Old Joke #25

A very old man lay dying in his bed. In death's doorway, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favorite chocolate chip cookie wafting up the stairs. He gathered his remaining strength and lifted himself from the bed. Leaning against the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, and with even greater effort forced himself down the stairs, gripping the railing with both hands. With labored breath, he leaned against the door frame, gazing into the kitchen. Were it not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven. There, spread out on newspapers on the kitchen table, were literally hundreds of his favorite chocolate chip cookies. Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of heroic love from his devoted wife, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man? Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself toward the table. The aged and withered hand, shaking, made its way to a cookie at the edge of the table, when he was suddenly smacked with a spatula by his wife. "Stay out of those," she said. "They're for the funeral.

Web Wednesday: Dirty Deeds Done With Sheep

Okay, this totally cracks me up -- almost as much as learning ( from my friend who sells "adult novelties" on the party plan) that sex toy warehouses stock blow-up sheep.

(I originally planned a series of posts on stories she'd told me, but the silence was deafening when I did that first post, so I decided to keep those particular funnies to myself.)

They're Not Resolutions, They're Goals

Every December, as the year winds down, I make a list of goals for the next year. These are not "resolutions," made with champagne-fueled hopes, fated to be abandoned before the empty bottles are hauled away.

They are, instead, a list of objectives that move my life along my chosen trajectory. And if I don't attain them, well, any progress in the right direction is still forward motion.

As Dwight D. Eisenhower said, "Plans are useless, but planning is essential."

This year, the list is broken down into the following categories:

Health and Fitness
Relationships
Culture and Education
Blog
This Old House
Fiction Writing

For example, here are my blog goals:

1) Continue to post Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
2) Add “My Little Town Tuesday” as a feature at least once per month.
3) Include a picture with every post.
4) Continue to visit your blog friends at least once a week.
5) Visit at least 2 new blogs per week.

As you can infer, my goals are SMART - Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Realistic and Time-bound, just like they teach you in Management school.

There used to be a category called "Professional," but that seems to be something I don't care much about anymore. I like my job, and I'm happy to be employed, but I have no particular goals in that direction. Which is kind of interesting, because for years that category topped the list.

In the midst of all this planning, I talked to my two older sisters, who told me about a conversation they had with one of my nephews, whom we'll call "C."

C is a big fan of Fox News, and a strong believer in free markets and self-reliance, which, given that he's a reasonably well-educated white guy in his thirties, works pretty well for him.

Apparently, during this conversation, my name came up as someone who could have been much wealthier, had I made better decisions in my life.

When my sisters relayed this to me, I was startled. "Who ever said that was a goal in my life?"

Oh, they said, C assumes that's the primary goal in everyone's life.

Well, he's wrong.

And I've got the documentation to prove it.

A Raisin Christmas: He Ain't Heavy

Merry Christmas, everyone!

I'd intended to do my normal Fiction Friday post, but the batteries in my mouse died and I used all the AA's loading up a Pegasus, a pelican, a laughing Ernie and a pair of race cars yesterday, so the copying and pasting required for Fiction Friday is out of the question.

Instead, I'm going to talk about my brother, Lynnie.

My parents waited 10 years for a son. They had 4 daughters, but Dad longed for a boy he could take fishing and teach to play ball. Finally, in September, 1955, William Lynn was born. But their joy turned to grief over the next few months as they realized the son they'd longed for suffered from the double whammy of Cerebral Palsy and severe mental retardation. Not nearly as much was known about CP then, and they spent the next few years, and God knows how much money, seeking a cure.

Today, although Lynnie inhabits the body of a 54-year-old man, he has the IQ of an 18-month-old child.

He lives in the Stillwater Center, a facility on the north side of town. After my father passed away a few years back, my 4 sisters and my brother and I, after farming him around from house to house for a few months, made the hard decision to place Lynnie at Stillwater, where the trained staff would know how to handle the increasing number of physical issues he faces.

Having to institutionalize him, after successfully keeping him home for so many years, left us all sick with guilt.

Our worries came to nothing, because from the moment Lynnie moved into Stillwater, he loved it. He's very extroverted, and being in a place where people are paid to cater to him is his idea of heaven. We bring him home for day-long, and occasionally overnight visits, and we we take him back, he cheers when we reach the parking lot.

It was interesting yesterday, watching my grandkids interact with him. A couple of the youngest, Lily and Danielle, are pretty timid to begin with, so it was amazing to me that both of them seemed almost instantly to realize they had nothing to fear from this big, strange man.

Now if I could just get him to share his toys....

Web Wednesday: Carol of the Bells

This is one of my very favorite Christmas carols -- possibly because it captures the 100-miles-an-hour stress-fest that we've made of this holiday!

A Tale of Two Cities - Revisited

(I originally posted this last January. Last week, my step-daughter called to say she had my tickets for this year's outing. I'm won't let them ditch me this year.)

We arrive at the zoo on Saturday for the big Festival of Lights and I call my step-daughter to arrange a rendezvous.

“As soon as we find a bathroom for Kylie,” I say, “we’ll meet you at the Elephant House.

Shay tells me where the bathroom is (to the right of the entrance and down the hill) and, using these very misleading directions, we eventually find a toilet.

Potty break dealt with, we climb back up the hill to the Asian rotunda that has always housed the elephants. No sign of Shay. I call her again.

“Where are you?” she says.

"I’m standing next to the Elephant House, across from the new Forest exhibit."

“What Forest exhibit?” she says. “We’re right outside the Asian Experience.”

It can’t just be the Elephant House anymore, no, now it has to be the "Asian Experience."

“I’m standing next to the wooden polar bear cutout, with the signs pointing to Santa’s Holiday Village and the North Pole Post Office,” I say.

“Stay where you are,” she says. “I’ll send Jeff to find you.”

So I wait. And I wait. In the meantime, Bill and Kylie make a circuit around the Elephant House. (Four-year-olds are lousy at waiting and fifty-four year olds aren’t much better.)

Ten minutes later, Shay calls back.

“Where are you?” she asks again. “Can you see the North American Habitat?”

“I’m right by the entrance,” I say. “You know, big sign, PNC Bank Festival of Lights.”

“PNC Bank? American Electric is sponsoring this.”

“Not in Cincinnati.”

“Well, they are in Columbus.”

I pause a moment while that sinks in.

“We’re going to stop looking for you now,” I say. “Enjoy yourselves.”

All night long, Old Dog made Kylie hold my hand “so Grandma won’t get lost.”

I still say we would have been fine if we’d just made it to the right city.

Fiction Friday: On Receiving Feedback

For the past two Fridays, I've pontificated about how to give useful feedback to fellow writers. Today I thought we'd look at that transaction from the other end.

Some guidelines for soliciting and receiving feedback:

1) If you think what you've written is perfect, don't bother to ask for input. What's the purpose?

2) Conversely, don't hand off the baby while it's still dripping with amniotic fluid. Clean it up to the best of your ability before you ask anyone else to cuddle it. After all, only a mother (or father) could love what first comes out.

3) Know the capabilities of the writer you're asking for feedback. Is he familiar with your genre? Is his work at a comparable level (or better) than your own? Your best bet is to find a writer who knows and likes your genre, and whose work you enjoy and secretly (or not-so-secretly) believe to be better than your own, and get his opinion.

4) If you want specific kinds of feedback (help with grammar/mechanics, ideas for resolving a plot issue, feedback on whether a certain bit seems credible) ask for it. If you don't want specific kinds of feedback (for example, there's no real value in getting a line edit on a first draft), let your reviewer know that, too.

5) Don't argue with your reviewer. (Confession: I may have been known to do this once or twice.) Take her input, say thank you with all sincerity, and head to your cave to mull it over. If she says Character A seemed inconsistent and you can't see it, it's okay to ask for specific examples. Once you get them, though, you're back to smiling brightly and heading for your writing cave again. No trying to explain away the flaws. It doesn't matter if it's right in your head -- it has to be right on the page.

Last Week's Winners

Purest Green: As promising as a Saint Patrick's parade in Ibrox stadium. (Had to Google Ibrox stadium, but once I did, this is a great one.)

Doggybloggy: As promising as a lottery ticket. (I liked this one, because 99.999% of lottery tickets are false promises, and we know that, but we continue to buy them.)

Anymommy: As promising as getting twelve hours of sleep with a six month old baby... (This one made we want to hop on a West coast flight and do baby-duty so our new mom could get a good night's sleep. After all, I'm awake anyway.)

Chef E: As promising as a blind chef with no taste buds... This one made me think of the movie Eat, Drink, Man, Woman, about the world famous Chinese chef who loses his sense of smell.

Next Week's Prompt:

The best Christmas present I never got was....