We’ll try not to strain our voices shouting about June’s reads. Book 1: A Daughter’s a Daughter by Mary Westmacott This first book was a quick read. And disturbing, as it was about a mother and daughter who shared an ugly, life-changing jealousy. So why shout? … because the novel was written by Agatha Christie under the nom de plume* of Mary Westmacott. Even though I knew ahead of time there wouldn’t be a murder to solve, it was all…
Why would I dream about taking just one bite of a sandwich? And a Reuben sandwich at that! Farmer Gary is not a fan of rhetorical questions. He just shrugged in response. I so rarely remember my dreams that it was hard to let this one go. Until yesterday, neither Gary nor I had ever tasted a Reuben sandwich. He’s a fan of sauerkraut, but served with pork. Ham hocks and sauerkraut were a treat growing up, he tells me….
You’d think they could come up with another word: It’s bad enough that AARP emails us daily with new ways to pull tendons and cramp muscles, now the app for our generator is getting into the act, bragging about its activity. But I’m getting ahead of myself … A month or so ago, Farmer Gary made the following proclamation: “This house has a poltergeist.” It had been a lively couple of days: Luckily, the company that installed our whole-house generator…
Summer arrived this week with all the sticky humidity it is famous for here in the Ohio River Valley. That’s what you call “air you can wear.” Paul Emmick, a former meteorologist with The Weather Channel, charmed the nation with that phrase. And that voice. I met Paul in 1982 or so, when he was a high-school intern at the radio and cable TV station where I worked in the news department. He was training to fill in on the…
When Dad retired in the late 1980s, he was determined to collect and read more books than his career had allowed. After sorting through ads for book clubs and societies, he decided Folio Society was a good match for him (and Mom). And so, six years ago, we inherited about 450 volumes, mostly classics. Since then, we’ve doubled the size of the collection. I try to read at least two Folios each month, but decided since May is the month…
Earlier this spring, I came upon an article that reveled in the fact that for a few weeks each March, musician Gary Numan is older than actor Gary Oldman. When I mentioned this phenomenon to Farmer Gary, he regaled me (for about the millionth time) with his theory of the name Gary. Because he thinks about this a lot. He’s convinced that all Garys on this earth are in their late sixties and early seventies. And he’s concerned. He worries…
This month’s reads had something in common: habits. From a nun’s attire to questionable grammar to a drunken bet, the stories made me appreciate all the more this habit of reading books. Book 1: Maigret Sets A Trap by Georges Simenon It’s rather amusing that the latest detective in my reading life is a Frenchman. Created by a Belgian. My favorite fictional detective, after all, is Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot, a Belgian who is forever correcting the misunderstanding that he’s…
When I wrote about my godfather, Bob Caplinger, last year (“The West Virginia Hillbilly”), I had a feeling there was something more. There was something else my parents had saved and I just had to find it. There it was, in amongst our family archives. In 1991, Bob wrote an autobiographical short story, dedicated it to my parents and younger brother, and dropped it in the mail to them. Here it is: SATURDAY NIGHT IN CAPITALS A short story by…
Last night, Farmer Gary replaced the light bulbs in our ceiling fan. We have a vaulted ceiling in our bedroom, so he used a stepstool and replaced all four, even though only one was out. The other three would be saved for use closer to the ground. Practical as always, that man. As is typical in our house, that quick chore touched off a series of stories. In this case, stories about light bulbs. The first involved Grandpa Mehling. Gary…
Looking back, maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to swap vomit stories with James. Our youngest son was feeling lousy and recounting how rarely he’d regurgitated in his 26 years. Ah, but not me. I turned it into an unwinnable contest: “I threw up every day of my three pregnancies. That’s 27 months.” Sorry, James. In less than a week, he would be onstage at the University of Southern Indiana, playing guitar in the Lucas Washington band, opening for…