“Golden Years,” Chickens, and Nicknames in baseball
by Barry Bauer
What, the Detroit Tigers collapsed already? I thought that usually happened in September. Let’s hope the Detroit Lions don’t collapse in September. Otherwise I’ll only have the Detroit Pistons, I don’t watch them, and the Detroit Redwings.
I used to set the radio on a timer at bedtime and listen to the Redwings until I fell asleep. The theory that you can absorb something while you sleep is a bunch of malarkey.
My problem is I don’t understand Hockey rules. Shouldn’t “icing” be called “delay of game?” Is “high-sticking” when the opponent puts their hockey stick in a player’s mouth where his teeth used to be?
Bummer.
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They call them the Golden Years. That’s when you reap the rewards for all those years of hard work. Some days I call them the “dog days of life.” I suppose I get to missing the old days and being able to do the things I used to do. We would like to see the banner that follows us around saying, “mission accomplished,” disappear for a while.
Whose idea was that anyway?
We take on new assignments to keep ourselves in the game. There are rewards for doing that and of course it depends on what degree we can pour ourselves into it.
I miss the days of being a working parent, even when some days could be frustrating. Those were the days we made the decisions and were more or less in charge of guiding our daughters into adulthood. There were always those outside influences we had to weed out.
We must have done a good job because they’re out on their own with husbands to train, children to raise — the cycle continues.
We no longer gather like we once did. We used to have an above ground pool and that was always an attraction. We had a lot of days of fun in that darn thing. It probably makes a difference that the pool is no longer there. It’s nobody’s fault, we just plain wore it out and parts were impossible to get anymore.
Getting parts for old things is a lot like what you hear at the doctor’s office anymore.
While our kids are going sixteen directions at the same time, our list has dwindled down to one. We’re there if they need us but we can’t do “B & B Movers and Haulers” anymore.
Those days are gone.
On the other hand, our daughters probably think just the opposite. They probably think they’ve spent years and a lot of hard work teaching us how to be good parents and they’re glad to see that we’re finally on our own and their work is done.
Huh?
I think they did a good job.
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I don’t know if there’s an ordinance against having chickens in St. Johns. If there is, I wish the City would reconsider. It would help me solve an important question. Are city eggs better than farm eggs? I know a lot of you wonder the same thing.
We would only keep maybe a dozen chickens for eggs and an occasional Sunday dinner of chicken. Just like back at the farm. When we consider that sometimes it seems like our neighbors have a dozen cats and dogs, what’s the difference?
We would free range our chickens which means they might end up in the neighbor’s yard feeding on whatever it is those things eat. We tolerate their pets, so why shouldn’t they tolerate our chickens.
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Electric cars should be rated by how many miles they get per dollar spent. I’ll bet you won’t like to hear how much it cost. It’s probably the same as leaving your kitchen oven on all night.
You should do that every night for a month and then check your electric bill before you buy one of those cars. And if the news is bad, don’t take it out on me.
I’m just the messenger.
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I don’t call Alex Rodriguez “A-Rod” for the same reason I didn’t call Al Kaline “A-Ka.” It’s not a proper nickname for a major league baseball player. It’s also lazy English. In my day it was “Moose,” “Hammerin’ Hank,” “Red,” “Stormin’ Norman,” “Stan the Man,” “Mr. Cub,” “Bambino,” “Killer,” and so on.
A-Rod reminds me of what somebody might be talking about when they hit the old stump out in the backyard and exclaim, “I broke a rod,” meaning the connecting rod on their single cylinder lawn mower engine just went through the side of the engine.
Can’t baseball get it right?
Until the next time . . .