Summer is officially over!

The 2014 US College Football season has begun.

At precisely 7:00 PM Eastern Time on Thursday, August 27, the Abilene Christian Wildcats took the field against the Georgia State Panthers at the Georgia Dome in Atlanta, Georgia in the first scheduled contest of the new college football season.

Gridiron mania and the race to the bowls are upon us.

In the US, a bowl is not a kitchen utensil. It is an invited end-of-season contest between two football teams who have prevailed through the season with a record and ranking that has earned them “bowl-eligible” status. And, for the final bowl of this season, two teams will compete and the winner will be crowned the National Champion of US College Football.

But, wait, the rules have changed.

Yes, there will be bowl games. In fact, there will be 39 bowl games. In total, 76 teams will be invited, more than ever before, in more bowls than ever before.

“Hold up, there!” you interrupt. “The numbers do not compute. 39 bowls, at two teams each, would require 78 teams to play those bowls. You only said 76. What’s going on here?”

Exactly, something new is going on here. This year, there will first be 76 teams in 38 bowl games. The last two of these 38 bowls will be the Semifinals of the new College Football Playoff (CFP). That’s right, the old Bowl Championship Series (BCS) selection system to determine the top college football teams is out. A new system is in. The CFP is in.

This new system is a Plus-One System, because a final bowl, the last and 39th bowl, has been added. This new add-on bowl is the new Championship Game. In this plus-one game, the two teams prevailing in the Semifinals will play each other — to the delight of clapping and jumping and cheering fans everywhere.

For the first time, college football has a playoff.

The top four selected teams in the country will play in the two semifinal bowl games, and the winners will play again for the National Title. This is the first time in the history of the bowls that two teams will play in two bowls. The old BCS adage “A bowl for each and each a bowl” is out. The College Football Playoff is in, two teams will play twice in two bowls, and the plus-one winner will be the uncontested National Champion.

Will wonders never cease? Apparently not. Condoleezza Rice, the former US Secretary of State, will serve as one of the 13 members of the new CFP Selection Committee. She joins a current athletic director from each of the five major US football conferences (ACC, Big Ten, Big 12, Pac-12 and SEC) and an assortment of other former coaches, players, administrators and a lone retired reporter. Quite the crowd.

The new Group of 13 will meet at the Gaylord Texas Hotel in Grapevine, Texas, 15.7 miles from where I sit typing. By secret ballot, the group will determine and release to the world their Top 25 College Football Teams of the week. The selection committee will do this for the final seven weeks of the sixteen-week season. The first of the seven CFP rankings will be released October 28, 2014.

The top four teams in the final CFP ranking on Sunday, December 7, 2014, will be the four teams going to the Semifinal Bowl Games. This year’s Semifinal Bowls will be the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, California, and the Sugar Bowl in New Orleans, Louisiana. On a three-year cycle, the Semifinals will rotate from Rose/Sugar to Orange Bowl (Miami Gardens, Florida)/Cotton Bowl (Arlington, Texas) to Fiesta Bowl (Glendale, Arizona)/Peach Bowl (Atlanta, Georgia) and back again to Rose/Sugar for the next three-year cycle of semifinals.

Each year, these six top-tier bowls will be played on two consecutive days that include New Year’s Day. Together, the two semifinals (with teams ranked #’s 1-4) and the other four bowls (with teams ranked #’s 5-12, although the Selection Committee has some flexibility to choose lower-ranked teams for these bowls) will be presented to the world as the “New Year’s Six.”

On the first Monday that is six or more days after the Semifinals, the Championship Game, plus-one #39, will be held at a location selected based on bids submitted by cities. For this first College Football Playoff year, the AT&T Stadium in Arlington, Texas, 24.4 miles from where I sit typing, has been selected as the site of the Plus-One, It’s-Number-39, College Football Playoff Championship Game.

Wow. I can see why they chose Former Madam Secretary Rice for the Selection Committee. That is a lot of meeting, talking, discussing, thinking and secret balloting to get to Arlington and the final game.

Not to worry. The smart guys and gal in the back room will make their selections. Ours is the joy of watching the run and viewing the games. We are in Week #1 of 16 Weeks of Glorious College Football. My teams are playing this Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday, as they will every week for the next sixteen. And, don’t forget to check the score for the Wildcats and the Panthers. It was the first of many and one more. . . .

What a joy to be through the sports doldrums of summer.

On to the stadiums and the fun.

Grandpa Jim

It is corn harvest time on Uncle Joe’s farm.

The combine is racing down the rows of dried stalks.

The grain trucks are piled full to overflowing with the golden kernels

Standing tall at 8-9 feet in height, Uncle Joe says, “It’s the best #2 corn you can get.”

#2 corn is intended for livestock feed and ethanol production. #1 corn is food grade and is used to make vegetable oils and other products consumed by humans. Where I grew up in heartlands of Iowa and where I live now near the farmlands of Texas, most corn is #2.

This year’s harvest of #2 corn is a record. Uncle Joe says the yields range from 120-170 bushels per acre. The corn is clean with a heavy test weight and free of contaminants. It is excellent corn.

As the grain buggy pulls away in the evening light, the golden amber of the standing stalks and cut stubble reflect the bounty of the harvest and the beauty of the land.

Never doubt that the life of the farmer is uncertain.

In the midst of a glorious corn harvest, the harsh realities of life intrude. Uncle Joe and the other farmers have the trucks to take their corn to the grain elevators, but the grain elevators cannot send the grain from the storage bins to market. There is a shortage of trucks to move the corn from the elevators. Uncle Joe is halfway through the corn harvest, but he has to wait and time his combining to the space available in the grain elevators.

Why? That is a good question and there are apparently a number of factors contributing to the holdup. The oil & gas industry is booming in these parts, which is wonderful, and trucks are needed to support the boom. The just-completed milo/sorghum harvest was outstanding, which is wonderful, but the trucks moving the milo to market are not yet available to turn and transport the corn. And, some corn buyers, for their own reasons, are not ready to take delivery of corn and are not sending trucks to pick up their grain.

As you can see below, the bright flashing combine with the corn head is ready and rearing to keep on cutting, but Uncle Joe has had to slow down the big green muncher machine to cut only enough corn to load two semi truck loads a day, the most the elevator can process from his farm.

To add trouble to tumult, corn prices are down. Why? That is another good question. Official reports are portraying a carry-over supply of corn from last year’s harvest. Administrative communications are also touting the forthcoming harvest in the Midwestern States, including my birth-state of Iowa, to be exceptionable. In other words, the published position is projected over-supply versus present demand, and, with this forecast, the classic supply and demand paradigm has driven corn prices down.

Never doubt the life of a farmer is uncertain.

When I talk with Uncle Joe, he is even and balanced in his answers and facts. There is not a hurry to his words. The worry is there, between the sentences, in the background, but not pushing forward. The doing is in the front of his talk and his actions. He is optimistic. The milo bins at the elevator are almost cleaned out, and that will open up space to combine and deliver more corn. And, there’s always plenty else to do and keep busy at around the farm. There’s never enough hours in a day.

As Uncle Joe puts the last of the equipment away, he stays and stands a moment to watch the sunset off across the fields before heading in — to supper, a short sleep and another early morning.

Never doubt the life of a farmer.

Grandpa Jim

Near the end of their time together, Paul McCartney of the Beatles wrote and sang “The Long and Winding Road.” On June 13, 1970, the song became the last number-one hit of the Boys from Liverpool. The ballad was also the last Beatles’ song while all four remained alive. In its way, the lyrics echo a plaintive plea for help and hope that resonates the sadness and joy of parting.

“The long and winding road that leads me to your door

“Will never disappear

“I’ve seen that road before, it always leads me here

“Leads me to your door

“Don’t leave me waiting here, lead me to your door

“Don’t keep me waiting here, lead me to your door”

We buried a D-Day survivor today. He was a hero, with three Bronze Stars and a number of Purple Hearts.

A year ago last summer, we buried another veteran of World War II. We buried my Dad.

It has been a long year, a long and winding road, a year of sadness, joy and hope in the future.

D-Day was The Day of the Allied Invasion of Europe. It was the last great effort and great risk to break the grip of the German Third Reich and free the peoples of the Continent. The Day, D-Day, was June 6, 1944.

It was a long day.

Many thousands of men fell and died that day.

I never knew my Dad crossed the English Channel on D-Day. Some weeks after his funeral, my sister said simply, “Did you know Dad landed in Europe on D-Day?” I didn’t. It must have shone on my face. My sister added, “He was one of only a few from his company who survived the day.” I didn’t know.

The hero we buried today was one of only a few of his company who survived D-Day and the days after that. I don’t think many at the funeral and standing beside the grave knew.

Our survivors didn’t talk much of that day. They said little, if anything, of the long hard days that followed and the biting cold of the coldest winter in European history. They did not mention the snow, ice and falling temperatures that sapped their strength and froze their bodies. In passing, my Dad commented briefly that the Battle of the Bulge had occurred in a frozen wasteland. The Battle of the Bulge, the battle that bulged back the allied lines, was Germany’s last great counter attack. It failed at great loss of life to both sides. The soldier we buried today said little more to his children and grandchildren.

It is the survivors’ way.

We buried the Sergeant on a quiet Texas hillside. A light wind cooled the mourners as we stood in the hot sun. Behind us, back near the old white church, ran the ridge road. The road was likely the old military highway that connected the early Calvary posts when the land was wild and Native Americans camped in their teepees near the stream below. White wild flowers bloomed on the slope. I like Texas that there always seem to be flowers at the right times and in the right places. This was a good place, on the high ground with the blue sky, a good place to rest and view the fields and trees stretching to the horizon.

My Dad was a Sergeant too. He is with my Mom, who was also a veteran. They lie together, side by side, beneath the crosses, row on row, in a far place north of here. In its manner, it is also a very pleasant place to see.

The two Sergeants, my Dad and the one today, never met, that I know of. Had they met while they lived, I am confident they would have recognized each other immediately. I know, with a certainty, they know each other now.

Their roads lead to the same door.

It is the heroes’ way.

Grandpa Jim

The skies are alive with . . . what?

It is the time of summer. Since my childhood, the skies of summer have been alive with reports of unidentified flying objects (UFO’s). As a kid, I thought it was a summer news phenomenon. School is out, sports are done, nothing much is happening, reporters are bored, people are bored. Staring off into the distance, people spy strange things in the sky, things they can’t identify, things that are flying. They see UFO’s and make reports. Newspaper columnists get the calls and write the articles, because there is nothing much else to report.

Maybe, I was wrong.

On June 24, 1947, Kenneth Arnold was flying his airplane toward Mount Rainier in the state of Washington. It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon. The skies were clear. Ken put the plane on auto, sat back and gazed out, enjoying the open panorama and the snow-covered peaks of the Cascade Mountains. A flash of light caught his attention. There were nine of them: bright objects, flying objects, in formation, like knots on the tail of a kite, moving from north to south, traveling fast, faster than any plane he knew to exist. The formation banked in unison. Mr. Arnold observed the objects were shaped like saucers, thin on the side and wide across the middle. In minutes, the group disappeared from his site. Ken continued on, landed and related the sighting his friends, who called their reporter friends, sitting at their desks, twiddling their thumbs, wondering what to write about in the middle of summer.

The next day the newspaper stories began. Somewhere in one of the reports, someone coined the phrase “flying saucer.” It was the first time the term was used. Before the year was out, 140 newspapers had reported 853 sightings of flying saucers.

The race was on.

It was fixin’ to be the 4^th of July, 1947, just a week or so past Ken Arnold’s sightings at Mount Rainier, W. W. “Mack” Brazel and his son were out early on the range, riding their horses to check that the livestock was safe after a fierce thunderstorm the night before. Their ranch was northwest of Roswell, New Mexico, and that storm the night before had produced a passel of lighting. The electricity of the storm had ignited the countryside. Who knew what damage it had done?

“What’s that shiny stuff on the ground, Paw?”

“Don’t know, Son. Looks like something got blown apart. Maybe that storm last night. There’s pieces everywhere.”

Father and son got off their horses and started to examine the debris.

“This is like tin foil, but I can’t bend it,” Dad Mack commented.

“Paw, look! This little beam is lighter than a feather, and its got colored writing on the sides. Not letters I know from school?”

“Saddle up, Son. We’ve got to get back and tell the authorities. Something crashed here in the storm last night. No telling what may be over that ridge. Probably need the military. This could be one of them flying saucers we read about in the paper.”

On July 8, 1947, the military issued a press release stating that the wreckage of a flying object had been recovered near Roswell, New Mexico. Within hours, The Associated Press reported: “The Army Air Force here today announced a flying disc had been found.” Within days, the site was sealed to visitors. No reporters were allowed to see or examine the remains from the crash.

Curiously, a local mortician related to the reporters that the military had requested some small sealed coffins to preserve bodies exposed to the weather.

Soon after, the military announced the results of its investigations. The objects found near Roswell were the crashed parts of a weather balloon, not a flying saucer or its occupants.

To this day, the military insists the Roswell crash was that of a weather balloon.

For the rest of 1947 and to this day, the reports of UFO’s and flying saucers have continued.

In a 1950 interview with journalist Edward R. Murrow, Kenneth Arnold reported sighting similar flying objects on three other occasions.

In the written report of his first sighting near Mount Rainier, Mr. Arnold added a hand-drawn picture of a saucer-like object. Above the picture in the text, Kenneth Arnold noted that the Army had chosen not to visit with him to investigate the authenticity of his story. Mr. Arnold added, “If our Military intelligence was not aware of what I observed, they would be the very first people that I could expect as visitors.”

Could it be that the unexpected visitors were somehow expected?

Sometimes, silence can speak more loudly than words.

Could UFO’s be more than a summer event?

Could it be that flying saucers exist?

Maybe, I was wrong.

Who knows?

Do you?

Grandpa Jim

Dreams happen at night.

In the dark, in our minds, something happens.

We see things we don’t understand, things we often don’t remember, things that wake us from sleep wondering what and why.

Joseph didn’t have the dream.

Pharaoh did, two of them.

Joseph of the many-colored coat had been sold by his jealous brothers into slavery in Egypt. In prison for something he did not do, things were not going well for Joseph. One night, Pharaoh, the king of Egypt, had a dream. Seven fat cows waded out of the Nile River, followed by seven scrawny cows. The scrawny cows devoured the fat ones. Pharaoh woke, fell back to sleep and had another dream. Seven fat ears of grain grew on a stalk, behind them sprouted seven shriveled ears. The shriveled ears swallowed up the fat ones. Pharaoh woke and sought answers, but none of the king’s counselors could explain the meaning of the dreams. Joseph could and was summoned from his prison to do just that, which he did. In each dream, the seven fat were seven years of bountiful harvests. The seven thin were seven years of severe famine. Pharaoh was being doubly forewarned to plan ahead to save his people. To do this, Pharaoh needed a wise man to manage the good years before the bad times arrived and took their toll. Pharaoh was wise and he saw the man for the job. He put Joseph in charge of everything, for the good of everyone.

Dreams can be shared for the good of others.

Martin Luther King, Jr. had a dream. On the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C., on August 28, 1963, Mr. King shared his dream.

“I have a dream.

“I have a dream that all men are created equal.

“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

“I have a dream that one day little black boys and blacks girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

“I have a dream today. This is our hope. Let freedom ring.”

That is a wonderful dream, the dream of many, of many today in many parts of our world.

My granddaughters shared their dreams with me. I listened and we talked, and in their eyes I could see my listening and our talk was important to them.

Dreams are to be shared.

Children are meant to dream.

And we are all children.

It is that which we all share.

Joseph was different, very different.

Pharaoh did not look to the color of Joseph’s skin.

Pharaoh looked deeper, to the content of Joseph’s character.

I think Pharaoh saw the child in both their eyes, heard the voice of a fiery black preacher three thousand years in the future, laughed, removed the king’s signet ring of authority from his finger, handed it to Joseph, and reached down to take the hands of the young prince and princess beside the throne.

He had a dream.

Grandpa Jim

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