“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

Football before soccer deserves a word or two more before two million years ago when Benjamin Frankenrock and Prince Og first invented the modern game. Unfortunately, as so often happens in the past, the classical soccer of the cavepeoples was lost to antiquity, to the ages, where it was covered over and long forgotten.

Yes, before Rome fell in 476 AD, when the Germanic warlord Odoacer forced the last Caesar, Romulus Augustulus, to surrender the Imperial laurel and march with head lowered over the span bridging the blond waters of the Tiber, long before then, the true rules of the game had faded from the collective memory of man and woman.

In their place, the masses resorted, with unbridled fervor, to the uncontrolled kicking, smacking and socking of ball things with their feet, hands, heads, every part of their bodies and in every fashion. There were none to few restrictions and little guidance. It was a madhouse, every player to himself and Katy bar the goal.

True, there were some efforts to return to a more refined contest. The Aztec peoples of Mexico played a hips-only ballgame whose origins date back to 1400 BC. Hip-ball was a small and commendable step backward, but there was this disheartening habit of sacrificing the losing team. In China, during the Han Dynasty (206 BC – 220 AD), a lukewarm attempt was made to resurrect a no-hands game, but the ball passed with little advancement. The ancient Greeks enjoyed the sport of Episkyros, or Common-ball, but it was largely a grouping of adolescent males in scant or absent attire attacking each other to the cheers of their watching city states. The Romans favored combative endeavors, adopted the Greek game and renamed it Harpastum, meaning to carry away, seize or snatch, which is what Rome did to the rest of the world until Odoacer finally evicted Caesar from his hilly retreat on the Tiber. After the fall of Rome, things truly disintegrated. During the Middle Ages, Mob Football was the rage. A team could have as many players as could be mustered, and there were no rules. Well, manslaughter and outright murder were generally frowned upon. It is said that Mob Football is still played in some parts of the United Kingdom — a troublesome thought, but let’s fast forward to the 1800’s and see what’s happening in England.

In 19th Century Britain, rugby is all the rage. As a game, the competition is somewhat more controlled than Mob Football, but still a rockem’ sockem’ endeavor. Grand fun. Players can kick, throw and run with the ball, and it’s lawful to hack the legs out from under another player – to the extent there were laws and players left to play. Teams agreed on the rules for each game on the day of the match, and there was often a crying lack of uniformity.

Something needed to be done.

Between October and December 1863 at the Freemasons’ Tavern in Great Queen Street, London, the team leaders from the British football schools gathered to resolve the issues. “Injuries are too great and many,” one yelled. “Who knows whose team is best?” another hollered. “The rules aren’t the same,” the corner quietly commented. “Yeah, Yeah, Yeah,” they all agreed. “If I’m the best, I want the world to know I’m the best,” the scholar athlete stated solidly, standing on the table. “Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!!!” rose to the ceiling and spilled to the street.

And, so it was done.

A comprehensive set of rules was adopted for soccer football, and The Football Association (The FA) was established to regulate and oversee the newly found game. Unfortunately, some of the rugby football proponents withdrew and established the Rugby Football Union, but soccer football had started and it was not to be stopped. In 1872, the world’s first soccer football competition, the FA Cup, was initiated. In 1888, the world’s first soccer football league was established in Birmingham, England. In 1904, the international soccer football body, the FIFA (the Federation Internationale de Football Association), was formed in Paris, France, and FIFA declared that, from thence forward, international soccer football through all the lands would adhere to the Laws of the Game of The Football Association.

Benjamin Frankenrock and Prince Og, Junior, would be proud. They are proud. The world is proud and better for the return of soccer football.

And, in 1930, the first international soccer football competition, the World Cup, was sponsored by FIFA. Since then, there has been a World Cup every four years, except for the war years of 1942 and 1946. This year, 2014, is the 20^th World Cup and it is a grand event.

Soccer football is the most played and watched sport in the history of man and woman.

It may be a small step backward to the time of Frankenrock and Og, but it is a great step forward for the planet and the peoples of the Earth.

Hooray Soccer: On to the World Cup, the Round of 16 and the Unbridled Excitement of a New Game with Old Rules!!

Go Teams.

There’s no game.

Like an old game, I’m sure.

Grandpa Jim

FunScript PostScript to Post: Please note from the header picture that Uncle Joe has peaches at the farm, and sweet corn is anticipated by the 4th of July and the game between Brazil and Colombia.

Up Dated Date Script: The Fourth of July is winding down. Good food and fellowship and it was as hot as the 4th of July, as the day does so well each year. We all gathered before the flat screen to watch Brazil and Columbia square off. Between chasing grandkids, I would catch up. At the end, it is Brazil 2 and Columbia 1, no losers, but only one can advance. Very good teams and an excellent match, happy sad, and now on to the next. Futball is like that.

Before balls were rocks.

* * *

“Ouch, that hurt!”

“Young Prince Og, Junior, it is I, Benjamin Frankenrock, Thinker of the Tribe. Let me assist in the discovery of your new game.”

“My Dad, King Og, said you were in France.”

“I have returned from my travels in space and time, Little Prince.”

“I see that you have. You wouldn’t happen to have a band-leaf? My toe is smashed.”

“As I minister to your wounded appendage, Fleet Lordling, may I suggest a few adjustments to your competitive endeavor?”

“Shoot.”

“You, my Fledgling Noble, are attempting to invent the sport of football.”

“I would call it foot-rock, and it’s not much of a sport.”

“It will be in the future, my Injured Aristocrat.”

“Dad said you’d talk like this. He said to humor the Big Head. Ok, when?”

“In the far days of FIFA and The World Cup. Then shall be great competitions of speeding teams kicking, heading and shooting rocks into waiting and guarded goals. Oh, those will be the halcyon days of fore.”

“Benjamin Frankenrock, you are off your noodle. There is nothing fleet about kicking rocks, especially big ones. It’s like getting socked. The little rocks work better, but they’re more difficult to control. We tried melons, but when you head a ripe fruit, it gets very messy and gooey and everything slows down.”

“Your persistence, Diminutive Ruler In Waiting, is commendable. By those endeavors, you have unwittingly stumbled on name for your game. ‘Soccer’ it shall be called from its painful origins. And, as you have experienced, rules shall be important to the survival of the sport and its participants. Your pubescent pugilisms have pointed the way. Heading and kicking shall be allowed, but no arms or hands. And a net is needed, so the score can be kept.”

“There will be no scores with rocks and melons, Benjamin Wander Thoughts. By ‘score,’ I assume you are talking about those number things you scratch on the cave walls. It’s hard to tally with a dragging foot and drooping head. The sport is too hard to progress.”

“Exactly, my Sagacious Sageling. You need to invent the ‘ball.’ Remember the ‘Clothing Rule’ your Father, the Grand King Og of All the Cave People, did institute — with my help, of course.”

“Now, that was a good idea. Body coverings. Furs in winter to protect from the environment and shorts in summer to enjoy the environment. You did good with that one, which is probably why Dad let you come back to the tribe. But, tell me more of this new ‘ball’ thing”

“Old clothes, my Ruler in Forming, what happens to the old clothes?”

“The rags are soft. We stuff them together for pillows. That was your second best invention, the ‘pillow,’ which is probably why Mom told Dad to let you come back.”

“Such wise parents you have, oh Doting Teenager. Don’t forget the ‘sewing.’”

“Ok, you have a head on your shoulders, Benjamin Brain Tease. That was the other reason Mom and her lady friends argued for your return.”

“You budding wisdom is exceeded only by your penchant for praise, my Ogling. Now, if I may, why don’t you suggest to your talented and beautiful mother that she sew a round skin casing and stuff some rags into your new ‘ball’? Then move to your newly netted field, with your crowd of player friends watching, and kick and head away. Before their eyes, you will have invented socker-less Soccer. The adulation of the mob will ensure your advancement to the throne of your ancestors.”

“Brilliant, if I do say so myself, but I will let others, with your encouragement, say just that. Now, what was that FIFA and World Cup you mentioned?”

“Later, my Young Sports Originator, by my wrist sundial it is almost time for Germany and the United States to play in the Finals for Group G. The winner will advance to the Round of 16. From there, who knows, perhaps the championship of The World Cup of Soccer. Brazil, Chile, Columbia, Uruguay, Netherlands, Mexico, Costa Rica, Greece, France, Nigeria, Argentina and Switzerland have already advanced. I am on the edge of my rock. These are exciting times.”

“You are full of strange names, Benjamin. What are these ‘exciting times’?”

“More ‘when,’ my Tantalized Cro-Magnon, and ‘when’ is just around the corner, a millennia or two away, now that you’ve invented the game itself. I’ve got to find a seat by the set to watch the show. Don’t worry. I’ll be back for your soccer game, the first ever soccer game. You cannot imagine the fun you are about to start. Truly, there is much fun awaiting, my Ruler To Be, much fun awaiting.”

* * *

That Benjamin Frankenrock does have a way about him.

Oh, by the way, it is almost time for the game.

Hurry, don’t be late for the show.

It’s far too much fun.

Grandpa Jim

Foot Script: Germany beat the USA 1:0 to win Group G and advance. Despite losing to Germany, the US Team also advanced to the Round of 16. Portugal beat Ghana 2:1 to tie with USA for second place in the group (both teams having identical 1-1-1 records in group play), but the US lost today by only one goal to Germany while the German Team had beaten Portugal 4:0. That differential was the tie-breaker favoring the US Team. So, USA advances and will play again next Tuesday. Oh my, it is good such excitement happens only every four years — in our millennium, of course.

Summer is warm.

A curiosity of summer is the physical recognition that there is an ideal temperature for the surroundings of the human body. Winter does not generate such awareness of the environment.

Winter is cold.

Draped in bulky garments, the frigid temperatures of the dark months jolt us to the thinness of our temporality. We would expire without jackets, boots and scarves. In winter, we know we are in a fight for our survival. This is not the time for the musing on idealities. Throw another log on the fire, don another layer of fur, and pop a hot brick in the bed. Do what you can to raise the room temperature, and do not bother me with thoughts not related to the warming my feet. This is war, not reverie.

Not so summer.

The days of long light are blessed with a bounty of heat. In the comforting envelope of warmth, we smile as the sweat soaks our shirts and beads of water trickle down our necks. Our immediate dreams and pressing needs are those of diving into ponds and standing under cool showers. True, the elevated temperatures can, at times, be itchy, drippy and even clammy. We can be a bit uncomfortable. Yet, it is an ambient and passing discomfiture, encountered lightly with a quiet mind and passing with the setting of the sun and the cooling eve. Temperature is not a demanding and distracting battle in a frozen and bewitched kingdom with a talking snowman who dreams of a heat he dare not encounter. Summer is different. Even on the hottest of vacation days, a curious cerebral separateness directs our minds to idle thinkings. We are not huddled in manic fear of our imminent demise should the pilot light fail. We think easily, lightly, ideally.

One of those idle thoughts of the summertime is that of the ideal temperature.

What is the perfect temperature of habitation for the human body?

Where is that mythic spot without sweat or freeze?

In my house, the thermostat is set at 68 F (20.0 C) in winter and 78 F (25.6 C) in summer. Me and we, my families through the days of my life, have always done it that way. With the gauge adjusted to those points, from deep dark to long light, we feel a corporate coziness in winter and a congenial coolness in summer. And, when the bills arrive, we applaud each other for the economic balance of our varied temperaments.

On the Internet is a great deal of detailed information of body temperature to ambient temperature and room temperature to the ideal body. In these idle days of summer, let us not be so definitive. In this time of mild musing, let us not belabor the obvious. Let us cut to the chase. Go with the flow. Focus on the temperatures on the wall of our lives. The average from winter to fall is right there. It is half way between 68 F and 78 F. The number is: 73 F (22.778 C).

Voila!

Another secret of the universe before our very eyes.

And, from a quick reading of the experts inhabiting the global Pangaea of digital thought, they agree. Smack dab in the middle of the hits that google and yahoo their way to my waiting screen, 73 F is the ideal setting for human living.

Now you see why I like summer

The mind works easier.

Do you agree?

Mine does.

Ahhh. . . .

I quite enjoy.

The days of summer.

Those lazy hazy crazy days of summer.

You know, I think it’s time for a nap and relax at 22.778 C.

Grandpa Jim

Summer is upon us. The Solstice of Summer is Saturday, June 21, 2014. That will be the first and longest, if not the hottest, day of summer.

Here, in Texas, August has tended for the past couple years to be the warmest of the months. Nonetheless, around these parts when the temperature is on the rise folks like to say of the day: “It’s hotter than the 4^th of July.” July 4^th is and has long been the traditional standard of comparison for swelter and sweat. I enjoy saying on the day itself: “It’s as hot as the 4^th of July.” I laugh to announce that phrase on the day that is its own comparison.

On the first Fourth, July 4, 1776, the Continental Congress accomplished the incomparable and approved the Declaration of Independence. Two hundred and thirty eight years ago, the separateness of a young nation was documented and declared. July 4^th is recognized as the birthday of the United States of America. For that and for its significant placement in the registry of hot days, July 4^th is widely recognized and jointly felt to be the true start of summer.

It may not be the first or the hottest day of summer, but the Fourth of July is for many the most welcome. Kids are off from school, families are together traveling and pool waters are beckoning. It is a grand day of festivity, fireworks and relaxing.

Here, you see the Red Ball of Summer waiting for the kids to find their way and jump with glee into the cooling, if lukewarm, waters.

To accompany the pool frolics, burgers, dogs and brats will be grilled for the bathing suited throng. This year I again enter the ranks of the backyard chefs. It is a big move. Today, I broke down and purchased a grill for delivery next week. Over the next two weeks, I will practice searing, roasting and burning various foodstuffs to my wife’s amazement in preparation for the grand day.

While I exercise my nascent cooking skills, the crepe myrtles above crinkle their blooms in wary warning to those who dare approach the smoking grill and its gesticulating caretaker. This budding pink beauty overlooks the pool and is ready to drop its blossoms in alarm should I fail to make the culinary grade.

In front, it’s red neighbor turns away with dainty concern and a trace of lofty disdain, wrinkling its petals that my failed grillings may wrongly reflect and sully its true color.

As they say in the circus and among backyard chefs: “The show must go on.” And so it shall. I have the advantage of side dishes, salads and appetizers to buffer, if needs be, a failed entrée. “It’s not the food, it’s the day,” I’ll sing to the crowd and silently pray the burgers aren’t burnt, the dogs aren’t dark as dirt, and the brats behave like bratwursts. And, if by some miracle of fate and fiction I do pull it off, I will regally wave my tongs in the air and humbly bow to the appreciative applause of a satiated and appeased backyard.

Good grilling,

Grandpa Jim

“I forget how to spell simple words.”

“What are ‘simple words?’”

“Words like ‘the’ and ‘a.’ I can’t remember how to spell them. They just don’t look right.”

“How old are you?”

“Eight.”

“Well, its not Alzheimer’s. You’re too young. What year is this?”

“Why?”

“Just answer the question. Who’s doing the analysis here?”

“It’s 1955, I’m eight, and I’m in second grade.”

“Don’t get uppity with me. I’m trying to help you. Let’s see, in 1955, Alzheimer’s was just beginning to be understood as a disease.”

“I have a ‘disease?’”

“Maybe, but not Alzheimer’s. Today we know Alzheimer’s Disease is caused by changes in the brain beginning in middle age and resulting in a progressive loss of mental ability. Few doctors were diagnosing Alzheimer’s in 1955. Folks talked about senility and old age. You’re too young to be senile.”

“I’m confused. Who are you?”

“I’m you, today, in 2014. I’m me looking back at you and trying to understand what was wrong with us. I’m in your head and, I guess, in this post too.”

“That’s strange.”

“Quite normal these days, but let’s get back to you in 1955. Did you hit your head recently, knock yourself out, lose consciousness?”

“No, I’ve never been unconscious.”

“What about that time the guys tossed a rock and they yelled at you to catch it with your new baseball glove.”

“I missed. I’m not much of an athlete. The rock hit my forehead.”

“And?”

“I bled all the way home. Mom screamed and almost fainted. I have a big scar at the hairline. Here, you can see it.”

“I know it well.”

“I never passed out or felt woozy. Nothing like that. It was a scalp wound. Cuts to the head bleed a lot.”

“Yes, well, I think we can eliminate amnesia. You could loose the memory of ‘the’ and ‘a’ from a good crack on the head, if there was sufficient injury or shock to the neural tissues inside the braincase. When I think of the event, our memories are uncluttered. They’re far too clear.”

“I don’t think I like hearing you say ‘our.’”

“You’ll get use to it. Now, back to work, are you frightened of words?”

“Are you nuts?”

“You better hope not. Do you have a phobia of spelling?”

“A ‘phobia?’”

“A phobia is an irrational fear of something that leads to avoidance of the object, activity or situation. Be honest, I remember those little notes you hid in the palm of your hand.”

“Nobody knows about them.”

“Nobody does not include me. Admit it, why did you write the spelling words on those pieces of paper and hold them in your lap during the tests?”

“I didn’t think I could spell.”

“And?”

“I forgot the list one day.”

“And?”

“I got 100%”

“Bingo. You had a fear of spelling words correctly. Orthographobia is the technical term.”

“I like words. I’m the best student in the class.”

“You had a word phobia and that’s that. Let’s think about what else you had.”

“You think. I’ll listen.”

“I got it. I mean we had it. You still have it.”

“What do I still have?’”

“Dyslexia. Dyslexia is a family of disorders related to reading and writing. The sufferers have trouble integrating auditory and visual information. The sounds don’t match what you see, so you can’t make sense of what’s right in front of your face. The nontechnical name is ‘word blindness.’”

“I’m blind?”

“Not blind blind. You can see fine, but you are blind to ‘the’ and ‘a,’ and I think I finally know why. Remember your phonics class?”

“I’m not very good at phonics. I’m still figuring it out.”

“Exactly. Phonics was teaching us how words as they appear in their written forms are supposed to be pronounced by our mouths. We didn’t like it.”

“Who didn’t like it?”

“You don’t like phonics. Do you see why? You don’t like phonics because the spelled words don’t look to you like they sound in ordinary speech. We resisted the phonetically-defined approach to translating the word’s appearance to the word’s accepted sound. ‘The’ didn’t look like  ‘duh,’ which is what it sounds like. ‘A’ wasn’t ‘uh.’”

“That always bothered me. Still does.”

“As it should. And, we were slow to learn and accept the mechanics of phonics because of our innate and irrational fear of spelling. That fear was the personal trauma I was looking for, the equivalent of being hit on the head. Orthographobia blinded us to the phonetical approach to seeing and understanding the ‘the’s’ and ‘a’s’ of our young world. Now, it all makes sense. In my day, we know that forgetting how to spell simple works is a problem many dyslexic people experience. Wow, I never realized we were dyslectic.”

“What am I going to do?”

“Study phonics. You have to learn our way out of this condition. Commit to memory that ‘the’ is spelled ‘the’ and pronounced ‘duh,’ even though it makes no sense. Now that you can spell without a crutch, the roadblock is removed to learning phonics and recognizing ‘the’ and ‘a’ for what they are, simple words you have to work to memorize. You needed a little self confidence, and you gained that when you forgot the cheat sheet and realized you could spell.”

“I wasn’t really cheating. I studied those words. I had the list just in case.”

“I’m with you, but you didn’t know we didn’t need the list because of our orthographobia. Once you realized we could spell, the fear was conquered. Your mind is now free. You can use our memory to see, say and spell those simple words.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. Oh, this feels so good, so good. I’ve worried about us for years.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“You’re welcome. Now, study hard.”

“I will, if you promise one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You won’t come back for a very long time.”

“Now that’s a promise I can keep. You’re on your own. For now.”

Grandpa Jim

Historical Postscriptology: Other possible names for your consideration for the fear of spelling simple words incorrectly could be “simspellaphobia,” “theaphobia,” and lastly “theanesia,” if the fear causes a brief amnesia while holding a single finger in the air and repeating aimlessly “Duh, Duh, Duh?”

“A penny for your thoughts.”

That is an old phase.

English-based, as I think pennies first were.

In 1546, a literary gentleman of Albion, by the name of John Heywood, penned a book of English proverbs. Included in the tome (the volume was reportedly 200 pages in length) is the catchy salutation that titles this web log (or “blog”) post.

“A penny for your thoughts.”

The words are grouped in such a fashion that one might use them to draw another from personal reverie to considered attention.

I’ll pay you a penny for your thoughts.

“What are you thinking?”

What, indeed?

Perhaps a thought of pennies.

Pennies are old. One source suggests King Offa of Mercia minted a silver penny around 785 AD. From the map, it looks like Mercia was smack dab in the middle of Anglo-Saxon Britain — England, as we know it today.

In 1792, The United States Mint continued the tradition from beyond the sea. That year a pure copper penny emblazoned with Lady Liberty was introduced into circulation. In 1857, the penny was downgraded to 88% copper and 12% nickel and fitted with a flying eagle. In 1859, the eagle was replaced by Lady Liberty making a comeback, but this time she was regaled in a stylish headdress of native American origins. This is the famed Indian Head cent and it remained in circulation for some fifty years. In 1909, President Abraham Lincoln took center stage on the shining circlet, and he continues in that position of prominence to this very day.

Old Abe is an imposing figure.

Unfortunately, not so the cent.

The US penny is now 2.5% copper plating over a zinc body.

I still consider it good luck to find a penny. I find more these days and I’m not really looking. I suspect folks just drop and leave. The cent is not worth the bend. I spot the discards by the reflection of white zinc worn through the copper coating. I bend, retrieve, rub and rotate the coin in the light to help make out the date hidden on the scratched and abraded surface. That’s part of the good luck. The recall of memories from the found year.

I put the penny in my pocket and I’m sad. I’m sad because I feel the penny is not what it used to be. People don’t care for them like they used to. Things aren’t the same, and I know that’s okay, but I’m still sad when I slip that worn penny into my pocket.

When I was a kid, I rode my bike five miles to the bank in our small downtown. Around the handlebars was wrapped a yellow moneybag with the bank logo faded to indecipherability. There was no money in the bag. The money was safe in the pocket of my jeans. I’d get to the bank and trade my savings for rolls of pennies. 50 pennies to the roll. Back home, I’d sort the hoard to find new years for my collection. My oldest and favoritess find was a Lincoln-head penny from 1909. That was the year of President Lincoln’s first minting. I never found an Indian Head penny, but my Dad gave me the ones he’d found as a boy. When my parents moved to assisted living, my sister discovered the collection and mailed me the blue folders with the single cents each carefully cataloged by the year of its issue.

I didn’t mean to write about pennies. I was going to write about Penny Lane, the Beatles, and Life in the Fast Lane. Roads, highways, interstates, the autostrada and autobahn, fancy speeding cars, and lifestyles going so fast we don’t slow down much anymore.

So, I didn’t write about that, but I guess I did anyway.

When I take the grandkids to the mall, we lean over the fountain, the water rising and falling, splashing and laughing, and we see the coins beneath the surface. My 3-year old grandson turns up and asks, “Why the coins, Faw Faw?” I smile and answer, “For a wish. Throw a coin and make a wish.” He thinks and says, “Let’s do it, Grandpa.” I fish in my pocket, feel the rough rounded edge and retrieve the worn penny. “Here you go. Close your eyes, toss and make a wish.” He does and I’m happy.

An old penny is best for wishes.

“A penny for your thoughts.”

Grandpa Jim