Glory Days

 

The ballfield was empty and the stands were void of any signs of life.  No scent of hotdogs, no slosh of beer or crunch of chips.  The season was over and silence lay across the stadium.   Black and white photographs in the yearbook reflected a time before age took center stage.  Old students and faded memories now-a-days took walks around the field when weather permitted.  Knees and hips tried hard to keep up. 

It was a different time now.  Many conversations began with the phrase, back in the day… 

“If only”, statements drifted in and out of recollections, while school spirit remained pinned to the wall, next to diplomas signed with unreadable signatures.  Trophies went the way of garage sales and banners, long since faded, marched in synchronized step to landfills. 

Coffee pots took the place of beer kegs, and text messages erased the need for postage.  For most, class reunions were out of the question.  Today it was mahjongg for the women and dealer’s choice for the old men.  Eventually, even the yearbooks fell victim to landfills.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Truth in Life

If there were such a thing, we’d see wanted posters for most politicians.

 

We’d see ethics on the side of milk cartons.

 

We see journalistic integrity on the endangered species list.

 

Greed would not be the cornerstone of our educational institutions.

 

Common sense would not be searched for in an archaeological dig.

 

 Not that I've become cynical. 
  Z. Corwin

 

Prognosticators

 

We have a battery operated weather station sitting on a table in the front room.  It lights up and shows us the current weather conditions, both inside and out.  We tend to keep our inside temperature at 68°, so it is mostly the outside temp that fluctuates.

At the beginning of last week it showed the day was going to be cloudy with light showers and hit a high of 73°.  The thing we’re never sure of is if we are seeing a true indicator of what we can expect or is it the final gasps of a dying battery?  The last bit of energy within these batteries seem to hold very radical predictions of upcoming events.

       They tend to act like they are number 26, in line for a lifeboat that holds 25.  And yet, they are just as accurate as those humans standing out in a hurricane reporting possible sprinkles, then chasing their hat down the street.  Ever since the Weather Channel has allowed the drug companies to consume most of their broadcasting time, I opt to view the moderate to severe predictions of a dying Duracell.

 

 

 

      

 

 

 

 

The Exit

 

Being the last one off of the plane is tedious.  There is a sea of heads and too many elbows crammed together in single file, all waiting for one or two blocking the flow as they struggle getting their baggage out of the overhead compartment.  Bulky, overweight suitcases holding dirty laundry, overpriced trinkets and bad decisions.    

Along the rows and still sitting are the terminally polite, who let others go in front of them.  They are usually the soft-spoken, meek people who are forever apologizing for things out of their control.   Standing almost out of the way, at the exit door, are the corporate smiles of the flight attendants, muttering their gratefulness for choosing their airline.

I, of course, still standing at the end of the line, wonder if I do make it to the bathroom in time, wherever it is in the terminal, will it be closed for cleaning.  It was last time.  Out of the window I can see the ground crew, already connecting the service lines to the plane and tossing baggage onto a string of carts.  Their bright yellow sound-deadening earmuffs and winter coats tell me I’m back.  "Oh joy."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Living room Safari

 

I hiked down to the waterfall

no farther than my sink

My canteen was a Dixie cup

I had myself a drink

 

The wildlife along the trail

was Fluffy-Toes my cat

I had a crooked walking stick

upon my head – a hat

 

My living room safari

will need a break no doubt

while the leader of the village

has me take the garbage out.

 

 

Another Florida Sinkhole

 

Today's Date

 

To the lawyer who sent me the letter stating I have 10 million dollars, and I just need to put in a claim.

If you’ll kindly check your calendar, you’ll see that I wasn’t born yesterday.

I haven't just fallen off a turnip truck, assuming there are trucks specifically designated for turnips. 

My height is proportional to my weight, so there is no need to pull my leg.

If, however, you send me $123.00 for handling and postage, I will forward to you a written statement authorizing you to accept the 10 million on my behalf and spend it however you want.

 

 

Respectfully Yours

 

 Rita Book