The Atheists' Picnic!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:        The Atheists' Picnic...

Every pivotal moment in life begins with an epiphany, a cathartic event.  Is that the same as a revelation...  I guess so?!  Or maybe not, but sometimes fortune shines, or it doesn't.  Depends on the individual, the objective and the specific overarching demon.      

Like finding a $20 bill or a rare coin in the gutter on an overcast morning, a pleasant discovery can replace gloom with a nugget of hopefulness.  In my / our GeezerHood, we found an exit, a means of escape from the vise of addiction, a program we could embrace.  AA was not an option for us.  We could not, would not surrender our personal responsibility to a "higher power," as if to announce to our weaknesses that we were powerless, thus permitted to drop back in a murky pond of toxic semi-consciousness, or blackout, each time the seductive lure of "spirits" beckoned.

There happened to be a chapter at a particular church, its own traditions or form of theocracy, its religious or spiritual concepts hitherto unknown to us, or at least not to me!  The church symbolized by a Question Mark, not a cross, burning or mounted symbolically, or a star or thin towers with enclosures protected by parapets.  

Had anyone ever heard of it before?  That new and different method...  I certainly hadn't.  Secular Organization for Sobriety (SOS), a new idea, at least to us, an idea that proclaimed one's personal power over addiction.  Extraordinary.  For us it worked, as for many others, we soon discovered, to our satisfaction.  Kindred spirits occupied chairs and tables, as opposed to the potable kind of spirits!  

(SOS included a concept known as Rational Recovery; an excellent book described its process and its effectiveness for combatting addiction.  Many in our group embraced its rationale and its well-reasoned path to sobriety.)  

Nothing's perfect.  We had to absorb a brand new paradigm.  And we had to listen to a number of, in fact too many insipid "drunk-a-logues," as well as, admittedly, a number of fascinating tales of deep depression, hopelessness, ultimate victory over demons, abysmal failures as well.

One of our new SOS companions was a mynah bird with a broken echo in his beak.  "I can drink pop; I can drink coffee and tea; I can drink lemonade..." as if repeatedly, each weekly meeting, attempting to convince himself that there was great joy in drinking non-alcoholic beverages.  And each week we heard the same litany of soft drinks he could

actually ingest without becoming inebriated.  We felt sorry for the chap.  He was something of a bromide, indulging in a sort of self-hypnosis.

Another of our group members was addicted to booze and cannabis, his brain addled by his twin addition that occurred over too many years, too much, too many days and nights of anesthetizing himself with forbidden or damaging substances.  His chatter was a stream of somewhat unconscious drivel, a prattle that often took a different direction, a new thread.   Each time someone in the group ended a sentence with a particular word, that word sent him on an entirely different course of nonsense.  Sad.  Sometimes so sad it was, in a way, pitifully comic, if one could actually jump aboard his crazed train of illogic, if one could find humor in his convoluted monologues.  We often did, while at the same time feeling badly for the poor chap.  

And then the young woman who announced each session she would never abandon her fifth of vodka a day habit, even if it meant losing everything, her marriage, her children, what remained of a working brain, her livelihood, her life...  Nothing mattered but the vodka, the perpetual buzz, the numbing elixir that shut down her mind and her pain, an inexorable devil that she had no words to describe or define.

One of our number called another of us an "amateur" in the hard-drinking culture.  He once said, "I wish they'd invent a pill that would allow me to have just one or two drinks, and then stop!"  

The woman responded, "I wouldn't take such a pill for the sake of one or two drinks.  Not worth it."  

"Then you're just an amateur..."  That made her angry, and she shot back at him with a suitable reply.

"That kind of thinking is dangerously inappropriate for impressionable young people within ear shot.  You're giving them an excuse to have a drink or two, as if they can do so without falling back into excess, deeper into addiction, diving back into alcohol abuse possibly without ever looking back!" 

Enough of the serious part of group support and therapy!  One of our members -- he having joined a multiple-addition group that we too joined at some point on our recovery journey -- was a loud, self-proclaimed atheist.  He wanted every one of us to embrace atheism.  He was an atheist proselytizer!  More frenzied and passionate than any door-to-door preaching lunatic -- Witness, Priest, Monk, Rabbi, Muslim, Mormon, Hare Krishnan, Buddhist, Church Lady, Whirling Dervish...  

He was continuously after all of us to come to the Atheists' Picnic.  He and his fellow converts and rabid proselytizers were frequently organizing Atheists' Picnics, reserving enormous swaths of parkland in and around the city.  "We always serve nice food," he said, "and lots of stuff to drink...  nothing alcoholic, of course, but yummy and fruity with vibrant colors, bubbly even..."  

We were not swayed.  We did not convert, possibly because some or many of us were already in that camp.  For the two of us, we were content to practice our own form of religion or non-religion, or spirituality, or the lack thereof...  No one's business but our own.  I hasten to add that we respect and admire all forms of religion, not-religion, spirituality and non-spirituality (if there are such terms!)      

Fearing the lack of alcoholic stimulants would kill our senses of humor, we once attended a multiple-addiction party, at which we were asked by our hostess not to tell her friends where we had met.  Ignoring her, we kept inventing ridiculous therapy and support groups and sharing them loudly with her friends as they arrived at the party.  One fellow entered, smiling broadly like a toothy dental commercial, and promptly dropped an entire platter of nuts.  On our hands and knees recovering the precious salted, mixed nuts, I announced to the latest arrivals:  "Oh, um...  Beryl, yes...  How we know her?  We met at a fear-of-standing-erect at parties group..."  

Possibly it's akin to riding a bicycle.  Maybe you never really lose your sense of humor, or "sense of silly," even if they take away your booze, your stout and porter, your former reason for living,  that of gleefully stumbling, belching and dribbling, assuming your daily role as the perennial buffoon in a galaxy of cocktail lounges and gin joints!  (Oh, that was really funny...  uh, wasn't it?  Wha-did-dat guy say again?...)  

Special Dedications:   To theists and atheists and all who struggle with addiction and demons, but who do their darn-dest every day to combat the imps and devils that dwell within their / our minds, hearts and souls!  Thank You, readers and devotees, for your kind consideration and indulgence, or at least your lack of scorn!!      

Humbly Submitted  06-15-23 -- Joel K.

 

  

  

         

  

A Fateful Right Turn...

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:         A Fateful Right Turn...

(Author's Note:   This posting is a fable, mostly...  sort of!  It is not about the usual perpetrator, but about an old chum who told outrageous tales, and engaged in equally outrageous behavior.  This is one of his highly polished tales, undoubtedly containing more than a bit of hyperbole.  Nevertheless, I found it and still find it somewhat amusing.  And, who knows, maybe it's all true??!!  I'd contact him in an effort to verify its authenticity, but he's dead!  The story is told in first person narration style, as told to the perpetrator!) 

I'm cruising in my ancient roadster.   It's peaceful.  No radio, windows closed.  I make a right turn.  I continue to drive.  A siren screams just behind my assaulted ears, an explosion of highly unpleasant racket, like a screech owl swallowed a tweeter!  The rear window is flooded with red and blue ink, an other-worldly atmosphere, as if I've been transported to a red planet.  My breathing becomes labored and I expect to see oddly-shaped creatures made of smelly cheese and bumpy green lumpy edibles.  

I pull over.  A uniformed police person appears at my window.  He motions I should roll it down.  I push a still-working button instead.

"Good day, sir.  You know you just executed a right turn without using a proper turn signal, or an arm signal.   Either would have been acceptable."

"I forget how to do them arm signals," I say, attempting a bit of comic relief, to lighten the police guy's potential anger or nastiness.  "I'm just a peaceful Geezer trying to enjoy a quiet day motoring on the streets...  You don't have to call me sir.  I'm just a simple sort of chap..."  

"It's not legal to execute a right turn without signaling your intention to do so!"

"Now see here, office sir,  I'm drinking...  and I'm driving with my knee, holding onto hot soup so it won't slop, securing a box of blintzes with sour cream, cole shaw...  Also too I'm trying to smoke a fat Havana.  I got two hands only, both pretty much occupied.  I can't do everything..."

"Sir, are you trying to be funny?!  Let me have your driving license."  I hand over the license.  

"That's me before my operation," I say pointing to the grainy photo.  I also point to the part that reads, "Veteran"...   "I'm a veteran, Ossifer, do you give citational-fine discounts to veterans?"

"You say you're drinking and driving?  You've been drinking alcohol while driving?!"

"I used to drink boozy stuff, often imported beer when I drive.  I used to like stout and other dark brews.  German stuff.  What's your poison?  Gin, vodka, cheap whiskey?"  

"Don't be impertinent," the officer says commandingly, agitation dribbing from his tone.

I continue.  "Now it's just coffee or green tee, sometimes charged water, bubbly stuff.  I been a drunkard-free former drunk for lotta years now, man, dude, bro....  Do you prefer one over another?  Also too, I got prostate issues so I'm laying off the diet brown pop.  You got any prostate trouble?  How often do you have sex with the missus, or maybe without.  I read that frequent such activity is good for prostate health."

"Step out of the vehicle, sir," he announces, bellowing and belching irritably.  I suspect he's real angry.  

"I'd rather not," I say.  "I gotta go potty real bad, and any extraneous movement may trigger a disgrace.  Couldn't we just have a nice chat?  You outside there, me seated comfortably in my vehicle?  You could come inside, passenger chair.  Heater still works...  

"Look here, young ossifer, my pater was a luminary in law enforcement circles.  A decorated Federal Agent guy.  He got a medal and a certificate and even a phone call from J. Edgar.  He, my pater, captured Nazis, bank robbers, murderous pig swines, too.  (No offense, I add trying for "sotto voce," like, but he hears...).  Who's your police chief?  Probably my dear old pater knew him, taught him FBI stuff like how to investigate them nasty scofflaws and felonious nasties, such like!"  

"I see in looking at your name here on your driving ticket what your family name is.  Your first name is...   Oh yes, I see that too... (odd name, what...)  I've heard of your, um, pa..., I mean, your illustrious father.  I should still cite you for the illegal right turn, however, not to mention your impertinence...  You should speak to an officer of the law with more respect, not to mention sexual innuendo..."

"I won't mention it if you won't...  See here, now, young police official, look around.  There's no other vehicles in the vicinity.  No cars.  No delivery vans or big trucks.  I mean, what's the harm in forgetting to signal a right turn when there's no persons, no other vehicles for miles around?  How about this, why don't you follow me for a bit.  I'll make a left turn using both my electronical signaling stick and I'll hang my left arm out the window, straight like.  You know, a doubly executed proper left turn, like.  Real safe!"

"No need for that.  But in future, use your turn signal or an arm signal."  He hands back the driving license.  "You be careful, now, and have a nice day."

I motor off, careful to use the turn signal stick as I edge from the curb.  "I'll have whatever kind of day I choose to have, nice or otherwise," I state inside the privacy of my motor car.  "I may endeavor to have a really crap day if I want...  Don't know how that young police guy could have snuck up behind me so surreptitiously, the sneaky little poop nose."  I light up a joint and pop open a can of Schlitz.  

(Please Note:   Just to repeat, and to re-emphasize, this story isn't about the perpetrator, but rather about an old acquaintance who frequently misbehaved, including when engaged in motor-vehicular traffic activity.  He often told amusing stories to fascinated listeners.  He should have written them down for posterity, I think!  He did not, so someone had to!  Tak.)

Humbly Submitted 07-27-2022 -- Joel 

     

Night of the Moth!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:              Night of the Moth!!

You probably know how it is with GeezerHood, particularly if you, yourself are a Geezer.  We tend to recall "Great Stories and Great Events" in our lives, especially when asked to relate such memorable stories or events to our children, grandchildren, other fascinated parties...  meaning anyone who might foolishly ask for a re-recitation.  It's sort of like a great novel being read by someone with a sonorous voice via public radio...  rapturous, mesmerizing!  (Or maybe not!)

A number of years ago, SweetHeart and I, along with our, then, only offspring, rented a cottage on the shores of Lake Michigan, near Cedar Grove, Wisconsin.  We routinely invited SweetHeart's brother and his wife, Boobers and Patsy, to join us.  They were best friends of ours, in addition to being beloved relatives.  

On a memorable early morning on one of those glorious summer days at the cottage, probably about 2:00AM, Boobers and I had consumed a great deal of beer and other spirited potables.  We were in the rubber round of a cribbage match, laughing and belching and telling each other lies and other "true adventures."  

Boobers flicked a cigarette out the screen door.  As he did so, an enormous moth flew into the kitchen area of the compact cottage.  We watched the moth flit about irritatingly, disrupting our keen, if admittedly drunken concentration.  Booby stumbled about, his hand with fingers outstretched, trying to capture the pesky moth.  He, Boobers, became a knight errant, as if fully armored with broadsword and bludgeon at the ready.  Eventually he

succeeded in capturing the moth.  

He cradled the still living winged creature in his hand, stomped boldly with a great sense of purpose while staggering into the bathroom, and thrust the offensive prey into the toilet, flushing simultaneously.  He walked back to the table and our cribbage game, a triumphant scowl on his face!  "It's done for," he announced, confidently!

But then, the moth reappeared.  It had obviously escaped the crazy, dizzying vortex of the flushing toilet, crawled up the bowl and took once again to the air.  "Damn," we both shouted in disbelief.  "How in the hell did that thing get out of the toilet?!" Booby re-captured the moth, this time a bit more roughly and threw it with great force into the toilet, flushing once again as he did so.  "That'll show 'em," he said.

Boobers stayed in the bathroom, just to be sure.  As the moth escaped the whirlpool and began crawling up the porcelain, out of the bowl, Booby used his beer and whisky-laden breath to force the moth into the vortex, flushing and blowing at the thing, like a mighty wind, and glowering at the seemingly indestructible "beast." The moth appeared to be a goner

It wasn't.  It was soon flitting about the room.  It seemed almost to have a triumphant and haughty look upon its mothy face!  Another capture ensued.  More thrusting, flushing and blowing.  Repeated escapes!  Nothing worked.


At this point, our uproarious laughter woke our respective spouses, SweetHeart and Patsy.  "What are you two lunatics doing?" one of them asked in a sleepy and rather irritated voice.  We related our adventure with the moth, pointing out the pesky creature as it flew jerkily around the kitchen, circling the overhead light!  Booby captured the moth yet again.  He had a look of murder in his eyes.  "Wait a minute," said Patsy, "Let it live...  If we can believe your ridiculous tale, the thing deserves to live after all you put it through."

Two more thumbs flew upward -- spectators at a Roman coliseum -- affirming the "winged gladiator's" right to life, after having endured so many indignities and near-death experiences!  

"Oh, alright," said Boobers, resignedly.  He opened the screen door and thrust it out.  Another moth flew in!   

Humbly Submitted, March 4, 2020! -- Joel K.    

A Possible Murder Mystery... Just Trying it Out, Sort of...

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    A Possible Murder Mystery...  Just Trying it Out, Sort of...

Chapter One – Leonard and Mavis

He was completely into the dance, executing a kind of arabesque as he performed the routine -- more ritual than tedium -- that started his workday every day, five days a week.  His arms were flung wide, extending, his legs gliding as if on ice, first to his right, then back to the left, fluid, nearly artistic.  Or, at least to some, it seemed like a dance, and it amused them to think of it as such, certain staff members of long-standing, fellow employees of Leonard’s, principal day-shift bartender at the Beech Tree and Basswood Inn. 

Leonard began his workday as he normally did, placing the bottles of liquor, spirits and cordials on the three rows of shelves that lined the back bar, situating the bottles in precisely the same, pre-ordained order that was seen to each day, and had been the duty of the chief day bartender for the three-and-a-half year history of the inn.  The bottle formation was twinned on either side of the back bar, gloriously displayed, underside and back lit, adding to their almost hypnotic profusion of color.  The ridiculously tall and ornate bottles that contained the yellow-gold liqueur with the stylized Italian military hat-corks went to the center, additional cordials with their rich hues and textures to its flanks.  Then came the expensive “call-brands” of bourbon, rye whiskey, scotch, gin, vodka and other spirits in their precise positions, in accordance with their popularity and ease of grasp by the always-rushed corps of bartenders, day and nighttime crews alike.  

  

The rules that governed bar procedure were set down by a state-controlled liquor board in Washington State during the late 1960’s and on into the 1970’s, and one of the sacrosanct “laws” mandated that all bottles containing alcoholic beverages had to be removed from the back bar, locked away from closing until opening time and replaced upon the back bar at the start of the following business day.  The wells and automated dispensing system that contained “house brands” were similarly governed by the rules of after-hours storage.  The system had to be locked or otherwise disabled. 

   

Leonard undertook the task, the daily routine, faithfully, with remarkable grace and efficiency, seemingly with a certain kind of gratification, and, oddly, with a measure of gleefulness, each day of his working life.

Not Leonard, but it could be him when he aged into his
later 50s or early 60s...  unless he's dead!  

Leonard Hoaglund was the “day bar manager,” a largely ceremonial title conferred as a result of a kind of privilege he enjoyed.  Leonard was a relatively tall man, standing perhaps six-feet-one-inch.  His height and exceptional reach were advantages in the daily bottle re-placement routine.  He was almost handsome, his hair a darker shade of blond, stick-straight and brushed back over a forehead that was low and sometimes rippled in concentration, gray and white strands of it having invaded the proud blond profusion of his prime.  He was solidly built, robust and almost always in a pleasant mood.  His widely spaced blue eyes were full of fun and laughter, his nose prominent but straight, his mouth wide and frequently made even wider by a smile that was consistently genuine.  Now in his mid-forties, more than 20 years into a professional life spent primarily “behind the bar,” Leonard, in mock earnestness, professed his preference for  the more elegant title “beverage host,” and it was thus that he frequently introduced himself to new patrons freshly perched at the long and beautifully appointed bar of the famously successful Beech Tree and Basswood Inn.

  The bar contained perhaps 20 well-padded stools whose fabric colors and pattern matched those of the gold, brown and muted orange of the bartenders’ uniform vests.  Black, half-Windsor-knotted ties, white broadcloth shirts with spread collars, black trousers and shoes completed the ensemble of each wearer.

The “bar-backs” dressed the same, while enjoying none of the adulation accorded the experienced, full bartenders.  A bar-back was the name given the “apprentices” who stocked the bottled beer and soft drink coolers, fetched ice, refilled bar fruit containers, changed the empty beer barrels for fresh ones, and performed other back-up tasks for the talented and often amazingly, acrobatically skilled bartenders.

The above image

represents a "Barback," though

the blue hair is not typical

Daytime bar-backs, however, were placed in a somewhat different caste.  Inasmuch as the day crew did not endure quite the same frenzied pace as that of the night staff; the day man doubled as bartender.  Almost instantly nicknamed “Jack the Bar-back,” better known to his family and friends as Jack Rosnov, he was an experienced bartender, relegated to the lesser status given his short tenure on the job.  Despite his newness, and his age – 25 years old on this fine June day in 1969 -- just a month and a half into the job, Jack enjoyed a kind of special relationship with Leonard.  They were similarly endowed, each having a talent for wit and humor, silliness too, and as such became almost instant friends and confidants.  Jack often seized an opportunity for a short break at this juncture in the early going of the daytime, pre-opening routine, studying the routine, the “dance” that Leonard employed each day with the bottles and the back bar, marveling at the latter’s skill and speed.  

Jack abruptly ended the break and sprang back to life and the appearance of industrious briskness, almost seamlessly, as the big boss, the general manager, the highly regarded “czar” of the Beech Tree and Basswood Inn entered and placed himself at Leonard’s end of the long bar.  Jack had never met the man formally, though he knew this was the magnificently tailored, barbered and elegantly appareled Herbert Oswaldo Cruikshank, the “Oswaldo” an homage, Leonard told Jack on a rare quiet mid-morning as the two chatted aimlessly, to a distant but wealthy relative of Latino descent.  Leonard acknowledged the GM with a slight smile and a nod, while completing the bottle placement exercise.   He next began the daily task of placing a great quantity of lemons and limes in almost militarily aligned formations on the bar, strategically situated on either side of a wooden cutting board upon which he had placed two razor-sharpened, superbly polished knives.  Cruikshank sat silently, posed in a respectful stillness, until Leonard was at last facing forward, ready to begin another daily chore, that of coring lemons for twists, and then slicing the limes that would adorn the margaritas and Cuba libras of drinkers whose elbows would bend and flex throughout the afternoon and evening in growing appreciation.

An image of an angry woman, shown
here to represent Leonard's angry wife whom
we'll meet in another chapter, possibly!

“Leonard,” began Cruikshank, “How are you, today?  Everything going well?”

“I’m fine.  Everything’s OK,” said Leonard with a nod and a broader smile.

Cruikshank asked, “Listen, do you think your wife will come in today?  I mean, do you have any reason to expect that she’ll come here today?”

“Oh, Herbie, good god no.  Hell no.  I sure don’t think so.  She’s got to have learned her lesson by now!”  Leonard spoke confidently, with conviction.  Only one person in Leonard’s sphere of family, friends and acquaintances called him “Lenny.”  To everyone else he was always “Leonard,” the name he obviously preferred.  By contrast, and this took Jack by surprise, Leonard called the feared and revered Mr. Cruikshank, “Herbie.”  

Jack later learned from him that Leonard and “Herbie” were close, truly intimate friends of many years’ standing.  Only Leonard dared call him “Herbie,” and then only when both men thought they were alone, out of earshot of any hotel staff personnel.  Jack’s presence during the conversation was almost surreptitious, though not by design, he being in the darkened barroom and partially concealed by an open cooler door.  Neither of the two speakers glanced his way, and Jack hurriedly finished that portion of his re-stocking duties, and left the bar, retreating to the lower regions of the inn and its commodious storage facilities.   (To be Continued...  Possibly!)

[Special Note:    Please be apprised that the perpetrator -- false modesty eschewed for the moment -- has received his first royalty payments for his Illustrated Children's Book, "An Awful Beautiful Day  (Or...  Me and My Chicken Pox!)".   (Illustrated by sibling, Kris!)  Those avid fans of fine literature may wish to purchase the aforementioned book at its quite reasonable cost.  Please visit...   www.amazon.com ...and key "Joel Kriofske" in the search window o reach the author's entire canon of literary achievements.   Profound and sincere thanks to one and all!] 

Humbly Submitted 08-30-18 -- Joel K.

The Art of Making Great Gobs of Money... Spending It Wisely...!!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    The Art of Making Great Gobs of Money...  Spending It Wisely...!!  

The famous Pier at Cocoa Beach.  Good food, shops,
volleyball, fish, big waves...  swimming, more shops, beer!

I have no idea how to make great gobs of money! It's a concept that's eluded me most of my life.  However, I know a few people who have or still do make great piles of the stuff.  But that's not the point.  This piece is really about taking holidays or vacations affordably, inexpensively...  you know, on the cheap (if and when possible...  sadly, many lack the necessary financial privileges...)!  So I figured the title might be provocative enough to generate some readership...  maybe?!?

The Rocket's Tail...  Up There!...
Above Our Heads!!  

In July of this year, for example, we spent a week in Florider. You know the place... where every other transplant Flaridian from the Eastern Seaboard is wearing a loud, flowery tunic or a moo moo.  On our first full day in the Sunshine (about 90 or more degrees of glorious heat!), we actually witnessed a rocket launch, right from the sandy shores of Cocoa Beach -- not the rocket launching from that beach, but our viewing point of said rocket! -- where SweetHeart's cousin (with siblings!) owns a condominium.  She, a sweet and generous soul, allows us to rent the place quite affordably, for which we are most grateful.  The rocket launch was a thrilling thing to behold.  It departed the earth from Cape Kennedy Space Center, some 15 or so miles north of Cocoa!

I waived stupidly at the thing, as if expecting some lunatic riding on its nose to waive back.  "Give our regards to Jupiter," I hollered fecklessly! SweetHeart took pictures, or was it our Sweet Alie...?!       

The actual rocket that flew on July 5th
launched from Cape Kennedy...
It carried a communications satellite! 

And a couple of days later, we went boating on the Banana River, a 30-mile-long lagoon fed by the Atlantic and other sources.  Captain Quinn was the boat master, a seasoned and well-schooled Skipper who knows where to find manatees and dolphins!  Wonderful day on the water!  Not terribly expensive.  Oh, and he offers a bit of fishing and shell collecting...  beautiful conch shells in the main, collected from a small island! Alie, Tad, Coen, Lucy, SweetHeart and I thoroughly enjoyed the voyage!   

Tug fully restored for quick sale!

"What's that place?" I asked at one point during the cruise.  
"Oh...  that's a boat, barge and tug rehab center," the captain answered.  "They install a huge inflatable balloon-like device under the barge or boat to be rehab'ed, and then they sort of roll it onto the shore of that island we're looking at to begin repairs and rebuilding.  It's quite an amazing technology." 
I responded: "Something akin to what pyramid builders used, I reckon, eh?!" 
"What...?"

SweetHeart and I tend NOT to gravitate to the more obvious, "family" and "child-oriented" touristy destinations. We prefer "Eco-Tour Travel and Eco-Adventures." On one of our visits to Mexico, we learned about the "Sian Kaan Biosphere Reserve!" Extraordinary place! We get bussed to a jumping off point near Tulum, board an open boat and then race across a surprisingly large lagoon. As we approach what looks like land fall, most of us "crew members" are terrified of crashing into said land fall because we aren't slowing...  the pilot does slow eventually and takes us through a serpentine channel into another enormously large lagoon... (Several passengers have near seizures...  gasping...  mumbling...!)

We speed across that lagoon at the same insanely urgent pace, and finally come to a halt at a pier or wharf. We disembark and all of us don life jackets.
"What are we doing here?" I ask.
"We're going for a swim," answers our superb Mexican guide, one "Quetzalcan," also known as "Kukulkán Quetzal." He's a citizen of Mexico, a product of Chilean and Argentinean parentage, a fine-looking and splendidly well-informed individual, a delight in whose company and tutelage we enjoy the entire adventure!

We didn't see those fish...  We might
have if the boat had slowed down!

But I digress...  We then plunge into a smaller body of water. It's steady, modest, a "few kilometers-per-hour" current floats us pleasantly along a narrow and beautiful channel through mangroves, past verdant vegetation.  The entire "float" lasts about half an hour. We swim over at least one manta ray and many tropical fish before coming at last to a wooden pier. We then climb onto the pier connected to a long board walk that leads us through bogs and prairie back to the place at which we first took the plunge! A remarkably fine Eco-Tour, a truly beautiful experience!!

Back on the bus, we motor off to Muyil, site of a well-preserved Mayan ruin, consisting of an  enormous castillo,  temples, dwellings... where we wander about listening to our guide's presentation of the site's history and preservation efforts. And then a traditional Mexican feast at a seaside restaurant follows. In all, a truly magnificent day's outing!!  

In Door County, Wisconsin, a more recent adventure, we witnessed the solar eclipse from

An actual eclipse as seen from special
glasses that enable viewers to see
the spectacle safely! 

Newport State Park. The special glasses were in extremely limited supply, but the "eclipse-niks" with whom we shared the experience were exceptionally thoughtful and generous, each sharing glasses with her or his fellow viewer. And what a sight it was, the eclipse, that is! 

Bethie, Seany, Phi Phi, SweetHeart and I shared an old log cabin in Ephraim, dark interior but welcoming, commodious and comfortable. We swam in the waters of Green Bay at a beach in Sister Bay. The younger travelers kayak'ed and paddle boarded. We biked for 10 miles in Peninsula State Park, to Nicolet Bay Beach and back to the Fish Creek entrance. Oh, and we ate a lot at DC's many fine dining establishments, including Julie's, Wild Tomato, La Puerta and others! (I believe I may have contracted permanent indigestion and breath issues!!)  

Following a brief but beautiful cruise aboard one of the County's fabled passenger and auto ferries -- this trip aboard the Arni J. Richter, I believe! -- Elaine and Jim introduced us to some of the attractions on Washington Island we had previously not experienced -- School House Beach (one of the very best locations for skipping stones!!), the Art and Nature Center, a newly refurbished 100-plus-year-old hotel, the grounds and site of the annual Lavender Festival...  Much more to that island on the other side of Death's Door (or is it actually floating in Death's Door?) than one can imagine.  The ferry ride back to the mainland was equally enchanting, if a bit brisk for some voyagers! 

If there's a point to this piece (What? Finally...?), it's the idea that one can enjoy relatively modest travel adventures to destinations that are affordable and not so far off as to bankrupt the traveler.  Particularly important, delightful and gratifying is travel with one's family members, viewing the sights and sounds through the "fresh eyes" of children and those for whom the experience is brand new, fun-filled and exhilarating. The larger point?  Travel is among the best medicines to maintain healthy Geezerhood!! Dog or cat therapy is another...!! 

Oh! Almost forgot another "must" destination for a great many DC devotees: Wilson's! They have ice cream -- like peppermint stick and "Cookie Doug" -- popcorn too! It's in Ephraim.  Some ice cream consumers fancy flavors such as blue moon and caramel collision, I'm told! (Asked to hold onto cones by certain smaller persons who race to use the area "jungle gym," I find that Blue moon has a tendency to drip and leave stains on a person's white sockies! Stickiness too! I prefer the popcorn!)  

(Special Note of Dedication:    The perpetrator dedicates this posting to his beloved traveling companions...  SweetHeart, Alie, Bethie, Tad, Coen, Seany, Lucy and Phi Phi, Rob and Sue, without whose companionship the aforementioned travel adventures would not be nearly as rewarding, laugh-filled or suffused with delights, discoveries and edification, even!! I once learned about "dirty grids" during a particular travel experience, but that's a subject for another story entirely!  Thank you, and Good Day, Good Night and Happy Traveling!!)    

Humbly Submitted, 08-29-17 -- Joel K.