A Good Whack

Back when I was living in my bachelor pad high atop beautiful downtown Cranford, NJ, there was still a small local A&P nearby (no wonder they went bankrupt).

But, as a budding curmudgeon, there were certain things I wouldn't put up with.  Once, in the checkout line, some sort of small rug rat was raising a fuss.  It was 4 or 5, so I couldn't quite understand why it's mother was trying to reason with it.

"Whack it" I thought.  Better yet, let ME whack it.  But no, she  continued to reason with it, with absolutely no results (as I suspected).

In my childhood, a good whack would have been delivered, and I grew up perfectly normal...as curmudgeons go.

Feeding Birds

I, being a good-hearted curmudgeon, have put a bird feeder out.  I presumed I would be treated to seeing the occasional nuthatch, titmouse, goldfinch or chickadee.

I sort of didn't figure on for every two birds that showed, Tiger, the Wonder Cat would eat one.

I think this has discouraged them.

Hounds

My next door neighbor has a hound.  Not any hound, but some evil variant that the moment he is released from the back door, bounds out, races about...and howls.

I have had heart-to-heart chats with Tiger, the Wonder Cat about leaping the fence (of course, nothing to him) and clawing the dog's neck out.  He prefers to taunt the creature from OUR side of the fence, causing all the more howling.

I am now thinking of exercising my second amendment rights and purchasing an assault rifle.

Tasty Sandwiches

My Grandmother meant well.  

It was late September, and Buzz, my Dad and I had popped up to Maine to pull all the boats, close the cottage, all the depressing chores of another end of a summer.

But we had a chance for one last sail, so we planned a long one.  My Grandmother immediately volunteered to make us sandwiches for the day.  

How darling, you would think.  Without us actually seeing them until we took off, she had decided on baked bean and pickle relish sandwiches.  I am not making this up.  You may, sitting in front of your computer, think "how revolting."

"Revolting" hardly covers it when you are rocking about on the high seas in a sailboat.

But, she meant well.

Painting Bottoms

Maine lobster men are a cantankerous bunch.  Their job isn't an easy one.  But they all used to have one thing in common: they needed to scrape and paint their boat bottoms every summer (back when their boats were wood, not today's plastic).

Simple - you run your boat up to the shore somewhere at high tide.  Then you wait for low tide.  With 10 foot tides, this completely exposes the hull, and voila, slap the bottom paint on.  The trick here is you all sit on one side of the boat to tilt it to starboard for one tide, then the other side to tilt it to port the next tide.

I had the pleasure of helping a great family friend do this one summer.  At 14 years of age, it was quite the adventure.

I have his thank-you letter to this day.