wise men and I'm grateful. Well, sometimes. And no, I don't know what happened to Tony, he never calls.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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