Neighboring States

When the U.S. Mint started their State Quarters series in 1999, I started saving them. When the program was over ten years later, I had six complete sets, and I decided that was enough.

Any time one comes my way, I still do save the Illinois quarter, however, it being my favorite. Yes, I live in Michigan, but I’m from Illinois. (See my post on this topic from October 3, 2010.)

A few years ago I happened to be in a coin store and decided I would buy a silver proof Illinois quarter. Proof coins are intended for collectors and are struck with highly polished dies on highly polished blanks and are – well, highly polished, and very shiny and pretty. Some coins, the State Quarters among them, also come in a silver proof variety. Instead of the regular copper and tin alloy of common quarters, these are 90 percent silver, just like our quarters (and dimes and half dollars and dollars) used to be back in the day.

When I got home, I was admiring the coin, but I suddenly realized it was not silver. There was a distinct coppery tinge to the edge of it. I took it back to the store, complained to the guy who sold it to me, and was given a genuine silver Illinois quarter in exchange.

Last week I was in that same coin shop, and I thought it would be fun to get another silver Illinois quarter. The man waiting on me went off to see if he had one.  At one point he called out, “What year is the Illinois?”  I told him it was 2003, and in a minute he came back with a bright, shiny coin.  I studied it very closely, making sure there was no tell-tale copper color on the edge. Finally convinced it was silver, I paid the man and went away happy.

When I got home, I was admiring my new coin -- there was George Washington on one side, and on the other side where Abe Lincoln should be, there was the Gateway Arch.

Yep, it’s genuine silver, all right. But it’s Missouri.

Un is Un, no?

I am bombarded with enough unwanted emails that I have grown quite adept at scrolling to the bottom of the page and finding the link labelled unsubscribe.

I click on it, and it takes me to an Internet screen that asks me what I want to do. Well, since I clicked on unsubscribe I probably want to unsubscribe, don't I? I, therefore, click on "unsubscribe from all emails" or equivalent, and then a screen comes up and asks me why I don't want to receive these emails anymore.

Sometimes I am to fill in with a word or phrase, and sometimes I am given several choices. My favorite one is, "The content is inappropriate." Almost makes it sound like they're sending me porn, doesn't it?

So, I click on whatever answer I like best at the time, whereupon some sort of message pops up -- sometimes telling me they're sorry to see me go, often telling me how to subscribe again if I should ever change my mind, but usually just assuring me that my effort to unsubscribe was a success.

And within ten minutes they send me an email telling me I won't be getting any more emails from them.

Sheesh.

Well, here we go

Toward the end of December, I promised myself that in the new year I would post more often on this here blog thing, aiming at something like three or four times a week at minimum. So far this year, I've published four (count 'em) blog postings, all in January. And here we are halfway through March.

Part of the problem is not having much to say. Occasionally a good topic will occur to me, and five minutes later I've forgotten what it was. I guess I need to carry paper and pencil with me wherever I go.

Another really big problem is the inordinate amount of time I spend folding paper. I love to fold paper. I love it so much, in fact, that I have started a second blog, called Fugitive Origami. (Click here to go there. It will have more content soon.)

I decided a few months ago that anybody with serious origami ambitions needs to be able to fold a decent crane, so I practice making cranes almost every day. My wife liked them so much she told me I could "leave those all over the house" if I wanted to. So far she has not admitted she regrets saying that. I haven't reached 1000 cranes yet, but I plan to get there.

My real passion is folding boxes. I love folding boxes so much that I don't know what to do with all of them. Sometimes I fold a box just because I want to fold a box, and then I throw it away. Right now I am struggling with some of the modular box designs by my idol, Tomoko Fuse, but I have finally mastered a relatively tricky one-piece triangular box of hers. Makes me proud.

So, that's all the excuses I've got for now.

And speaking of ambition, I read a quote this morning that I liked so much I want to share it here. Asked what she wanted to be, a young child wrote, "When I grow up I want to get a hat and put it on."

'Tis the gift to be simple.

Set 'em up, Barkeep!

I was in my early twenties when my mother was very ill and was hospitalized a number of times. One time I stopped at the hospital on my way home from work and my dad was already there, feeling worried and sad and helpless, as we do when a loved one is ill and there’s nothing we can do about it.

When visiting hours ended and we were on our way out to the parking lot,  I suggested that we meet somewhere for a drink before going home. I thought we could both use one. Dad agreed, and we went to a local restaurant that had a nice cocktail lounge.

We sat at the bar, and Dad ordered scotch for me and beer for him. I don’t recall what we talked about, but between the booze and the comfortable companionship, not to mention my father’s irrepressible sense of humor, we were able to relax and simply enjoy each other’s company.

The first drink was so good, we ordered another round. “This one’s on me,” I said, getting out my wallet and putting some bills on the bar.

“Oh, no,” the bartender said, slightly alarmed. He leaned over the bar toward me and said in a hoarse whisper, “You let him pay!”

He was serious, and my dad was delighted. For long afterward, he would smile to himself whenever he remembered the bartender thinking he was capable of picking up a young girl.

It made me smile too. Still does.

Inauguration Day

I sometimes have trouble falling asleep, especially now that I am retired and keep weird hours because I have no place to get up and go to in the morning.

At various times in my life I have lain awake because I was worried about something -- how to pay my rent, could I find a job, will I pass the test, am I sick or getting sicker, is it requited love, what did I eat to give me such heartburn, and, especially, wondering why I can’t fall asleep.

In all my 70 years of life, however, I have never once gone to bed worrying about the direction in which my country is headed, nor have I ever worried about losing those things I innocently took for granted – my country and its leaders keeping me safe from enemies foreign and domestic; striving for, if not achieving, equality for all; establishing just laws and tasking responsible, intelligent people to carry them out.

Until last night. It was the only time in my life I have ever gone to bed afraid for the future of my country.

Sad goodbyes, indeed

At the beginning of her cooking show on the Food Network, Ree Drummond introduces herself as “a writer, blogger, photographer, mother, and accidental country girl.” She lives on a ranch in Oklahoma with a husband, four children, and a bunch of dogs.

Last week, she published a blog posting entitled "A Sad Goodbye" that began, “I don’t want to write this post, but I have to write this post.” She goes on to describe the passing of her most famous and beloved Basset Hound, Charlie. It is a moving piece, dwelling not on his illness and death but celebrating his life and his place in hers.

I know how Ree felt, not wanting to write that post. My beloved Chihuahua, Soji, died in the fall of 2015, and I did not want to write that post either. Unlike Ree, however, I did not make myself do it.

I’m sure Ree felt obligated to share the news with her legions of fans, whereas Soji’s importance was limited to relatively few of us.  Nevertheless, even fifteen months later, I still don’t feel like I am capable of writing about my remembrances of Soji and the joy she brought into my life.

I have mentioned Soji in any number of postings over the years, and those glimpses into our life together and our love for each other are probably more telling than any tribute I could write about her now.

My condolences to Ree and her family, and my thanks for inspiring me to write even this much in memory of my tiny dog.

Was he worth his salt?

My Aunt Blanche has a vast collection of salt and pepper shakers. Most of them are souvenirs she picked up on her extensive travels in North America. They number in the hundreds.

Up until about 40 years ago, she kept them in a huge cabinet with glass doors that her father built for her. Nowadays they are packed in cardboard boxes, wrapped in old newspaper.

It has been decades since I’ve seen any of them, but there is one set I remember particularly because it was so silly that it made me laugh out loud.  They were shaped like tombstones, and the salt shaker bore an inscription I've never forgotten:

Here lies
Salty McQuaid,
Slow on the draw,
And now he’s daid.

There was a matching pepper shaker, but I don’t remember what it said. I don't know where she obtained them, but I'd have to guess it was out West somewhere.


STOP THE PRESSES!

Through the miracle of the Internet, I have found a photograph of those salt and pepper shakers. The other guy, it seems, was Pepper Wyatt ("talked too much but now he's quiet").

I swear, you can find anything out there on the Internet.