My Old Man

My old man's a refrigerator repairman, what do you think about that?

He wears a refrigerator repairman's collar, he wears a refrigerator repairman's hat.

He wears a refrigerator repairman's raincoat, he wears refrigerator shoes.

And every Saturday evening, he reads...Playboy.

"My Old Man",  Smother's Brothers, think ethnic!, (1963) 

My old man was actually an engineer, for RCA Victor, for General Dynamics and finally for Xerox. But, I digress...

The American Folk Music Revival era was in full swing when groups like the Smothers Brothers burst on the scene. Like the usual suspects, Dick and Tommy Smothers combined pleasant voices with real talent as musicians. They were also accomplished comedians who used turns of phrase and an imagined dullness on Tom's part to have a bit of fun along the way.

"My Old Man" was a lighthearted combination of satire and tongue-twister. Dick sings the verses of his old man as a "cotton-picking finger-licking chicken plucker" even as Tommy urges good-natured caution. Tommy? Of course, his dad repaired refrigerators...

What does this have to do about anything?

Pat got up from reading a few nights ago to dish out some dessert and discovered water on the floor of the kitchen. A lot of water. It was the refrigerator.

More specifically, it was the ice maker, which was making zero ice. In fact, the fridge was making zero fridge, too. Both fridge and freezer full of food - never remain calm when panic is the order of the evening. We needed to fill the camp coolers with ice... No ice. I got ready to run to the neighborhood Sevvey - no glasses. They were in our new truck, which was in the shop. Yeah, it had been that kind of week.

 So my lovely wife weaved her way through the street folks mingling around at 1030 PM while I loaded the neighbor's freezers and fridge with our most fragile perishables (among other things, our cocktail cherries and Angostura Bitters). We were able to (mostly) get organized and begin troubleshooting.

Do you know how much dog hair, lint and filth can accumulate on the air vents of a fridge in a short 18ish months? Enough that I had to use a vacuum to remove it. Enough that our ailing and infirmed appliance breathed an audible sigh of relief and began fridging again. By morning, it was it's old self - except the ice maker, which apparently has decided to go where ice makers go after they expire.

I called a service tech the following day and told him the symptoms. He said - no kidding - "Clean off the air vents." Apparently I should do this yearly. But, with nary a struggle, we're holding 37F in the fridge, 2.7F in the freezer.

Repeat after me, kids:

"My old man's a refrigerator repairman, what do you think about that?"

Oh... Every Saturday evening I read Clairmont's book review. Just sayin'... 

A Good and Decent Man

 

"When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home." Chief Tecumseh

Noting the passing of Canadian actor Graham Greene.

 It was before dial up...

Pat and I married in the spring of 1992. Technologically speaking, it was the stone age.

Some friends gave us a week in their condo in Steamboat Springs. We did some cooking, we did some touristing and then we decided to watch a relatively new movie called Dances With Wolves. So...

It being the Stone Age, we went to a local VHS rental store, got a small portable player and the movie and sat in front of a small TV in the living room. In 2025 we would have just streamed it down to a laptop, but... No laptop, no wifi, no streaming. A tape, a player and a TV.

The story was about Lieutenant John Dunbar, a Civil War hero who takes a post in the West, to see the frontier, "Before it's gone." Upon arrival, he and his travel companion Timmons ("The foulest man I've ever met") discover that the post is abandoned. Timmons is killed on his return trip to the fort from which they set off. Dunbar is alone, and forgotten. That's when everyone's world changes.

Graham Greene plays a Lakota Sioux tribe's medicine man - Kicking Bird - who is empathetic to the soldier's lonely plight. He and Dunbar build a friendship, two men trying to find meaning in a deeply changing world.

The on-screen relationship works, in large part, because the character Greene crafted is a good and decent man. One can easily make the case that Greene is acting from the heart, that he embodies the many virtues he has imparted in the character he plays. Even primarily speaking a language not his first, he conveys a warmth that makes him the sort you'd like as a friend.

Mr. Greene had many roles over the course of his long career, but Kicking Bird was my favorite. It may be unfair to distill down a person's achievements into just one most meaningful to the observer, but...

Dunbar is trying to ask his new neighbors, over coffee, if they have seen any buffalo. Kicking Bird does not know what that means. A pantomime takes place, with Dunbar mimicking the snorting, stomping creature of the plains. At the moment of revelation, Kicking Bird's face lights up in delight. Two men from vastly different backgrounds and cultures have found their first word in common.

The best acting reveals truth. May he find eternal peace. 

 

We're Going To Be Fine

How do you like [your grits] - regular, creamy or al dente?" Vincent Gambini (Joe Pesci) My Cousin Vinnie (1992)

I'm on X a lot. Yes, it's a maelstrom of vitriol and dyspepsia. Yes, it is a playground for political operatives, bots and fellow-travelers intent on bleating "The world is ending and [my chosen demographic] will suffer the most." It probably says more about me than I care to imagine, but...

I am a small business owner. I have products to sell. It makes it a little hard, self-described as a "romantic suspense freelance writer," to be taken seriously when the June Law Porn is being slung... On second thought, that may be a marketing angle I haven't considered.

But, I digress.

Last night, a conversation (convo on X, if you are saving characters) began about the changes to the Cracker Barrel menu. The politics of the present CEO were discussed, not especially pleasantly. The memes were unforgiving. 

My interest was more about grits. The times I've gone to Cracker Barrel, I've usually ordered eggs and grits. Even for a northern/western boy, good grits are a treat. I entered the fray, saying that I would be miffed if grits disappeared from the menu. Half a dozen likes and comments from others later I went to bed.

Hundreds of likes and dozens of comments greeted me when I woke up this morning. Recipes, recommendations that I make them myself, suggestions about where to get just the right ground hominy. Several people suggested polenta, but according to Google AI:

 No, polenta and grits are not exactly the same, though they are both made from ground corn and have a similar creamy texture when cooked. Polenta is traditionally made from yellow flint corn, while grits are typically made from white dent corn. Polenta is also generally coarser than grits and is more common in Italian cuisine, while grits are a staple in the Southern United States.

Recipes are being exchanged, differences between breakfast and dinner grits discussed. Three separate companies making ground hominy were suggested - several of us ordered some based on the discussion.

 One person commented that I should try Luciles in Denver. We have. I usually order the etouffee, but once had the shrimp and grits (to die for). I reported that and the other person on X wrote, "See?"

Many of the people with whom I've exchanged on the subject of grits reveal in their personal descriptions political inclinations far different than mine. None of that has mattered. Being a Yankee apparently does, but a willingness to listen and learn overcomes even that hurdle.

We're going to be okay. I'm going to order some ground hominy, make myself some eggs and grits for breakfast this weekend and consider myself part of a larger community - the entire grit-eating world.

Cat Paws

 You can't enjoy art or books in a hurry. E. A. Bucchianeri.

I'll say. The master at this has been reading The Heart of the Matter one page at a time for the last two months. Not just one page a day, but one page...periodically.

The reader has gotten past the title page, the acknowledgements and is into the introductory material. Karen is with her training deputy - called FTO or FTI for field training officer/instructor - and they are discussing how her previous years in law enforcement make her different from recruits without experience. Readers who have picked up this book (without reading Out of Ideas) are introduced to who Karen Sorenson is, where she's from and how she finds herself in a sheriff's office patrol car.

And...that's it.

So, you ask - why do I care?

The answer is necessarily mercenary. I get paid by Amazon as a self-publishing freelance writer one of three ways. 

A person purchases a book, either an ebook or a paperback. Assuming they don't return it (which happens) I get a royalty amounting to a little over a $1. They can do whatever they want with the book after that. I prefer they read it, love it and decide they want more, but aside from trying to write compelling stories I don't have much control.

A person who has a Kindle Unlimited subscription can read the book. Every few pages, I get a penny*. Read every page and I get...a little over a dollar.

A person can have an Audible subscription. Listen to a few pages, I get a penny. Most of the books are available on Audible. The AI voice is remarkably good, although some of the things obvious in text take some getting used to as it is read. That is remedied in A Matter of Principle, which will be the first of my novels written specifically with Audible in mind.

Or... Someone leaves their Kindle open to Heart and their cat swipes at the screen occasionally. If so - good kitty! 

 

*Band of Brothers aficionados are now saying, "Got a penny" like George Luz did.

 

Are Ya Good?

 First responders are such an emotional wasteland. Rachel Feinstein, comedian.

Let me first begin by saying she's fine. If she wasn't, I wouldn't be writing this.

In the aftermath of wife Pat taking a spill during a dog walk, she was telling the story of it - the dog zigged, she zagged and in the effort not to fall over the dog she ended up in a heap on someone's front lawn - a friend said, "And Jim went, 'WHAAAAA??!!"

No, Jim didn't.

 Comedian Rachel Feinstein describes going to the hospital to deliver her first baby, with her husband (a New York City firefighter) driving them:

We had to stop so I could get out and puke. He just rolls down the window, leans across the seat and says, "Are ya good?" Are you kidding me....Are ya good? I'm carrying his child and all I get is, "Are ya good?" That's what you say when you're helping someone with a sofa.

  I was distracted at the time by our little Havanese, who paces just before she decides to poop. False alarm, but when I turned Pat was on the lawn of a corner house, looking like this wasn't the initial plan. Jed, our ancient Portuguese Water Dog, stood staring at her with an expression approximately like I must have had.

"What happened?"

See, I can be sensitive and empathetic AF. Rather than laugh, or be dismissive, I asked a question before jumping to a conclusion. She and the dog had disagreed on who was going where, rather than fall on him she'd tried to finesse it and, failing that (more on that later) chose a lawn instead of the sidewalk as a landing spot.

I let her sit for a moment, to collect her thoughts and assess herself. Bruises, maybe. No blood. How about we try to stand? Ah, she was good...

Ultimately, it turned out that she'd wrenched her big toe, which prevented her from staying on her feet but was remedied the next day (not for nothing are chiropractors called "bone poppers"). A bruise here, a scuff there and few ice packs and aspirin later... 

Nothing to get excited about. She's an athletic and robust woman for whom a little stumble isn't the end of the world.

And I didn't even have to roll down the window. 

 

On the Road to '76

 A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Lao Tzu

It was fifty years ago that the late Charles Kuralt, famed CBS reporter and travel writer, began the subset of his famous and award-winning, On the Road series. He referred to it on air as On the Road to '76, and it would become not just one of his most memorable bodies of work but a blueprint for my own journey.

My college roommate and I (not, as you might suspect, over beers) discussed some sort of trip that might interrupt our quest for degrees at Northeastern University, in Boston. Frankly, I don't remember what he was going to do about his trip or if it ever came to pass, but I concluded abruptly, and somewhat carelessly, that I was going to ride a bicycle across the country.

I've written on this subject before (It's the Mileage). What I am remembering today is that fifty years ago a small band of TV chroniclers set off from Massachusetts in a motorhome, on their own personal road to explore America, especially small town America, during the Bicentennial celebration. Ironically, I was at school when that happened.

I followed every segment on the CBS Evening News. While I struggled with fitness goals, accumulated cycling and camping gear and prepared for an incredible unknown, On the Road gave me glimpses into what was ahead. It was often inspirational when the gray winter days of Western NY (and graveyard shift as a security guard at Xerox) made my quest seem unattainable, even idiotic.

They found, as I would a year later, that our country is populated by wonderful, cheerful, helpful people. It is big, bold sometimes and bucolic other times, and delightfully ours. It was then, and remains, a place to love.

So, to Charlie and the gang, happy 50th!  We're on the road to '26. It's been bumpy, sometimes we have to give the whole enterprise a push, but what a hell of a ride.

Happy Birthday, BCB

Bikecopblog turned sixteen last month. There was no cake (or, more appropriately Key Lime pie) nor were there cocktails. The milestone, if you want to call it that, passed with more of an "Oh?" than an "Oh!" I sat down to write a blog about my blog.

And then...

A friend once described this moment as, "Jim is out of words." Ironic, no? A writer who has kept a blog going for more than 16 years, nearly 800 posts (not all published) and 314K hits just...runs out of words?