Last Minute Christmas

   Celebrating Christmas this year would be paying tribute to a tradition, nothing more. The pandemic, or as I like to say, the damnpemic, has made life unbearable for many.  I had no reason to celebrate this tragic year. I would prefer it fade or disappear without any recognition that it even existed.

     Visiting my few friends was not something I’d done for months. My one hold-out routine was weekly grocery shopping, and even that wasn’t necessary since they could be delivered to my door. My stubbornness wouldn’t relinquish all of my freedoms. So, I chose to pick out fruits, vegetables, and assorted meats as my remaining rebellious act to thumb my nose at the virus.

     Every year a gang of kids would play ball in the empty lot next to my house. I would often sit on my porch grilling hot dogs, which I shared with them as I watched until darkness sent them home. The gang called me Mister B. The B stands for baseball. I gave them all the bats and balls I stored in the garage for my grandkids. They hadn’t been used in years since my son and his family moved away. This year in 2020 there was no baseball next door, thanks to the damnpemic. I missed watching the games and the antics of the young boys and girls. It reminded me of my younger days.

     December 23rd, and there was no Christmas tree at my house. No holiday decorations of any kind. I guess I should change my name to Scrooge. The neighbor's decorated houses, like this was their last chance for celebration. I knew most of them, but we didn’t socialize even in good times. I turned in early as always. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, but there would be no celebration for me. 

     I woke early on the 24^th and stepped out the front door the get the newspaper. I was old school, no Internet news for me. What I found was a fully decorated Christmas tree with baseball card ornaments. The cards were not of professional players but the neighborhood kids, each with a handwritten Christmas message. On the porch next to the tree, I found a wrapped present from the kids. A package of hot dogs, buns, and cracker jacks with a note. “Merry Christmas, Mister B”

     I laughed out loud, “Time to fire up the grill.”

The Man in Red

Somewhere at a university in France, there’s a picture of me posted on a wall. I was sought after and eventually found. I didn’t resist.

* * * 

     Let me start at the beginning. We had just arrived in Boudreaux and decided to walk around the city ending up in a plaza. It was Friday, and people filled the streets enjoying the pleasant weather and fun activities.

     There were four of us from the States, anxious to experience the French heritage and world-renown French wines. It was easy to be mesmerized by the atmosphere as we wandered through the square. I walked ahead of our group taking in the sights. My wife, her sister, and my cousin stood back observing the activities.

     As I stood watching a parade, a pretty young college girl came over to me, tapped me on the shoulder, and spoke to me in French. It’s truly is a romantic language. It could be one of the only languages where they are telling you to buzz off and you would just smile and say, Merci.

     Why would this beautiful young girl want to speak to me? I’m in my mid-sixties and she looked to be twenty-ish. I had no answer but I couldn’t keep from smiling. 

     I turned toward her expecting to say, “Parlez vous Anglais?” I had practiced the phrase in case I came across a situation like this. I wanted to be a courteous and respectful tourist, but instead, I said, “Do you speak English?” What a disappointment. Three little French words and I blew it. 

     Without any hesitation, the young girl switched from French to English faster than I could say, “Wow.”

     The young French beauty said. “We’re on a scavenger hunt and need a picture of a man wearing a red shirt. “Can you help us?”  The shirt I wore that day was Ferrari Red and it even had a racing stripe. “Well, certainly,” I responded. Why wouldn’t I want my picture taken with a French supermodel?

     She immediately walked over to her college friends and brought back a tall young man to stand next to me as she took a photo of us. Not quite what I expected but still a memorable experience. It was a good plan to send the stunning young girl to ask a favor from a stranger.

     Standing a fair distance behind me was my wife, cousin and his wife puzzled, but not surprised, that I had stumbled into an interesting scenario. Why? Well, because I always do, I don’t know why it’s just the way it is.

     After the co-ed took the picture she thanked me, kissed me on the cheek, and hugged me. No! That’s only in my mind. In reality, Miss Universe simply said, “Thank you.”

     The goddess and her young troupe of college students moved on to find the next item on the list for the scavenger hunt. I stood, satisfied that this was another unexpected experience. 

     My cousin Tom walked up and said, “Do you still have your wallet?”

Unsolicited Advice

There seems to be a lot of smart people in this world, but I’m not sure if I’m one. On Facebook I am constantly given advice about politics, Covid 19, guns, racism, lives that matter, sexuality and other topics that I apparently need guidance on. 

     I guess I should say thanks, even though I never asked for any advice. I’m sure people are just trying to help me live a better life and since they know the answers to all the important questions it would be unfair to exclude me from that information.

    If I’m to be honest, I prefer reading interesting stories, post about fixing things, vacation photos, jokes/cartoons, old memories, but maybe that’s shows how shallow I am. It’s not that I’m unaware of these hot topics or have opinions on them, but my life does not revolve around them. 

     There are many food pictures on Facebook. People share their morning meal, lunch sandwich or dinner entree. I’ve never been a big fan of these, but if I have to choose between looking at your dinners entree and a gun post, show me the meal. “Just Saying. . . “

Free Wine

There’s a little known government program that provides one bottle of wine each month to retirees on social security. The program is called Wine Therapy Forever (WTF). Most people are unaware of this unique benefit. 

     It’s not activated automatically. You must sign-up for it. Simply call the governors office to initiate WTF. It’s important to be persistent since many people won’t be familiar with the program. 

     Here’s the conversation I had when I first signed up.

     “Hello, I’d like to speak with someone about WTF.”

     I could hear the frustrated sigh from lady on the phone before she spoke. “That’s rude. Can you just give me more details on the issue?” 

     “I’m retired and I’d like to sign up for WTF.”

     “Sir there’s no need to become hostile.”

     I scratched my head. “Sorry, I just want my wine.”

     “You’re not the first whiner today.” She informed me. “What’s the problem?”

     “I want to be on the list.”

     She laughed. “Oh! You’re definitely on my list.”

     “So, when will I get the first shipment? I prefer red.”

     She sounded like a bull snarling before the charge. “Red, like the color of my face right now.”

     “I can’t be 100% sure, but okay let’s go with that.”

     “Good to know. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

     “Yes, just screw tops please. My fingers don’t work like they used to.”

     “You can’t see, but my finger is working overtime.” The irritation in her voice was prevalent.

     “Thanks, have a nice day.” She didn’t answer. I heard the line go dead. She’s probably rushing off to place my order. 

     That was three weeks ago and still no wine, maybe I should call back, but this time I’ll ask for the governor. I mean if anyone knows WTF I’m sure it’s him.