When we are born, we are given a name.  We are not in a position to consult on the matter.  We are concentrating on more fundamental issues.  And, most of us have that name the rest of our lives.

I envy those people who step forward and change their name.  I wouldn’t ever do that.  But, wouldn’t it be great to be a Rock or a Brick?  Solid.  I don’t know about Rock Rice.  Maybe Rockland Rice and I could go by Rock.

My birth certificate reads “Jack Paul Rice.”  Then there’s an addendum that says “Paul Jack Rice.”  Hand written on the addendum after the word “Jack” is the word “son.”  If I were the oldest child, I would wonder about my legitimacy (not that that matters anymore).  I decided that the answer is that you don’t wake a mother up after child birth and ask for a name.

It had been decided that I would be called Jack.  And that worked out reasonably well.  There was a time in Kindergarten when upperclassmen (1st and 2nd graders) would tease me at recess with chants of “Jacky Rice eats mice.”  Except for a couple bloody noses, I survived those episodes.

Until I got to college, very few people even knew my name was Paul Jackson Rice.  In college, a number of my friends called me “PJ.”  I liked that.  It wasn’t Rock, but it had a friendly ring.  “Hey PJ, what’s happening.”  I didn’t hang around with a very intellectual group.  We were mostly jocks and we concentrated on living up to our image.

It wasn’t until I got in the military that my name became a nuisance.  The Army had what they called a signature block.  First name, middle initial, last name.  There was no variance.  “Sarge, what about “P. J. Rice?”  “What, you don’t have a first name?”  So for all 28 years of my military career, I was Paul J. Rice.

When I joined the Army, you could read my signature.  But over the years, it flattened out.  The “Paul” is still somewhat legible, but the “J” has folded into the “l” in “Paul,” and the rest has ended up in a straight line.  I am not proud of this, but what are you going to do?

When I was the Commandant of the JAG School from 1985 to 1988, I signed over 10,000 diplomas and not one of them is readable.  A few hundred of them were for master of laws degrees and probably are hanging on someone’s wall.  A visitor may ask, “Whose signature is that?”  And the degree holder will say, “Beats the hell out of me.”

The only advantage in not using your first name is when the telephone rings and a friendly voice on the other end says, “Paul, how are you?”  You know immediately that the person doesn’t know you and is probably trying to sell you something.

When I retired from the Army, I became Chief Counsel at the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration.  The Administrator was named Jerry Curry and our director of government affairs was Jamie Fish.  The Agency was being run by Curry, Fish and Rice.

At NHTSA, I was permitted to change my signature block to whatever I wanted.  “P. Jackson Rice” did nothing for me.  I finally decided on Paul Jackson Rice.  The good new was that I didn’t have to change my signature.  I just made the straight line a little longer.  Since I am a stickler for details, I want you to know that even though you could not see the “i” in “Rice,” I always dotted it.
 

I quit drinking coffee about 30 years ago.  I don’t think I ever really liked coffee.  It was just a right of passage.  When you grow up, you get to drink coffee.  Since I didn’t like the taste, I used to heap sugar in the cup.  Two or three teaspoons of sugar and it tasted OK, but they had to be heaping teaspoons.

Well, I was at a Rotary meeting in Junction City, Kansas.  It was time to get some coffee so we could stay awake during the speaker.  I asked a retired general sitting across from me if he would like a cup.  For the next five minutes, I was regaled with his story about how coffee made his hand shake.  He quit drinking coffee and his hand stopped shaking.  You just got the short, less dramatic, version.  The story made quite an impact on me.  In fact, I was having trouble heaping sugar into my cup because my hand was shaking.

I know that none of this makes sense, but there it is.  Was I just reacting to a thought that had been embedded in my thick skull?  I just don’t know.  And, of course, when I stopped drinking coffee, my hand stopped shaking.  So no more coffee.  That meant I could never be the lead character in a fictional crime novel.

So, just like that, I became a tea drinker.  Some of my friends said, “But, tea has caffeine too.”  It didn’t matter because my hand no longer shook.

The good news, from a health standpoint, was that I was getting rid of those 9-15 heaping spoons full of sugar.  I could artificially sweeten my tea and be perfectly happy.

My choice back then was the pink stuff (Sweet’n Low) or the blue stuff (Equal).  I was disturbed by the label on the pink stuff.  All those lab rats  getting cancer from overdosing on saccharin.  And Sweet’n Low contained saccharin.  I didn’t know if they were feeding it to the rats or shooting it between their toes, but it was still disturbing.  The main reason I selected Equal was that the pink stuff had a sickly sweet taste.  I’m big on sweet, but not sickly sweet.

For years, I just drank Lipton tea.  It consists of black tea, orange pekoe and had become a friend.  When I would go into an upscale restaurant and ask for hot tea, the waiter would appear at the table with a large mahogany box and flip it open with a flair.  I would look inside but see nothing that looked familiar.  I used to ask if they had Lipton tea (later I would ask for orange pekoe).  The waiter would look insulted and I would become indignant.  Then, Carole would grab my leg and all would become calm.  I would pick out some celestial herbal crap and smile.

Now, Splenda is everwhere.  So my choice for sweetener is pink, blue or yellow.  I felt like Goldilocks in the house of the three bears.  This one it too sweet; this one is not sweet enough; and this one is just right.

When I am fixing my tea at home and trying to tear open the sweetener, it still spills all over the counter.  But it has nothing to do with a shaking hand.  I’m just sloppy.

In a surprising change of events, it appears that Brett Farve will play this Sunday against the New England Patriots.  Earlier it had been announced that Brett had fractured his left ankle in the game against Green Bay.  If Brett did not start, his 291-game starting streak would come to an end.

It was determined by the NFL Commissioner, Roger Goodell, that a halt to the streak would not be in the best interest of the National Football League.  Consequently, Goodell is implementing the “walker” rule for Farve.  This means that he will be able to have the assistance of a walker while he is on the field.  Goodell stated, “Many elderly people use walkers and they are generally accepted in our society.”  Goodell explained that Farve using a walker also has its disadvantages.  First, Farve will not be able to take snaps under the center.  And, the center will have to snap the ball higher so that it travels over the walker.

Viking coach, Brad Childress, recognizes that a walker might get busted.  “It’s a violent game.”  So he has a number of backup walkers ready to go just in case.  Goodell added that it will be a penalty for any defensive player to specifically target the walker.  That will constitute an unsportsmanlike conduct penalty and cost the defense 15 yards and an automatic first down.

Farve says he is good with the new rules.  It has been rumored that he has already emailed a picture of his walker to Jenn Sterger.  Farve said that he had texted her, but that he had not sent a picture. Sterger has an attorney and will not comment.

Farve thanked Commissioner Goodell for the new rule.  Farve said it was important that he keep playing because an idle mind is the Devil’s workshop.

If you live to be seventy and you don’t have any quirks, you might want to check your pulse.  You may be dead.  I’m sitting here in my green visor thinking about another quirk I have.  I like to buy pens.  No, not expensive pens.  If you are going to be quirky, make sure your quirks are reasonably inexpensive.

Consequently, I have lots of pens.  I have boxes of pens.  Many that I have purchased worked well at the store, but not so good at home.  After about a week, they end up in a box.  You can’t throw away a one-week old pen.  After about a year, I go through the box and pitch them.

My quest is to find the perfect writing instrument.  I went through fountain pens, ball points, porous points and finally locked on to roller balls.  At this moment, I am wild about gel roller balls.  The Cross pen with a gel roller ball refill is superb.  But, the pen costs $30 to $50 and has the ability to hide itself.

I used to have one Cross pen with a fine porous point tip.  But it was always disappearing.  Many times it would be hiding in the couch.  Searching the car for a lost pen is great sport.  Even if you don’t find the pen, you may find coins, combs or a fingernail file.  It’s better than a scavenger hunt.  And, many times I would find a number of pens.  “Welcome back.  You go in the box.”

I probably buy two to three pens a month.  Always on the quest.  Presently, I’m partial to Sanford Uniball pens.  And, Sanford seems to know it.  Each time I go into an Office Depot, Staples or PX,  Sanford has something new for me (or, they have repackaged something old).  “Hi, I’m Jack and I’m a compulsive pen buyer.”  “Hi Jack.”

Some pens write better on certain paper than others.  Sometimes a fine point is best.  But, most of the time bold is better.  The disadvantage with bold is when you put it in your pants pocket uncapped.  This happens to me frequently.  This has led to another quest – seeking the perfect stain remover.  My wife encourages me to wear dark trousers.  Retractable pens are not the answer.  You don’t have to cap them, but you do have to retract them.

What happens when you buy a pen you really thought your were going to like, but you don’t?  And, it came in a package of eight.  Now you have seven new pens you can’t even put in a box.  I try to give them away or leave them in places where other people will find them.  One lady stopped me to advise that I had forgotten my pen.  I thanked her, but I wanted to tell her to mind her own business.

I spend a disproportionate amount of time just wondering where certain pens are.  I have particular places on each level of the house where I place them, but they find other places to hide.  When I was working in DC, I could go through all of my suits (pants pockets, coat pockets) searching.  That was exciting.  But now that I am retired, I seldom where a suit.  My most recent purchase (with very high hopes) has vanished.  I’ll be back, I’m going to look in the car.  Well, I’m back.  I didn’t find that pen, but I found another.  Unfortunately, it’s one of the eight I have been trying to get rid of.

You may think I am wasteful buying pens I don’t use.  But I feel like I am helping the economy.  And, it gets me out of the house.

I am having trouble keeping up with this computer driven world.  Credit cards have been around long enough that I couldn’t conceive how they could become a problem.  Not for old conservative Ish.  By using a credit card, I don’t have to carry around a lot of cash.  Then, pay them off each month and I’m golden.  NOT. 

I started hearing late last year that some of the players on my high school baseball team wanted to hold a reunion.  We are talking about the 1950’s.  And, it happened.  On Saturday, April 24, 2010, East Side High baseball players from 1954, 55, 56 and 57 met at the Collinsville Recreation Center to regale each other with long dormant memories.  I counted about 18 players.  No, we didn’t chose up sides.  Nobody even brought a ball or a glove.  But a scrapbook or two jogged a few memories.  After 55 years, the stories definitely get better.  The reunion was low key, but great. 

We stayed in O’Fallon, Illinois with Carole’s mom.  On Friday, I ducked out the back of the apartment complex to visit Schnucks Market.  I bought a gallon of milk and four “D” batteries.  I paid with my Visa card.  All went smoothly.  Why wouldn’t it?  The next day I slipped over to Schnucks for a bucket of chicken and my Visa card was denied!  I ran it through four times before the clerk explained that the machine recognized the card, but it was being denied.  That is so embarrassing.  You feel like everyone in the store has stopped what they are doing and are staring at you.  I whipped out a wad of twenties, displaying as much cash as I could and paid for the chicken. 

As soon as the chicken was sequestered, I called Visa.  Eventually, after convincing them that I was the card holder, they advised me that their records indicated fraud or a stolen card.  I assured them I had the card.  We went over our purchases for the last three days.  They were mundane charges that  one makes when traveling from Virginia to Illinois.  What is suspicious about eating at Cracker Barrel? 

The Visa representative had no authority to reactivate my card.  I’m 650 miles from home and some computer, which is unhappy with my travels, has shut down my card.  I was transferred to Visa Security.  After again identifying myself to their satisfaction and going over my recent transactions, they agreed to reactivate my card.  I was further told that I needed to contact the Pentagon Federal Credit Union (my Visa carrier) and let them know I was traveling.  And, in the future, contact them before I leave the state.  Otherwise, the sophisticated computer system  will track me down and shut me down. 

I called PFCU.  The woman wanted my PIN number.  I do have a PIN number.  It is in a ledger back in Springfield, Virginia.  She advised me that there was another way to identify me.  It consisted of a series of computer generated questions that only I (the true card holder) would be able to answer.  I answered two of the first three correctly.  Not good enough.  The computer generated questions had a better memory that I had.  I didn’t do as well on the next three questions.  I only got one right.  Finally after answering the first two questions correctly, she asked me to identify the state in which Sandy Rice was living.  I passed.  This permitted me to tell them that I was traveling and would be for a couple more days.  I presume this information was fed into the security computer so it wouldn’t get excited when I charged a motel bill in Beckley, West Virginia.  

So our next trip is at the end of the month.  I will have to call PFCU and tell them where we are going to be and on what days.  What I want to know is who is working for whom?  This crosses my mind every time a check out clerk is explaining to me what I need to do to process my credit card through the machine.  Didn’t they used to do that for us? 

On my next trip, I am now fearful I will have car trouble and be late getting to the Kentucky State line.          

In the Army, you never stay anywhere very long.  You receive orders, perhaps move to a post and are assigned to quarters.  And, that is your “temporary home.”  Sorry Carrie.  You might plant flowers.  But as for trees or shrubs, what’s there is what you get.

Our first permanent assignment (which means more than six months) was Fort Hood, Texas.  After waiting almost a year, we were assigned to quarters on Newton Court, right across from the Officers Club.  After spending three years in law school in a cramped apartment, this house seemed enormous.  The dining room was large enough to play ping pong.  We didn’t have any dining room furniture, so we bought a ping pong table.

The yard had lots of vegetation.  The back border of our yard consisted of pomegranate bushes – ten to twelve.  The fruit was so bitter that you couldn’t eat it.  But, at the left front corner of the house was a kumquat tree.   The fruit from that tree tasted like nectar for the gods.  I would lose myself under that tree, picking, peeling and devouring the precious fruit.  The next and last year in those quarters resulted in no fruit.  A late frost wiped out the buds.  I have bought kumquats, but they never tasted as sweet as the ones hanging from that tree.

In 1990, I retired from the Army and we bought a not-so-temporary home.  We have lived in it for the last twenty years.  At the corner where the driveway meets the sidewalk to our front door, we have a crepe myrtle tree.  The first thing we noticed was that the pinkish red blooms were enormous.  Some were almost as large as a soccer ball.  We looked around the neighborhood and found that there were bigger crepe myrtles.  There were also more robust crepe myrtles, but none had blooms as large as ours.  We hoped this would not lead to bloom envy.

Our pride was dashed with the first good thunderstorm.  Many of the branches were broken and most of the rest of the tree was practically on the ground.  As soon as it stopped raining, I rushed out and cut off the broken branches and shook the other blooms to remove the weight of the water.  I ended up with petals all over me.  Next, I tied up the remaining branches like they were public enemy # 1.   This kept the tree upright, but with the next storm, many of the branches snapped.

The tree became an obsession of ours.  Rope, rope and more rope.  Carole observed that Fort Myer had a large number of crepe myrtles and each winter they would cut them off at about two feet.  So we did that for a few years.  Each year the tree grew about the same height, with the same enormous blooms and the same wet weather results.  I bought more rope.

One year, we had an extremely severe winter and lost some shrubs.  I thought the crepe myrtle was toast.  Crepe myrtles get started late in the spring.  I didn’t realize that and since everything else was green, I figured our crepe myrtle had croaked.  I cut it all the way to the ground.  I am telling you it did not look alive.

By June, it was shooting out of the ground like a weed.  It wasn’t quite as tall as previous years, but it still had its beautiful over sized blooms.  I had to use a lighter weight rope that year.

About three years ago, Carole came up with an article in Southern Living entitled, “Stop! Don’t Chop!”  It gave a blow by blow accounting of how to cut and shape your crepe myrtle.  The article gave credit to a brochure from the Spartanburg Men’s Garden Club.  You probably were wondering what the Spartanburg men were doing when it wasn’t NASCAR season.  Well, they are trimming their crepe myrtles.

Anyway,  I’m into my third season of following their advice.  But I still had to deal with these gynormous blooms.  As things will happen, all the stars lined up a year ago.  Just as the blooms were at their peak (and before a storm),  we were having stone edging  placed around the house.  Tom Hardy, our landscaper, looked at the crepe myrtle and said, “You know, you need to remove some of those blooms off of the branches or you will have trouble when it rains.”   Duh!

He pointed at a branch with three large blooms and said I should cut off one or two.  There it was, the answer I had never considered.  It never crossed my feeble mind to whack off some of the blooms.  It was truly hard to do, at first.  But, it worked.  I may have had one branch snap last year, but that is real progress.

I actually put on my calendar for the first of February to trim the crepe myrtle.  Well, it is still waiting to be trimmed.  I couldn’t get to it in February because of the damn snow.  There is still time.

 

We arrived home on February 5th from our two week Panama Canal cruise.  We ducked in right before the second monstrous snow storm wiped out Washington, D.C.  It wasn’t easy, but we made it home, picked up our dog and were protected against whatever Mother Nature wanted to throw at us.

We sat at the kitchen table and stared at two weeks of mail.  It was well over a foot high.  Then it struck me.  It might be interesting to see what kind of mail one received over a two- week hiatus.  I knew it wasn’t going to be exciting, but it might be interesting.

Carole starts by sorting the mail.  She takes out the bills and her stuff (coupons and magazines) and I get the rest.  Weight wise, I get 90% of the mail.  Quality wise – 3%.

I noted that on February 1st, we received our Christmas card from Carrie (the Weird) Baker.  This was really early for her.  I hoped everything was OK.  Usually the card arrives so late, you are not sure whether it’s late or early.  We won’t be able to complain to Carrie about our snow, because she lives in Rapid City, South Dakota.

At Fort Riley, I was a member (and for what seemed forever, the miserable Secretary) of the Ancient and Honorable Order of Lion Tamers (AHOLT).  This gaggle had no social redeeming value.  But each year, we took a picture of ourselves and the miserable Secretary mailed it out to all previous members as our Christmas card.  We made great effort to mail it out before St. Patrick’s Day.

I was convinced that I would have more credit card solicitations than anything else.  I was wrong.  I only had two.  I guess they have given up on me.  The big winner was charitable solicitations.  If I ever gave a buck to a charitable organization, it never forgot me.  In fact, the Alzheimer’s Association sends me something every month.  I guess they figure if I’m concerned about Alzheimer’s, maybe I won’t remember that I have already given.

Right behind charitable solicitations are political solicitations.  In weak moments, I have contributed to both political parties  Consequently, I have made both of their mailing lists.  Do you know what?  I think the same people write the material for both parties.  “The other party (be it Dems or Reps) is part of an evil plot to destroy our country.”  The only way I can save the Free World is to send money.  It is really tough carrying this awesome responsibility.

Then there’s the mail where they want to sell you stuff.  A store closing sale.  Cars at bargain prices.  Membership at the Smithsonian.  Insurance solicitations.  Oh yes, let’s not forget lawn care.  I haven’t seen my lawn in three months.

I received two letters from brokers who want to take Carole and me to dinner.  Isn’t that nice?  We don’t even know them and they want to take us to dinner.  Maybe they are lonely.  I’m torn, but not that torn.

Golf Magazine wants me to renew my subscription.  What they don’t realize is that each year I go to the D.C. Golf Expo out by Dulles Airport and, as part of the entrance fee (which is quite low), I get a year’s free subscription to Golf Magazine.  There is a slight glitch this year.  It was to be held on the 5th, 6th and 7th of February when nobody could get out of their driveway.  The Golf Expo was snowed out.  But if it ain’t free, I don’t want it.

As I am wrapping up this list, I want to mention that I received three golf brochures from Myrtle Beach.  I am convinced that there are only two types of people at Myrtle Beach, golfers and those who mail out golf brochures.  I wonder if they could include a free subscription to Golf Magazine.

Now the US Postal Service is talking about not delivering on Saturday because they lost billions last year.  That would mean that I would have to wait the entire weekend to get my Alzheimer’s’ solicitation.  By Monday, I may not remember whether I have already donated.

If you would have asked me last fall about winters in Washington, DC, I would have told you that they really aren’t bad.  My theory, while not scientific (or even accurate) is that the Blue Ridge Mountains seem to break up whatever is coming at us.  Heavy snows seem to go to our North.  Then, I would mention that I bought a snow blower about five years ago and never used it the first three years.  This year, all hell broke loose.

Carole and I are planners.  So we started planning our Christmas party in February 2009.  For any number of years, we had a party every year.  Then, about ten years back, we went to every other year.  In February 2009, we hadn’t had a party in five years and to my surprise, Carole wanted to have another party.  We sat down and made a list of what needed to be done each month.    For example, outdoor lights needed to go up in October.  All indoor decorations had to be completed by November so that Carole could start cooking in December.  Cooking is a major project.  I actually had the tree up and decorated before Thanksgiving.

The party is always the Saturday before Christmas.  So, December 19th was the day.  We invited over 100 people.  We are like the airlines, we overbook.  But through the years, we have acquired so many dear friends that it is hard to know where to stop.  There’s military friends and Carole’s crew of volunteers from the Fort Myer Thrift Shop.  There’s the neighbors and the Arent Foxers.  And, of course, my golf buddies.  We figured somewhere between 60 and 70 would come.  To our surprise, about 85 RSVP’d that they were coming.  I began moving furniture around so that there would be room for three more bodies here and four over there.  On Thursday night, I grilled five marinated flank steaks.  That morning, we picked up a 12 pound Honey Baked ham.

On Friday night, the snow started falling and by noon on Saturday, we had about 14 inches.  The entire area was paralyzed.  For your information, DC can’t handle two inches of snow.  Schools are shut down when there is a hint of snow in the forecast.  I told Carole that at least the storm didn’t leave us in doubt.  Our daughter, Missy, flew in on Friday for the party and Christmas.  That gave us something to be thankful for.  So, did we have a party?  You bet.  We had those invited neighbors who could walk come over.  There were about 15 of us and we had plenty to eat and drink and eat and drink.

We didn’t have room in the refrigerator for all the left overs.  But, with the cold weather, we filled up the garage.  Did I mention the 22 pound turkey we were thawing out for Christmas eve?  Even though we had food everywhere, Carole decided to fix the bird for us and Missy’s family (Terry and the two kids, Tyler and Kristin, came in on Tuesday).  It was probably the right decision because what were the two of us going to do with a 22 pound bird?  Also, Carole likes left over turkey.

Well, the marinated flank steaks were to die for and we ate them every other day (the other days we had ham).  Christmas is especially good with family around.

Late in January, we flew to San Diego for a two week cruise through the Panama Canal.  I will tell you about the cruise another day.  We were to arrive at Fort Lauderdale on Friday, February 5th.  Our return flights took us through Charlotte and into Dulles International arriving at 9:00 PM.

During the cruise, the CNN picked up by the ship was the international version.  This was really great if you wanted to know the weather in Helsinki or who won the latest cricket match.  So it wasn’t until we arrived at Fort Lauderdale and CNN transitioned to the US version that we found out that DC was getting ready for another snow of the decade.  How depressing.  Neither of us even wanted to eat breakfast.  While we were unaware, our flight had been canceled the night before.  United notified us on our home phone.

Well, we scooted out to the airport and checked out our options.  Our first good omen came when we noticed that our overweight bags couldn’t be weighed because the scale at our counter was broken.  There were two earlier flights to DC.  There was one leaving very shortly to Charlotte and then to Dulles arriving at 3:00 PM.  The other was a direct flight  to Reagan that would get us in at 2:00 PM   Our car was at a Fairfield Inn out by Dulles, but we weren’t willing to roll the dice in Charlotte.  We opted for the direct flight to Reagan and were actually on the ground at 2:00 PM.  Home at 2:30 and had picked up our dog, Nikki, from the kennel by 4:30.  Then, we hunkered down for 20 more inches.

We didn’t see a snow plow until late Monday afternoon.  But, with two good size snow blowers and a lot of good neighbor spirit, we cleared driveways and the street on Sunday.  Then, on Monday, my neighbor, Jim Vancini and I drove out to Dulles and dug out my other car.  That’s right, no garage.  Jim found some jumper cables and we were in business.  The battery in my new Infiniti could not believe I had left it out in the snow for two and a half weeks.  I guess they don’t go camping over in Japan.  I was thinking, if I had purchased a Lexus, it might have taken off by itself. 

So, we got the cars tucked away and here comes the three-pete blizzard of this winter.  Tuesday and Wednesday, we had white-out conditions with snow and wind whipping around at 35 mph.  So, so much for the Blue Ridge Mountain theory.  The weatherman was explaining some sort of circular motion up in the air between land and sea that was causing us to be wiped out.  I have decided that global warming is a bunch of crap.  Hey, Al Gore, go home and turn out some lights and leave the rest of us alone.

Bill Grenard is a high school friend.  That would not seem unusual until you realize that after graduation, we both moved away and didn’t see each other until our 50th high school reunion.  In fact, we didn’t hang around much in high school because he was a brainy kid and I was a jock.  About the only thing we had in common was being math wizards.

Well, as you do at reunions, we spent some time catching each other up on what had happened in the last 50 years and found that we had quite a bit in common.  We have kept in touch over the last three plus years.

Shortly before Christmas, he told me that rather than have family members provide him with traditional gifts, he was asking them to write twenty or so questions.  These are not questions to be answered.  He got the idea from a book by Padgett Powell entitled, “The Interogative Mood: a Novel?.”  The book is made up entirely of questions.  He provided me with examples from the book and then provided some questions from him.  I told him I would send him twenty questions for Christmas.

Below, you will find some of Powell’s questions, some of Bill’s questions and my Christmas gift to Bill.  If this inspires you to comment with twenty or so questions, great.  If you decide it is a stupid idea and pass, I will understand.

I liked Bill’s questions better that Powell’s.  And, to no one’s surprise, I liked my questions best of all!

Some of Powell’s questions: 

Do you do yard sales?  Are you happy with your teeth?  Do you in general trust or mistrust earnestness?  Do you attend parades?  Do you gamble?  Do you like pull candy?  Have you any weapons on you at the moment?  Would you buy a pearl choker?  Are you important?  Do you have any skin disabilities such as eczema or psoriasis?  Can you envision saying seriously to someone, “You just holler for help, and I’ll come arunnin’ “?  Do you like to use terms like “triangulation” and “extrapolation” when not speaking mathematically?  Are you bold, would you say?  Can you count in languages other than your mother tongue?  Would you like for your life to be more, or less, dangerous than it is?  Have you ever experienced any sort of hernia?

Is baseball all it’s cracked up to be? Do people stink, mostly?  Is there life on other planets, or after death on this one, as it were?  Do you like stalling for time?  Can you lob a grenade accurately, would you think?  Are there interstices in your character?  Is it hard for you to resist the demands of whiny people?  Have you ever wound an armature for an electric motor?  Do you know precisely what a chilblain is?  Do you bite your tongue or grind your teeth at night?  Have you ever witnessed any credible sign of ghosts?

(I think that is enough.  As I said, I thought Bill’s questions were better.)

Some of Bill Grenard’s questions:

Do you think that the older a person is, the better judgment they have, or does each person exhibit about the same level of good or poor judgment throughout the adult life?  What does the word deuteronomy mean?  Do you think people who live in a hilly area are in general more mentally unsettled than those that live in a flat area?  Have you ever used the word “morsel” conversationally?

Seeing that the latest mountain bikes have 24 or 27 speeds; do you think this is just about right, overkill, or would 48 or 54 speeds be even better?  Do you find that you take pleasure in the successes of underlings, but successes of your peers make you feel bad, at least for a brief time?  Would you rather have a parakeet or a turtle for a pet?  What would change you mind on that?  Would you rather be a cross-country truck driver or a cross-country bus driver?

Do you think there is, in aggregate, a greater amount of talented, high-quality TV programming now that we have 600 channels than when we had just a dozen or so?  Doesn’t it seem that Eeyore is clinically depressed and Pooh is suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s?  How much do TV sets playing in grocery stores enhance your shopping experience?  If you think that people living in hilly areas are more unstable mentally, do you think it is because mentally unstable people tend to move to hilly areas, or is it just that living in a hilly area provides a dimension of variability that people in flat areas don’t experience and that makes them a little less stable?  If you lived in a flat area and wanted to ride around the neighborhood, how many speed would you want on you bicycle?

If you think people have about the same level of judgment throughout their life, should we lower the minimum age for President to 21?  Do you feel that people are subjected to more distractions, say ten or fifteen years ago, and if you do, how do you square this with reports that productivity has continuously increased over the time period?  Do you feel that if the Eeyore character had been a regular on Mr. Rogers, the show would have been much too depressing for small children to watch, or would the children who watched it have just turned out to be very quiet and sort of whiny?

My Christmas present questions:  (You will notice that I write shorter questions and don’t go through the folly of deciding what constitutes a paragraph.)

Is Chap Stick a necessity?  How does my dog always know what time it is?  When are the Vietnam veterans going to be welcomed home?  Why do the American people believe candidates who make outrageous promises and then ignore the fact when they don’t keep them?  Can you dress for success on a nudist beach?  Is a stitch in time better that receiving a penny for you thoughts?  Is Tiger making his own decisions or is he receiving wise counsel and ignoring it?  Why is it difficult for people to admit that they like fruit cake?  Is golf a game or a sickness?  What’s so great about a White Christmas?  What ever happened to Pong?  Why did the lower enlisted man in financial trouble have a color TV, when I couldn’t afford one?  Who are the Jones anyway?  Would there be more or less strife in the world if everyone spoke the same language?  Why should anyone select the  cartoon character Snoopy to be their hero?  Is chess a game or a sickness?  Is there any reality in a reality TV show?  If there is water on the Moon, will the cheese go bad?  Why do they make tooth paste containers so that you can’t get the last of the tooth paste?  Would Yo-Yo Mah be such a memorable cellist if his name were Joe Schwartz?

I guess every young boy has vivid memories of his dad.  I remember my dad climbing up a large Sycamore tree in our front yard.  There weren’t special boots or safety ropes back then.  Or, if there were, he didn’t use them.  He just climbed from limb to limb until he was way up there.  I think he trimmed some dead branches and then, he scurried down.  I was fascinated.  I thought Dad could do anything.

I also thought he was indestructible.  When I was four or five, my dad was laying on the living room floor wrestling with my brother, Bill, and me.  Bill was three years older and putting up most of the fight.  I would dive in and Dad would toss me away and continue wrestling with Bill.  After several unsuccessful ventures, I looked around and saw our set of encyclopedias.  I pulled out the letter “M” book, sneeked behind Dad and whacked him over the head.  Playtime was over.  He might have been able to handle the letter “F” book, but there were too many words that started with “M.”  I didn’t knock him out, but I definitely hurt him.  He couldn’t understand why I hit him.  And, I couldn’t tell him that I didn’t think it would hurt him.  It was a tough lesson

One of the things I loved to do was watch Dad shave.  When he would come home from work, he would usually shave before dinner.  Shaving then isn’t like it is today.  Then, it was an elaborate procedure which started with stropping the straight razor.  Back and forth he would draw the razor over the razor strap.  Then, there was the shaving soap and the shaving brush.  No cans back then.  He would lather up the brush and cover his beard with soap.  Then, he would carefully bring the razor to his face and shave away.  Knicks were commonplace back then, but Dad was good and seldom drew blood.  I suspect Dad was performing for me and he definitely had an enraptured audience of one.

Later, Dad brought home a Rolls Razor, made in England.  The container looked like an oversize sardine can.  Inside the container was a razor that could be sharpened inside its metal box.  He would open one side, lift up the handle and slide the blade back and forth against the bottom of the container.  The bottom was a red leather strap.  The handle would slide back and forth on tracks.  Or, he could seal it up, flip it over and then the bottom was a gray honing stone.  It took ten to 15 minutes just to sharpen the nickel plated blade.  Shaving then followed the same ritual – shaving soap – shaving brush – strokes over the face and knicks.

Some time in the late Forties, Gillette came out with its Super Speed twist-to-open model.  When the blade was no longer sharp, you threw it away and put in a new blade.  The dawning of a new era.  While I no longer watched enraptured (I already knew he wasn’t indestructible), Dad kept me informed regarding each improvement.  I still wasn’t shaving, but it was great to see how everything worked.

In 1950, Gillette came out with the Blue Blade.  It was stainless steel and seemed to be the consummate safety razor.  Dad very seldom cut himself.  I started shaving in the 50’s and learned it wasn’t as easy as it looked.

I should probably say that there were other companies out there making good safety razors, but Gillette, in my mind, was a family tradition.  Even after I left home, Dad and I would discuss the latest shaving technology.  Trac II came out in 1971 with two blades.  We liked it.  In 1977, the Atra came out with a swivel head.  We liked it.  Let’s face it.  We were easy.  After shaving with a straight razor, Dad was fascinated with each improvement.

Whenever I hear about a straight razor, I think about the story my Uncle Bob would tell.  When he was young, he would get his hair cut at a barber school.  Barber students who were learning how to cut hair would practice on brave souls like Uncle Bob.  The price was great, but not necessarily the results.  Anyway, this young student was starting to shave around Bob’s ears.  A teacher walked up and said, “If you ever feel the razor slipping in your hand, don’t grab for it or you’ll cut his ear off.”  I told Uncle Bob, if I ever saw him looking lopsided, I would know what happened.

By the time the Gillette Sensor came out in 1990, with its spring-loaded blades, Dad was in his late seventies and not focusing much.  Sometimes he remembered and sometimes he didn’t.  I wish I would have mentioned shaving to him.  I’ll bet that would have all come back to him.

Dad was gone when the Sensor 3 came out in 1995.  I bought it and guess what?  I liked it.  I have purchased every new razor Gillette has brought out.  But, I’m about ready to stop.  First, I have a terrible time buying the right blades for my Gillette Fusion Power.  I have brought home the wrong blades twice.  I have thought about tattooing “FUSION POWER”  on my knuckles, but what happens when the new model comes out.  Then, I still have my old Mach 3 Turbo!  Fortunately all of my mis- purchased blades work in my Turbo.  I think I like the Mach 3 Turbo better.  It doesn’t vibrate, but at my age, that’s probably good.

At Christmas time in 2005, I bought my son the latest Gillette model.  I was disappointed when he wasn’t excited about it.  It was dumb on my part.  He didn’t know the history and quite frankly, even the throw aways today probably do a pretty good job.  I guess you had to watch the Old Man use the straight razor to be wildly impressed.