I await the air conditioning repair persons.

We have been a-waiting since last Saturday evening.

Once the afternoon festivities ended and the family and guests said their final goodbyes and departed, the air conditioner quit. It was about 8 PM. The temperature outside was hovering near 100 degrees Fahrenheit (37.78 degrees Celsius). The official high for the day was 102 F. It felt much hotter. At one point, my outside wall thermometer read 110 F (43.34 C). On any scale, those are some degrees. I guess the AC unit said enough is enough and stopped dead in its tracks in protest. Of course, the timing was perfect.

On Saturday evening the nearest repair person is not in sight until Monday noon. In the Texas summer, this would usually mean a frantic pack and retreat to the relief of Hotel Cool. Fortunately, our new house has two AC units. The survivor muscled up to the plate and began its attempt to carry us through the weekend. The Edge of Heat advanced slowly down the back hallway, through the bedrooms and into the living areas. Parts of the house became uninhabitable. Shedding clothes, we backed closer and closer to the remaining draughts of refrigerated air. Huddled like modern-age monkeys in a remake of the movie “2001: A Space Odyssey,” we raised our hands to the cooling ceiling vent that was our hope and future. Heat can do strange things with the mind.

The doorbell just rang.

The techs are now at their work.

I await patiently the results of their endeavors.

My leading theory is the grandkids did it. My three-year-old grandson has a talent for these things. I found a chair backed to the thermostat in our bedroom. When I tried to get the device to talk to me, it kept reading “Temporarily, Temporarily, Temporarily,” over and over again. My interpretation is temporary mechanical insanity from young-child exposure. All those little finger manipulations caused the controller to blow a fuse, scream in computer-ese and pop a gusset.

I wasn’t that far off.

The technicians found a popped capacitor.

Advanced technology is no match for a focused three-year-old.

I was just able to reach the back bedroom without a safety line. The thermostat has stopped reading “Temporarily” and appears at ease. I didn’t have the heart to tell it the children are back again tomorrow night.

Why am I seeing images in the thermostat’s head from the “Gremlins” movie?

Well, there’s always air in the car, if things go south.

I’ll fill up before the kids arrive.

Just in case.

Grandpa Jim

Alzheimer’s Disease (AD):

I’m looking at a picture of a cross-section of a normal brain next to a picture of a cross-section of a brain with Alzheimer’s Disease. I’ve read the accompanying article, the 1,000’s of printed words. Sometimes, pictures are worth more than words. I page back to the pictures. The normal brain is larger – it looks fat and happy. The Alzheimer brain is smaller – its looks thin and mad.

Alzheimer’s is a shrinking disease. The brain cells or neurons wither. The snaps of energy or synapses between neurons fire less frequently. The brain is atrophying, degenerating, disintegrating, wasting away, breaking down. When that happens, recall is diminished. Short-term memory goes first, the body begins not to work so well, long-term memories fade next, and then the body works only with the help of others.

I’ve held the slipping hands and gazed into the struggling eyes of dear ones with Alzheimer’s.

It is not easy to talk of disease, but understanding has helped.

Alzheimer’s is a shrinking disease.

It can be fatal.

Cancer:

With cancer, cells proliferate, expand and intrude into spaces and places they should not occupy. Unbridled growth restricts and damages tissues, limits function and can cause great pain.

As I age, the cancers of friends and family surround me more each day.

Cancer is a growing disease.

It can be fatal.

Shrinking and Growing Diseases:

For me, there are two kinds of diseases: shrinking diseases and growing diseases. Alzheimer’s (shrinking) and cancer (growing) are the leading examples of each type of disease. I believe there is no cure for either or for any disease, and no disease can be eradicated.

All diseases exist in all humans.

When an individual is healthy, the body controls the presence of disease. The controlled presence of disease is the normal condition.

When an individual is unhealthy, the body is unable to control the presence of disease. The uncontrolled manifestation and progression of disease is the abnormal condition.

The disease is not the abnormal condition.

The uncontrolled shrinking or growing of the disease is the abnormal condition.

This view has helped me to understand that what we call disease is not something to fear. Disease is normal. Underlying diseases cannot be cured, and their natural presence cannot be eradicated. This is the human condition. I respectfully submit that it may be folly to pursue a course to cure or eradicate a disease. The resulting actions may do more harm than good.

Other than by accident, every human person will die of disease. But, the natural presence of disease in the human body can be managed and controlled to prevent untimely and excessive appearance. And, once a disease manifests in an uncontrolled fashion, treatments can often control the symptoms of the unchecked disease, and, in some cases, intervening actions can return the disease to a controlled position within the body.

Manage, control, prevent, treat, intervene.

From understanding comes hope.

From hope springs action.

Preventive Steps:

I’m reading an article in the local paper, entitled “Sleep may play a role in Alzheimer’s.” The writer reports on a number of recent studies. The results suggest that certain actions can delay the appearance of Alzheimer’s or moderate the progress of the disease once it does appear.

What are these actions?

The golden mean, or close to it.

Sleep: get more, deeper and better sleep.

Mental Exercise: Keep the brain busy with mentally stimulating games and activities.

Physical Exercise: Moderate physical exercise can delay the onset of unwanted symptoms.

Diet: I found this one in another article. A balanced diet, more fruit and vegetables, a glass of wine now and again, and fewer processed foods keep the brain fat, happy and looking good.

Smile: I added this one. It was between the lines in much I read. Keep a positive attitude. Do something for someone. Laugh at something silly. Do something silly. Go to a movie with someone close. And, yes, you can have popcorn with butter. Every good rule has exceptions.

Sometimes the best preventive step is the two-step.

To dance and wave your cares away.

Live long and well.

Grandpa Jim

In 1957, the immortal crooner Johnny Mathis graced the world with a single recording entitled “Chances Are.” The song climbed to #4 on the charts. On the flip or backside of that 45 record was a curious piece that Johnny reportedly did not at first care much for, although he sang the tune so well.

For the history buffs, a “45” was a small disc about the size of a modern CD or DVD on which was recorded a single song to be played on a phonograph or record player. For the more current among us, 45’s have long gone the way CD’s and DVD’s are now going. They quietly disappeared from our midst as technology advanced and introduced easier and more available means to enjoy music. Yes, soon it will be as difficult to find a CD as it is to spot a 45, and in time the moderns of their day will wander the aisles of dusty curio shops and wonder what purpose the small flying saucers once served – 45 or CD.

I first listened to Johnny M.’s 45’s on one of the first portable record players. It was the size of a small suitcase and could be transported anywhere with ease, provided you had room for a small suitcase and another large box for the 45’s and 33’s (the 33 long plays, or LP’s, were the bigger vinyl discs with more songs). Our first portable was battery operated and could be used outside for maybe up to an hour or so. We were in heaven and parts of our heaven were the croons of and swoons to the Master Mathis as we shyly and ineptly asked our dates and proceeded to dance the hour away.

On the 50’s channel driving today, I heard that curious song on the flipside that Johnny did not at first favor. Here is a sampling of the lyrics:

“You ask how long I’ll love you

“I’ll love you ‘til the blue bells forget to bloom

“I’ll love you ‘til the clover has lost its perfume

“I’ll love you ‘til the poets run out of rhyme

“Until the twelfth of never

“And that’s a long long time.”

The name of the song is “The Twelfth of Never.”

The meaning is clear: “I’ll love you forever.”

But, why?

Why does the “twelfth of never” mean “forever.”

On the Internet most people say because that’s what the phrase has always meant. It’s a colloquialism, a form of conversational speech people use when they’re talking. You don’t write it, you say it. Everyone knows it’s forever.

But, was it really always forever?

Apparently not – at least not before clocks, and it seems not for some time after clocks were first devised. In olden times, clocks did not have faces. The first clocks were mechanical mechanisms designed to chime and let you hear the hour of the day, not see it. Then, the inventors of time figured out how to add a face and hands to make clocks more friendly, to resemble more closely the likes of you and me. Of course, hands needed something to do, so someone added numbers for the hands to point the hour of the day. At that first directed time, there was no “12.” Instead, the hands spun to 11:59 and faced back around to “zero,” nothing at the top, ought. Noon was noon. Midnight was midnight. The end was the end. When you got there, you started over the same as when you were born, with no age, not “1” until you earned it. You certainly were not “12” — we just passed that. One minute past zero was one minute after noon. Ought-30 was 30 minutes past midnight. Olden folks talked like that, I guess, but it didn’t make much sense. You never got to say “12”, because no 12 could be found on the face of time, although everyone knew it was there and always would be. Twelve could never be reached. So the phrase developed: “This is taking longer than the twelfth of never.” “You are slower than the twelfth of never in January.” “Wow, I haven’t seen a 45 or CD since, I don’t know, the twelfth of never.”  “I’ll love you until the twelfth of never.” Now, that had a nice ring to it.

It did. It was time for 12 o’clock to appear again.

Around 850 AD, Pope Leo IV said: “Enough. These may be the Dark Ages, but we’re not backward. For the ease of common parlance, I formally pontificate that hereafter the first hour shall be called the 12^th hour. Twelve thirty is twelve thirty, not ought thirty. Who ever heard such talk? It’s time for some enlightenment.”

It was. Time moved on, with a new and better hour.

Still, the twelfth of never had a nice sound and was not forgotten.

To the 1950’s the phrase reached the ear of a weary songwriter who penned the lyrics that concerned the singer until he heard the lost chime of the twelfth of never and sang a song of simple speech for all to see and hear forever.

Until the twelfth of never.

Take a minute.

Grandpa Jim

“It’s raining hens and donkeys,” he texts, staring out the glassed door to the down-pouring deluge.

“Oh my!!” she texts back, adding, “Isn’t the phrase ‘It’s raining cats and dogs?’”

“Not today. There’s a platypus, and three flying pigs, and an ice cream sandwich. Sorry, that was a skunk, not an ice cream sandwich. It’s hard to see out there, with all the rain.”

Is it possible? she thinks, returning her attention to the meeting. Do such things really rain down?

Is it?

Do they?

Animal Precipitation?

Rainfalls of flightless creatures dropping from the heavens?

Yes. Of such occurrences, downpours of fish and frogs have been the most often observed and documented — although not together. It’s either been fish or frog, piscine or anura, but not both in the outside weather.

In the 1^st Century AD, the long-winded and many-talented Roman, Pliny the Elder (to distinguish himself from his nephew, Pliny the Younger) wrote the encyclopedic Naturalis Historia to record all the knowledge of the world in one book. A massive and ponderous undertaking, the tome is the largest single work to have survived from the Roman Empire – its imposing size apparently ensuring its lasting security. Among the frayed and yellowed pages can be found a record of frogs and fishes flopping to the ground during heavy rain events, but no dogs or cats. Alas, from Older Pliny to today, there is yet to be the sighting of a puppy under an umbrella or a puss in rain boots floating and splashing among the descending droplets and pooling puddles.

Fishes-a-many have fallen to earth and the amazement of dodging and darting citizens from around the globe: Singapore in 1861, Rhode Island in 1900, Moose Jaw in 1903, Louisiana in 1947, India in 2008 and 2009, Australia on two days in 2010, the Philippines in 2012, and Tamil Nadu in 2013. Of course, we must not forget the landfalls of spangled perch upon the tiny and remote Australian town of Lajamau in the Northern Territory in 1974, 2004 and 2010. Still, the city of Yoro in Honduras holds the record. Each year during the month of August with the heavy rains, very alive light-colored fish miraculously arrive flapping in the puddles of Yoro. These Honduran fish are all about six inches long, completely blind and unlike any fish in any surrounding water body. It is the Lluvia de Peces, the Rain of Fishes.

Frogs, toads and tadpoles have also been sighted among the descending droplets: Japan for a month in 2009 and twice in 2010 in Hungary.

Other creatures have been spied floating from the skies: Jellyfish over Bath, England in 1894, spiders jumping from drop-to-drop over Argentina in 2007, and worms angling to the ground in Louisiana the same year.

Will the wonders never cease or the rains ever stop?

It seems not, as I glance outside again.

Is something else out there?

There, on the grass?

Moving?

In 2012 on a Southern California golf course, a 2-pound leopard shark smacked to the mat of the 12^th tee as a golfer was about to swing. Dropping their clubs, the players grabbed the shark and rushed the flying fish to the nearby ocean where it revived and darted off. A club official commented, “We have your typical coyotes, skunks and the occasional mountain lion, but nothing like a shark.”

Remember Dorothy inside the tornado on the way to Land of Oz in the 1939 movie The Wizard of Oz. At the window of her flying farmhouse is a rooster and out that window in the storm are farm-animals-a-plenty: cows, chickens, hens, donkeys, pigs and maybe even a skunk. I don’t know, but it could be. Ask the Wizard, the Wizard of Oz, the Wonderful Wizard of Oz. As he knows so well: “What goes up, must come down.”

Fish and frogs have fallen over and over again. No one knows why. There are theories-a-plenty, but the best explanation is still Dorothy riding her cyclone to Oz. Somehow a very strong wind gushes up a big gulp with fishes, frogs and friends, swirls them about like ice in a 7-Eleven cup, and dunks down the whole lot, back to earth to the amazement of us below.

“The rain is almost over,” he texts, and adds, “We have a new pet!”

Is it possible? she thinks, Could it possibly be?

Will wonders never cease?

Grandpa Jim

“How Now, Brown Cow?” is an old expression used to improve the elocution of one’s oral delivery. All those “ow” sounds round the mouth around the words and are thought to improve speech. “How Now, Brown Cow?” The saying is not an invitation by Jersey cows atop ladders on billboards to hurry for lunch at the local emporium of the chicken sandwich. Rather, the inquiry is a s l o w  a n d  s i m p l e question: “What’s up? — “What’s next?”

For this time of year, that is a very good question. We have entered the sports doldrums of summer. This is the time when we drift listless and dulled through the channels without energy searching for excitement on a glazed TV screen that does not seem to be moving.

The World Cup is finished. Germany has raised the golden trophy. For the first time, a European team has prevailed in the Americas. The soccer players board their vessels, wave and float off into the sunset, leaving us staring wide-eyed and wondering: “What next?”

Super Bowl is a distant memory and smile of American football at its best. Basketball is the fading recollection of NBA Playoffs before the times of free agency. The Boys of Summer are engaged in the Long Days of Baseball, but any end is far off and difficult to focus attention toward. The balls of tennis bounce and golf fly, but so easily across the net and into the sky that we fade to sleep in our armchairs. Track is a fleeting distraction. We stretch for the long jump, roll to the floor and drag ourselves up and toward to the pantry for a snack and a cold soda from the fridge.

Hot days dissolve to weeks, weekends totter and slip unnoticed by, months encounter long drives and flights of vacation too soon to disappear, be lost and never to return. We wait, open mouthed and heads drooping, for the cool of fall and college sports to revive our senses.

This is why Odysseus left town in search of adventure. It was likely after the Summer Olympics in ancient Greece. “What to do next?” There wasn’t even TV to attempt a distraction. So, the great-grandson of the Olympian God Hermes gathered a crew, hired a boat and sailed off to Troy for the Trojan War. That was quite the time, but as with all exciting sporting events, there comes the day when the action is over and it’s time to sail home — in its way, not unlike the question that plagues the doldrums of summer: “What Now, Brown Cow?” And, like so many trip planners before and after him, Odysseus wouldn’t ask for directions and got lost. Now, that was an Odyssey. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place. Odysseus and his crew were right there, between the rock-headed sea monster Scylla on one side and the very difficult and demanding whirlpool Charybdis on the other. Well, they got through that strait, only to be shipwrecked again and again. Finally, Odysseus reaches home and convinces Penelope, his patiently waiting and wondering wife, that he really is himself. The story ends with Odysseus, on his knees, promising not to be bored again because there’s nothing to watch at the stadium and stating unequivocally that he will ask for directions next time.

The old stories have their way of putting things in perspective.

Sure, there may not be much happening right now.

There is little to entertain and distract.

Appreciate what you have.

A swing of golf.

A smash of tennis.

A sprint down the track.

Why risk a long sea journey and uncertain future?

Think of something to do.

Close to home.

Around the block.

With family and friends.

That won’t take twenty or more years.

And possibly land you between a rock and a hard place.

Having to answer all those questions before we return to our senses.

If you consider the options, there really is plenty to do.

And a special thank you to the Roman Ulysses.

May I be content no more to far roam.

And greet the Greek Odysseus.

Right here at our home.

Grandpa Jim

Sunday around the world, the once-every-four-years biggest-futball-game-in-history will be played before the eyes of the planet.

Two national squads will take the field: Germany and Argentina.

I first met Argentina when my son was assigned his freshman roommate in college. We shook hands. Ignacio, Iggy, was second-generation Argentine in this country. In the homeland of his mother, Isabel, their generations drew reins back to the first Spanish riders. Since that first meeting in the dorm, Iggy has become family. I have never visited Argentina. From Ignacio, his three brothers and Isabel, I know Argentina to be a country of warm feelings, large laughs and lasting attachments. It is a land I am proud to be related to, and a far country I hope one day to visit.

I was part German from the day I was born. My Mom’s Mother’s Mother, my Great Grandmother, left Germany for Minnesota and a new life among the rolling farmlands and growing cities. She spoke little of the old country, and I can feel her sadness in my eyes, but she was a determined lady with many sons and daughters who made a new life for their many sons and daughters and have been friends and family to many in their many lives. I have visited Germany. It is a land I am proud to be related to, and a far country I hope again one day to visit.

In their ways, the players facing each other on Sunday are my players. They are my teams. They are part of me. I shall watch with great attention, I shall applaud and clap for each outstanding play, I shall worry and follow each mis-step, and when the game is over, I shall stand, salute the victor, sadly bow to the vanquished and welcome both home as family.

To the World Cup,

Grandpa Jim

This past Sunday we trekked to the country and Uncle Joe’s Farm. At the niece’s birthday celebration among the throng of relatives and visitors, the sweet corn was plentiful and perfect. My blond tasseled 3-year-old grandson could not get enough. Wiping our mouths to the joy of fresh produce, we adventured out with the grandchildren to feed the remnant ears to the waiting animals and, from there, to wander the backyard of trucks, tractors and accumulated things.

Behind an old Deere, we stumbled upon a new CAT.

Gazing at the attached sickle racks, I and the grandkids wondered, in our joint heads, what was the purpose of that mass of pointed metal following the flashy new machine.

Could CAT stand for Cosmic Attenuated Telecommunications transport and were those prints in the mud the remnants of further alien intrusions.

As our imaginations piqued, we caught the glance of a wide-eyed watcher where it had been neatly placed in plain view as the backlights of a resting and unsuspecting tractor.

Advancing in line toward the garden, there, in front of our eyes, we gathered around the remains of a rusted intergalactic robotic device where it had smashed from outer space into the seat of Uncle Joe’s old mower.

Carefully and quietly, we tip-toed between the garden rows, knelt and pushed back leaves to reveal a cantaloupe lander, obviously laden with a trove of latent and valued information seedlings.

Sneaking together to the front of the house and the unsuspecting party within, we spied the transmitters on the tiny purple crawlers cleverly disguised among the petals of the flowering plant.

Not far away, a red camouflage monitor extended its nose to record our every action and observation.

Then, the orange lily burst the sights and sounds of our investigations to the far Galaxy of CAT.

Oh, the wonder of it all. What had we discovered out there among the resting equipment and shy plants? It was then we heard it – the sound of . . . the “Happy Birthday” song.

Uncle Joe opened the door and waved for us to join the singing, clapping and hooting crowd, as he extended a finger to point at the decorated and waiting strawberry cake, his knowing smile and wink of the eye revealing that little escaped his notice, including the edible microphones imbedded in the brightly colored pink frosting.

Nodding to each other, forks in hands and mouths silently moving with satisfied smiles, our countenanced features communicated well that a few aliens never hurt a happy farm and its friends, however far they may have traveled from their homes to join our fun.

Sit back and enjoy the sweet corn and strawberry cake.

You’ll never notice the transmitters.

See.

Grandpa Jim