"You're Perfect, Honey!"

Memoirs of a Geezer!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    "You're Perfect, Honey..."

If I understood the architecture of pedestals...  for example, "plinths" and "dado's" (if those are correct terms!), I'd erect one and put her up there, along with other immortals previously cast in stone, plaster or bronze.  Maybe a slightly wobbly one, as none of us is perfect, with the possible exception of her children.  At least that's the modifier she ascribed to them continuously, constantly throughout her lifetime.

Gigi (given name,
Virginia) in her
favorite pose.

With all the mountains and landfills of stuff and detritus that's available on the Internet, one wonders if included is a survey on how our society, in general, regards fathers-in-law and...  more particularly, those oft maligned but entirely memorable MOTHERS-in-law.  Mine was an absolute treasure among the troves of them, past and present.  She left some years ago, but left us with delightful stories and recollections.

As a young suitor to her only daughter among four children, I was nervous; I was shy.  On one of the very first encounters with the family, I came to call, knocked on a screen door, the primary door having stood wide open.  "Hello," I called.  "Anybody home...  hello!"  

"Honey, say, 'Say Beep' "!  It was her voice, a bit raspy, the voice of an older woman, a fun-loving sprite.  

"What?" I quizzed, bewildered, a bit more nervous that I had been a moment ago.  

"Say, 'Say BEEP,' honey!"  

"Um...  Beep," I echoed, tentatively.  At which point I heard people "beeping" all over the house.  I sort of "got the idea," eventually.  I met brother John in a closet.  Brother Jimmy was under a bed.  I met brother Bob in the bathtub, just standing in the tub, not bathing!  "Good lord," I said inside my spinning brain, "What the hell kind of goofy family is this?"  

We all stood around chatting, laughing.  At some point I heard, "This isn't fair.  No one's found

Gigi (at left) with her sister,
Lilian, always referred to
as "Sister"...  as "Original
Auntie" by the rest of us.  

me yet!  I can't stay in here when all of you are having fun!"  It was the soon-to-be mother-in-law.  She was hiding but hadn't as yet been found.  I then went into the basement, as directed, to find the father in his workshop.  "Say Beep," I said stupidly.  

"I don't play ' Beep'," he said loudly, angrily, glaring at me as if I were a feckless home invader with a skull full of defective or dead brain cells.  I went back upstairs and announced, "He doesn't play 'Beep'," amid consuming laughter.  Having planned it, the family enjoyed my discomfort.  

Friends and family members called her "Gigi" (the "i"- sound short, pronounced as in the word, "rig").  My mother-in-law was a funny woman, and she was great fun, full of adages and platitudes, many voiced at entirely inappropriate moments.  For example, my wife and I were seated at her kitchen table discussing family matters or children, something mundane.  At some point Gigi announced, "To thine own self be true, Honey!"  My wife and I stared at one another, and then at her.  I said, "And now, back to the conversation."  Her comment was completely out of context.  She seemed not to care.  

At another point on that same occasion, Gigi asked her daughter, "Honey (her favorite term of endearment!), how long have you been with me?"  

We'd better explain!  This is a
cartoon image of an exemplary
Mother-in-Law on a pedestal...
used here for symbolic purposes.

"What..." I said.  "Is she a valued employee, soon due for a gold watch?!"  Gigi laughed heartily.  She could laugh at herself, a rare gift, and indicative of a rich sense of humor, perhaps a richer "sense of silly."

She knew her own mind.  (We were glad somebody did!)  My wife's brother, Bob, was over at the family home one evening when my wife and I were visiting as well.  He was a Milwaukee policeman and about to go on duty.  Bob's assignment on that occasion was to guard a prisoner.  Gigi said to him, "Honey, Mumma's going to pack you a nice lunch -- a picnic! -- for you and the prisoner.  I'll make some nice sandwiches; I'll wrap them up pretty with chips and cookies and napkins, maybe something to drink.  Won't that be nummers, Honey?  You and the prisoner will have such a nice lunch together."

Bob was becoming agitated.  "Mother!  I'm not taking a picnic lunch to a prisoner, a hardened criminal...  He could be a bank robber or a murderer.  I won't share a picnic lunch with some felonious jail bird!"  

She ignored him.  "And I'll put in some nice fruit.  Do you think your prisoner likes apples or oranges, Honey?  Should I pack in some nice cloth napkins, gingham?"  Bob's ears grew purple with frustration.  His eyes grew wide and his scalp moved back an inch or two, something his rubbery face and head did when he became truly annoyed.  He objected vigorously.  She pressed on.  He eventually walked out carrying a full basket of food that included gingham napkins, and lots of "nice" cookies for the prisoner.

Gigi enjoyed Manhattan cocktails daily, after 4PM.  She taught her grandchildren how to make them using the family's preferred brands of whiskey and sweet vermouth.  "Now put your finger in and stir twice.  Then carry the glasses in to us...  just look straight ahead when you carry, Honey, and you won't spill."

Gigi always made her Perfect
children smile!  That's her
Perfect daughter
(pictured above...)

She objected to marriage vows that "pledged" an unequal balance of power to the man.  She was a feminist, an exemplary mother and grandmother, loving, generous, honest, always a powerful advocate for her "perfect" children, and grandkids, too, of course.  She had 10 of the latter, and shared her time and her love with them equally, and with remarkable generosity. 

Wonderfully idiosyncratic, she was a terrific cook and baker, but seemed always to guard her best dishes and baked goods.  She'd hold back certain ingredients and measures when divulging her recipes, a bit maddening to those who requested them.  When my wife would ask a simple, single question, for example...  "how much flour?"  Gigi would answer, "Now Honey, go to the market and look for the baking aisle, then try to find Hodgson's Unbleached Pre-Sifted..."  

"Mother, please, for pity sake, I only asked how much flour, not a guided tour of the grocer's baking section..."  Her mother would then continue to provide a full set of instructions, from starting the car, buckling up, which market to patronize...  The amount of flour would forever remain a mystery.  Gigi took the secrets of her best recipes to the grave!

It's been more than 20 years since she left us, but we continue to tell her stories and cherish her memory and her extraordinary gift for making us laugh and giving us joy.  In my geezerhood, I hope I can be a fraction as good a father-in-law (father and grandfather too!) as she was a glorious and memorable mother-in-law...  mother and grandmother too.  And, oh yeah, try to remember, Honey's, "A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss!"  (She'd insert that nice little platitude into her conversation constantly, though it never actually fit the context!)  

Humbly Submitted 04-15-15 -- Joel K.

         



                     

   

Fashion Backward... or, A Losing Battle with Stuff Sartorial!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    Fashion Backward...  (or) A Losing Battle with Stuff Sartorial!

Over the seas of time, my beloved lifelong partner, best friend, wisest constructive critic and dearest companion -- my wife, "Sweetheart" -- has tried her best to "garanimalize" me.  That is, to change me into someone (whom she tries valiantly to make...) aware of conflicting patterns and inoffensive color combinations (with apologies to the people whose apparel matching system helped children dress themselves!). 

High Fashion and Color
Coordination at
its Zenith!  A Salute to
"Dressing for Success"!  

In the beginning was the worst, and the worst was made flash(y)... (apologies, this time, to biblical scholars and purists).  When I began to court my wife -- that was sometime in the early 70's when fashion had all but disappeared from the planet -- I had little or no imagination regarding apparel choices.  For work, I wore the same suit of clothing every Monday, every Tuesday, etc.  Sweetheart regarded as somewhat inoffensive only my "Friday ensemble." It consisted of a sort of herring bone light colored jacket, brown trousers, a white shirt and a "nubby" brown tie, all of it reasonably well color matched by me (for reasons I cannot fathom!!).

When the time came to meet her family, the entire family, she scheduled a dinner event for a Friday evening, perhaps believing, or hoping, that I would be suitably attired!  When I arrived at her front door, she exclaimed, "What happened to your Friday suit?!"  (You see, my white shirt and nubby brown tie were soiled.)

The "Lions" Tie
must have been
inadvertently
discarded, but
illustrations are
always desirable!
And Sweetheart
is fond of froggies!

"Is there something wrong with this ensemble?" I asked, innocently.  I was wearing the standard, Friday jacket and slacks, but my shirt was a collision of off-white, apricot and powder blue.  The tie was brown with gold lions stalking up and down its length.  Poor Sweetheart!  She groaned aloud.  (I think the tie actually snarled at her!) 

After a long moment during which she eyed me up and down with a certain degree of disdain...  "Oh well," she finally said, punctuated by a heavy sigh, "You may as well come in and meet my sisters-in-law and some of my cousins."  As our courtship continued and our relationship grew stronger, more committed, on the very first of my birthdays during that era, she bought me a most attractive suit of clothes, an entire outfit -- jacket, slacks, shirt and tie -- all of it magnificently matched and coordinated!  From that point onward, I was transformed!   

I think it's only right to add some historical perspective.  My father wore shirts of plaid and trousers of stripes.  He

Above is a fairly accurate
depiction of the plaid
and striped patterns my
father often chose!

dressed for practicality and comfort.  My mother often turned him around, insisting she and he return to his closet to re-dress her grievances!  When my father entered my sister's home, and her care, much later in his life, his apparel choices were similarly overruled, and his daily ensembles nicely put together by a caring daughter.   save.

One of my own daughters and her husband prefer a burn barrel for designer clothing.  Their apparel choices are eclectic, with a predilection for thrift shops.  On balance, though, I must say they are both always nicely turned out.  Our other daughter and her husband will even run half-marathons in designer labels and name-brand ensembles!  We're all individuals, with individualized tastes, styles and budgetary concerns ...or lack thereof... 

The above is an illustration of
a "Sergeant / General" in full
military regalia!  ...um...  just in
case the concept of military
"uniform" is unfamiliar to some!

In terms of what to wear, I look back with some nostalgic longing to my days in the military.  One could hardly mismatch a uniform; that is, unless one wished to court trouble via an "Article 15" or worse.  ( I knew a GI who walked around the base wearing nothing but his service tie and cap.  He wanted out of the military in the worst way.  He succeeded, receiving the worst kind of discharge for his effort!)  As for "mufti," I would merely look at the clothing choices of my fellow GI's and try to emulate their examples, sometimes with effective results, more often failing to comprehend fashion, choosing motley instead!  One of my pals in the military, Dennis V., was always magnificently attired during off-duty time.  I marveled at how he did it on military pay!  I concluded he was either a thief or independently wealthy.  

Suddenly, It Was Now Again!

An illustrative
effort to capture one's
intense dislike of the flood
of fashion catalogs that
arrive, unwanted, in one's mail.
(See para. at right please!)

Today, happily, nicely ensconced in GeezerHood, I have Sweetheart, my personal fashion consultant.  Most often, therefore, I leave the confines of my own home in outfits that will embarrass neither she nor me, nor my children.  At this point in their lives, I don't think the grandchildren would care one way or the other.  It won't be long, however...  Hmmm...  Will they ultimately choose the fashion plate or Melmac?  

I applaud those who seem to possess a natural flair for dressing themselves stylishly, whether from the best shops or from the bin.  As for me, I'll never "have a clue," and will thus follow the lead of "She with the Good Eye."  Fortunately, I haven't had to shop for and select my own clothing choices for more than 40 years, so I seem to be on a safe sartorial pathway!

I often wonder if those of us who despise malls and retail fashion stores and "cute little shoppes" come to our positions genetically.  Or is it a learned aversion?  But look here...  If you want me, I'll be in the backyard burning fashion clothing catalogs that arrive unwanted in the mails.  Gee, could it be that the burn barrel is my fashion statement of choice!?  

Humbly Submitted 03-18-15 -- Joel K.       

     

        

        



    

  

"DIY" and the Single-Minded, Slightly but Not Always Competent Geezer!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    "DIY" and the Single-Minded, Slightly but Not Always Competent Geezer!

Pictured above is an image
of a menacing bird that
stared at me while I patched
a hole in a soffit...  Musta
been its nest??!!

Periodically -- and I suppose many are so afflicted! -- I tour our "estate" to determine possibly urgent maintenance needs!  (Drat the confounded curse of responsibility...  it's like a "plague of conscience"??!!)  And then what happens??!!...  

...Suddenly, last summer...  I decided both the upper front porch railing and the upper rear deck and railing system demanded attention, that is, scraping and removing old material and applying new primer and a finished coat of paint.  I also heeded the advice of my wife and attempted to repair a gaping hole in a soffit (fascia, too!) above the upper front porch.  "Must'a been those darn birds!" I opined upon acknowledging the great, gaping mess in the upper regions of the structure.  (A gaggle of birds kept staring at me menacingly as I worked!)    

Aging geezer that I am, I nearly fell off the ladder four or five times.  "We should move to a condo that hires people to do that kind of work," my wise and protective wife almost demanded.  

"We'll look into that," I replied.  "I agree it's an excellent thought.  I'm too old to be working on a ladder for several hours on end...  I could get dizzy and plummet to the earth!  Worse...  the concrete!"  As of this writing, we haven't changed lodgings!  But we're looking into it...

Idiotic though it may seem for a barely competent DO-IT-YOURSELF'er, I have long felt I could accomplish many different tasks best left to professionals.  In one instance in the mid-1990's, I attempted to repair an aging Chevrolet.  After my "repairs," and the removal of

I didn't actually fall off
the ladder, this time...
But I teetered and
wobbled a lot!  Whew!!...

several pieces of "extraneous" hardware, some silly "needless" wires too, the air conditioning never worked again, the windscreen wipers bumped into one another and mechanical difficulties appeared one after another until finally the automobile expired.  When I attempted to change the "glow plugs" on a Volkswagen "Rabbit," we eventually had to "shoot the thing and put it out of its misery," as one of our wiser acquaintances observed.  (She was fond of metaphors!...  or is it  anthropomorphism??)

I have had some successes, however!  I replaced a faucet system for my dear friend, Steve, and his family.  Although I had to use several innovative fastening devices to anchor the thing to the sink.  The faucet sat a bit higher than Missus would have liked!  I rebuilt the threshold at our back door.  Didn't do too bad a job, either.  It just wobbles a little...  And, I've done concrete repairs around the periphery of our 118-year-old homestead.  It may not be pretty, but it seems functional.  I think!...  

Illustration above is how
one feels one appears
trying to schlep a 3-ton
refrigerator (beer usage only)!

My brother, by contrast, is a DIY genius -- builder, electrician, engineer, designer, plumber...  He can do, build and fix anything...  Big jerk!!  When he married and left home for good, that is, left the old nuclear family home of our youth, my father began to telephone me every second day or so to fix things.  He must have thought my brother and me interchangeable parts!  What a disappointment for the old fellow.  I have a great friend, Tom G., who is also a DIY expert.  He can do all that stuff, too.  Why is that?  Is it in the genes?  (Ach!)  Can't be!  My father only picked up a hammer to chase vermin out of mother's tomatoes!  

I seriously lacked the manual arts competence of my older brother.  I allowed an ancient, seemingly 3-ton refrigerator to crash through a basement wall, for example.  "Boy genius," my father labeled me, sarcasm dripping acidly from his words...  But that's a story for another time...  (Well...  maybe just a taste -- a friend and I tried to "hoik" it into the back of an open convertible.  We eventually tied the dolly holding the accursed "ice box" to the back of the automobile and hauled it like a trailer for five or six miles...)

Although I almost always did my parents' bidding, and tried to do my best even when the task was utterly ridiculous, even into my own advancing age.  I stuffed steel wool into imaginary holes in the eaves, for example, where my father was certain squirrels were gaining access to his attic.  We used live traps to capture the invading "tree rodents" and then drove them -- at his command -- from Wauwatosa to Mequon for release "into the wilds," as he'd say.  When another squirrel invaded his attic, he'd pull a face, contortedly quizzical, and ask, "How the hell did that damn beast find its way back here from Mequon?"  I'm sure he was joking...  Wasn't he??  Eventually, we engaged a kind of exterminator who discovered the actual point of entry.  The squirrel invasion ceased.

"Hey Pops!  You look a bit thick!
You got squirrels in your attic,
maybe?...  Tee Hee...  Snicker!..."

I suppose it's a kind of conditioning.  Pavlovian stuff!  My mother insisted I could fix anything she asked me to repair, build anything...  I put up a Christmas tree on one occasion and somehow managed to cause a power saw to gnaw its way into a paint-striped, newly replaced base board!  (The thing is, I fashioned a make-shift stand, but failed to consider placing the stand in water!!  I tried sawing the stand to accommodate the size of the water bucket; vibrations sent ornaments sailing, crashing...  Such a fuss; maybe they were heirlooms!)  My mother returned to the scene from shopping.  "Is the tree up?" she asked, walking into the living room.  "Oh," she exclaimed, in shock but outwardly calm.  "Can you fix that?"  Never quite a perfect repair, she placed a large chair nearby to conceal the scar!

For Maintenance,  Don't
Call This Guy!!  

As a probably deleterious result of all that "encouragement," I can't help myself.  I keep trying to fix things I shouldn't go near!  It's a curse, I suppose.  Just this past week, I snaked out a "choking" bathroom sink drain.  I discovered the "head" of the snake peeking out of the sink in an adjacent bathroom.  "How the hell did that happen?" I exclaimed.  (Sigh!)  The clogged sink eventually drained.  Divine intervention, maybe!!??

I can't imagine a major shift in my foolish DIY compulsion.  Call it cheapness, maybe it's quixotic, perhaps just the absurd notion that eventually I'll miraculously acquire a level of expertise from all those previous attempts!?  Ridiculous!...  And then there's the specter of aging limbs and their eventual worsening condition that'll force the end of my DIY fervor!  I'll post my medical and surgical history, charts, X-Rays...  just FYI!!  If you need me, I'll be upstairs plunging something...  or hammering...!  (Keep emergency numbers handy at all times!!)  

Humbly posted 02-16-15 -- Joel K.

    

     

         

  

    

Death of Eyeball to Eyeball Intimacy in the Techno-Age!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

Special Note:  The following is a Guest Post submitted by

the usual author's Lifelong Partner and Beloved Spouse!  

This Episode:    The Apparent Death of Eyeball-to-Eyeball Intimacy in the Techno-Age! 

(Thanks to Joel, my partner geezer in crime, for the use of his blog -- providing me with a forum for my complaint.)

I realize that I too am a geezer.  But I try not to be a technophobe.  I text, use Facebook (though not often, I must admit), help my friend to navigate her digital converter...  I use a smart phone from which I check my e-mail, get directions, send pictures...  You get the idea -- I’m not completely anti-technology.

I know that we have all witnessed four or five individuals having lunch or coffee who are not conversing but have their heads bent over their phones -- texting, playing games, reading books and whatever else they do -- but certainly not talking to one another.

But I recently noticed some things that are driving me nearly mad!  Today, for example, I saw a woman sitting with boy who was maybe six or seven years old at a local coffee shop.  She may have been the mom but more likely, I think, the caregiver.  As they settled in, she immediately began playing video games on her smart phone.  They sat like that for 30 minutes or so, she with eyes on her phone, he (to his credit) playing some sort of game with his fingers.  Video game over...  and she said, "time to go home."

Similarly, in the summer, at the same coffee shop, a mother was sitting with her child sipping coffee and chatting with her friend.  Her child was watching a little bird with great interest, and finally said, “Mommy, mommy, it’s a birdie -- look look a birdie.”  Without missing a beat, she tapped on her smart phone, brought up a child’s video and slid it over to the child.  She never stopped talking to her friend, never looked at the bird and never acknowledged her child.  The child quietly began to play the video game and became oblivious to her surroundings.  How sad.

Pictured above is my favorite
bewildered geezer wondering if his
Flippy Phone is smart!

Today, happy to use technology, I began the process of booking a hotel.  By the time I was almost finished, the price went from $120 to $150.  I showed it to Joel who promptly called the hotel.  He chatted with the reservations agent and after a while, they were both laughing.  When Joel finished the price was $110.  There is no substitute for plain old fashioned verbal  communication.

I guess I’m saying that technology is a good thing, in many respects.  And I’m sure many of us have used the “one-eyed babysitter” on occasion.  But it saddens me when we opt out of genuine people connections if favor of our gadgets

Okay, Okay.  I’m a geezer.  But that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Text me and let me know what you think.

Mary

Humbly Submitted 02-11-15 -- for Mary K.

Dreams: A Strange and Wondrous Landscape!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    Dreams -- A Strange and Wondrous Landscape...

Dreams!  Strange and mystical.  Sometimes haunting.  Odd plunges into deep wells of unconsciousness and fantasy.  In this time of advanced age (or Geezerhood, if you like) in which I now find myself, dreams have become more and more bizarre.  I remember them upon waking, something that was not always the case in my younger years.  Although frequent inebriation and the "delicate condition" of early mornings may have impeded memory in those decades past!  

Now in this autumnal time of life, my dreams have become even more peculiar, some downright ridiculous.  Allow me, please, to elucidate, via the following example...

To illustrate the standard dress of
a typical English barrister...
Rumpole of the Bailey!

I'm driving along in a 1940s-vintage Jaguar Sports Roadster.  It has huge rounded fenders and a split windscreen, slanted on either side and divided by a grooved strip of chromed metal.  With me are two other chaps.  We're all dressed as English barristers, black broadcloth jackets and waistcoats, a gold watch chain draped along the midsection, black and grey striped trousers, a derby or homburg-style hat perched on each of our heads.

The Tailor!

    We're traveling at considerable speed.  I realize something's wrong as I cannot see the roadway properly; I'm seated too low and can view only the top portions of trees, roofs of parked vehicles as we whizz past.  I'm concerned we'll strike something.  Suddenly, one of the companion barristers says in a voice raised in anger, "This is disgraceful; here we are traversing a pleasant lane and one spies a hideous barn!  Just look at that!  Stop!  Let me out!"  

Ancient kitchen
chair...  Pictured
in tailor shop!

    He exits the roadster, crosses the road and knocks at the wood paneled door of a red-brick building devoid of windows.  A man answers and my companion, the barrister, announces with indignation, "This is appalling!"  He enters and slams the door. 

The third barrister remains mute.  Now having parked at the side of the road, soon I'm walking along and carrying an antique wooden kitchen chair.  It has a rounded seat with curved back supports.  Quite soon I enter a tailor's shop.  I state to the three tailors in the shop, in my best faux English accent, "Gentlemen.  I cannot see properly through the windscreen of my roadster!"  I show them the chair.

One of the tailors looks up and says, "Let me just measure your trousers, sir."  I comply, and the tailor fusses with the cuffs of my English barrister trousers, using a flat piece of marking chalk.  "There we are, sir, right as rain," the tailor proclaims proudly.  

Illustrative image of a
man wearing
Striped Trousers!

"I shall return, then," I say in reply.  "I must advise you, though, I share these trousers with another gentleman.  What are your hours of operation?"  

"We're open Monday through Friday, sir," the tailor replies.

"But today is Saturday," I say.

"Monday through Friday, sir.  Trousers done in just a tick.  Right as rain, sir.  Next, please!"

I depart, carrying with me the antique kitchen chair.  I cross the lane to the red-brick building into which my companion barrister disappeared earlier.  I knock loudly on the wood paneled door.  Suddenly I wake, possibly roused by the imagined loud knocking!

Begging your indulgence, I wish to describe another odd dream, this one a recurring adventure!  In the dream, my dear and lifelong friend...  we'll call him Patrick...  telephones to insist that we play a round of golf.  I dislike golf, but I agree to meet him at a links location that remains unidentifiable in the

This image is intended to depict
"Patrick" as he and I prepare to
play backwards golf!...  also, "Plus
Fours" golf apparel!  (The bird
is probably extraneous...)

recurring dream.  Patrick wisely suggests -- to avoid an enormous crush of golf enthusiasts, comprising a great many groups of foursomes all wearing plus fours -- that we play backwards, teeing off from the greens and then putting on the tees.  I agree, as it all seems quite sensible in the dream.

We select our drivers and tee off from the first green into a throng of oncoming golfers.  As one of a foursome approaches us, he announces angrily to Patrick, "Sir, this is not on.  One simply cannot tee off from a green into a group of unprotected players!"

"Be quiet and move aside," admonishes Patrick, "you're obscuring the landing point of my superb tee shot!"

"Scoundrel...  man must be mad!" says the offended golfer vehemently, but softly, so as not to provoke violence, or so I suppose within the dream.  (I often wonder if other dreamers muse or suppose inside a dream, locked in deep slumber!)

At some point in our round of golf, we find ourselves in the basement of a home on the periphery of the 18th fairway.  We've sought and been granted permission to play our golf balls from the aforementioned basement, through a window the homeowner has graciously opened.  We both select mashie niblicks.  (Inappropriate, perhaps, for "pitching" but nonetheless our clubs of choice.)  We both then successfully hit our balls onto a tee, where we proceed to putt for par.  (We use a beer can for putting.  It's an empty Blatz can, and we use it repeatedly throughout!)

Image of a Blatz Beer
Can into which we
aim our Putts!

 

After completing the round of golf, we decide to avail ourselves of potables at the club's "19th Hole" clubhouse.  We both order "905" Beer, and quaff hungrily, terribly thirsty after our vigorous round of 18 holes.  The bartender says, "Good day for it, eh?  You the chaps playing backwards?  Terribly clever!  Fifty-cents each, please!"  I awake as the beverage host smacks our bottles of chilled "905" beer soundly upon the bar!

One day I'll discuss the dream with Patrick.  Perhaps at some point in our  past we actually played a round of backwards golf.  Although I can't imagine why, as I dislike golf.

Above, below and to the right
are images of dreams.  I reason these
might require explanatory copy!

I know I dreamed as a youth, though I do not recall any dream of great significance.  I engaged in somnambulism as well.  My dear departed mother once told me I scratched on her bedroom door, and when she opened it at approximately 3:00 in the morning, I spat a mouthful of water upon her face and nightdress.  Later in life, my brother told me mother worried about my penchant for strong drink and its possible effect upon erratic deportment!  Alas, the foibles and follies of youth...  and dreams unremembered!

Mustn't grumble.  My dreams in "geezerhood" are quite entertaining, as I think about and relate them to my nearest and dearest.  Though some are skeptical about the veracity of my English Barrister dream and its authentic and well-remembered dialogue (though needn't be!), I suppose I hope for some sort of interpretation.  I cannot imagine what either of the aforementioned dreams might be construed to mean, if indeed they'd betray any sense of meaning to competent dream interpreters.  (I knew a potato peeler -- known as "Menominee Mary,"working at a saloon my family frequented, who was a remarkably talented interpreter of dreams.  She's long dead, but once told my father that he'd soon be taking a trip, after he'd related to her a frightening dream, something having to do with a freight train racing through his bedroom.  Verily, and soon afterward he actually went on a trip!  Although I should add, on balance, my father was constantly taking trips...) 

In conclusion, I must say I enjoy dreams --when having them, and, doubly, when actually remembering them -- particularly those in which I'm flying without the benefit of aircraft.  I don't enjoy those in which I'm being pursued by gunmen or commies or unruly gangs or scaly creatures with big teeth!  Happily the latter do not usually dominate my dreamscape.  Well, I'm off now for my afternoon slumber.  Getting on in years, you know.  Pleasant dreams!  

[ Post Script:    A Simple Quiz -- (Answer carefully; there may be more than one correct answer!)  Which of the following do you believe is a true, recurring dream:  1.)  I wake myself by asking someone to pass something...  e.g.  "Please pass the sausages!?"  2.)   I receive a telephone call from Barbara Walters (I call her "Babsy"...  we're jolly good chums!) to announce that I've been named the most fascinating person of the year!  3.)  I hit ("spike," "kill") volleyballs in my sleep, arm and hand actually flailing wildly...!  (Poor Sweetheart!) ]     

(Special Note of Attribution and Gratitude:   The perpetrator of this Blog extends enormous thanks to his great friends, Pat and Joey, Pat for inspiring this "edition," focused on "Dreams," and Joey for appreciating and encouraging the shared senses of humor and the ridiculous that P.T. and the perpetrator have enjoyed for more years than we'd care to admit.  Alternatively, sincere apologies to both for incriminating you in this latest bit of foolishness!)  

 Humbly Submitted 01-01-15 -- Joel K.