Homecoming means coming home, doesn't it?

This is the story of my high school's homecoming in -- well, I think it was 1966 or '67 -- a couple years after I graduated (in 1964).

I met up with an old school chum named Al (Class of 65'), who was home from college for the weekend. For something to do on Saturday night, we decided it would be fun to go to the homecoming dance.

I put on a dress, Al put on a coat and tie, and we got to the school around 9:00. We went in and approached a group of chaperones and teachers who were sitting at a table outside the cafeteria where the dancing was going on. We asked if we needed tickets and, if so, could we please buy them.

And they said -- no, you can’t come to this dance. It’s just for students.

And we said -- but we are alumni. We appealed to a couple teachers who remembered us who gladly verified that we had been students at that very high school

So we said -- see? We used to be students, which makes us alumni, and that is what homecoming is for, isn't it?

But they were adamant. They refused to let two alumni into the homecoming dance.

So we went away, disappointed. What we did that evening, I don’t remember. I wonder if Al remembers this happening.

What made me think of this story is that last night Michigan State University and at least two area high schools cancelled homecoming parades (and possibly football games for the high schools) because of the threat of bad weather.

They were not being alarmist – the storms actually did come, and they were doozies.

Be kind, rewind

People post things on Facebook all the time that are intended to help us improve ourselves. Just now I saw one that my wife shared, although I don’t know who put it out there originally. It was writ large in white letters on a black background so that it stood out, and it said:

You seriously have no idea what people are dealing with in their personal life. So just be nice, it's that simple.

I agree with that, but I also know it presents two inherent difficulties. One is, any person who is generally not nice will not suddenly renounce their nastiness and be kind to everybody from now on just because they read that on Facebook. It is just not going to happen. In fact, I don’t think all the Facebook platitudes that remind us to be nice to each other, which number in the gazillions, have any chance of helping those people who are just plain grouchy and taking it out on everybody else.

The second problem is that while we are being nice because we know people are dealing with things we don’t know about, it will not improve our interactions with such persons.

Take, for instance, that man at work who is mired in a perpetual bad mood. He grunts replies, he is unpleasant in every way, and he makes no effort to slide nicely along with his coworkers. As a result, you consider him a real jerk, and he annoys the hell out of you.

Then you find out that his wife has left him for another man, his twelve-year-old son was just diagnosed with Asberger Syndrome, his mother has colon cancer, his teenaged daughter wrecked the car, and he’s having trouble making ends meet.

Once you understand what a horror his life has become, you understand why he growls and is grumpy and makes no effort to get along.

But understanding will not solve any of the problem. He will still annoy the hell out of you, and he will still act like a real jerk.

But if you’re nice, you’ll find your reward in heaven.

Figure it out, kids

I just remembered this story, and I should probably save it until Christmas, but I'll forget between now and then. So, here's a little Christmas in July. Or August, actually.

It was December, just before Christmas break, when I was in college in Wisconsin long ago. One afternoon I went down to the dormitory lobby to check my mailbox, and I was happy to see what I thought was a letter from my mother. When I opened it, however, I found only a small, oddly-shaped fragment of a Christmas card.

Four of my friends received similar envelopes and, recognizing the sender's return address, came to my room to ask me if I knew what was going on.

Being extremely bright college kids, it didn't take us long to figure it out. My mother had cut a card into five irregular shapes, making a Christmas card jigsaw puzzle. Once we put it together, we were able to see the pretty card and read her hand-written message wishing us all a very merry Christmas.

The girls were delighted and said that my mother was "fun."

Yes, she was.

Herby

Yesterday my wife mentioned, pointedly, that I had not posted anything on this here blog thing for a while (okay, since May), and asked me why. I replied that I had nothing to say.  “All my stories have been told,” I said. The look she gave me was – well, shall we say, skeptical.

Today, however, while thinking about something else altogether, I thought of a story not told, at least not here.

In a posting last fall (“A Name by Any Other Rose,” September 25, 2018) I mentioned that because my wife tends to name everything, I occasionally give names to various inanimate objects of my own.

In 2007, after having experienced what is called a “silent” heart attack (that is, one I knew nothing about because I never felt a thing), the medical types decided to implant a pacemaker/defibrillator in my chest. I like to joke with people that I can’t say "pacemaker/defibrillator," so I call it "Herby."

How I chose the name is simply that after the surgery, while I was lying in my hospital bed thinking about having a device in my chest to regulate my cardiac rhythms, it occurred to me that if you took the word HEARTBEAT and started leaving some of the letters out here and there, you would end up with:  HE R BE.

And that’s how my ICD Herby got his name. I suppose it's possible that my natural creativity was enhanced to some degree by the very enjoyable effects of a cocktail of morphine, Valium, and Versed I had been given, but I like to think I have a flair for whimsy.

It also helps me understand how people become addicted to drugs.

If only it were so

This is the story about my Aunt Mae and the Jewish turd.

For the record, she was my father's oldest sibling and my favorite aunt. She was smart and well-read and  interesting and funny.

Aunt Mae couldn't stand snobbish, pretentious people and whenever she found herself in the company of someone of that ilk, she could not resist the temptation to strike a blow.

To that end, she would ask such a person, "Have you heard about the man and the Jewish turd?"

She would get, as she expected, a negative response and a somewhat shocked countenance, whereupon she would continue, "Well, there was a man who had a Jewish turd ..."

At this point she'd stop, pretending she just noticed the listener's discomfiture. "Oh, I'm sorry," she'd say pleasantly. "Do you know what a Jewish turd is?"

Said listener would say, "No, I don't," and be visibly relieved, expecting her to explain that "turd" is a Yiddish word for some inoffensive thing, but she would reply, "It's a piece of shit about this long," holding her hands about six inches apart.

And then she would move on. Mission accomplished.

Did I mention Aunt Mae was my favorite?

Pepper candy, bumpy skin, and little O's

There must be some sort of marketing wisdom that suggests that if people like what you have to sell, you should make more of it, only in different sizes or colors or flavors or applications.

Take, for instance, Gold Bond. A nice lotion, but why do we need so many? They have specific ones labeled for a specific body part, a specific malady, or created with some special ingredient. Whenever I see one of their commercials on television, I begin thinking of varieties they have missed -- Back of the Left Knee Lotion, or Earlobe Protection Cream maybe.

At some friends' house for a party last week, I happened to see a bag of Caramel M&M's, which prompted me to ask aloud, "Who do you think has more varieties -- Gold Bond or M&M's?"  Everyone chuckled, but nobody guessed.

Yesterday after seeing an ad for Cheerios, I threw them into the mix too. You would think a tiny round bit of oat would be enough to satisfy everyone, but General Mills has gone above and beyond.

As usual, the Internet provided the answer.  Gold Bond wins with 24 lotions and creams. Cheereios is next with 18, and M&M's brings up the rear with 15 little candies in bags. There are, however,  5 M&M's Candy Bars which I didn't include in their total. I leave it to others to add it or not.

And so you don't rack your brain, here they all are:

Gold Bond Overnight Deep Moisturizing Body Lotion, Cracked Skin Relief Fill & Protect  Cream, Radiance Renewal Body Lotion, Men’s 5-in-1 Face Lotion Face Lotion, Healing with Aloe Body Lotion, Healing Fragrance Free with Aloe Body Lotion, Softening with Shea Butter Body Lotion, Restoring with CoQ10 Body Lotion, Diabetics’ Dry Skin Relief Body Lotion, Eczema Relief Body Lotion, Multi-Symptom Psoriasis Relief Body Cream, Strength & Resilience Body Lotion, Rough & Bumpy Skin Body Cream, Neck & Chest Firming Body Cream, Dark Spot Minimizing Body Cream, Men’s Everyday Moisture Body Lotion, Men’s Intensive Therapy Body Lotion, Daily Moisturizing with Vitamin E Body Lotion, Healing with Aloe Hand Cream, Diabetics’ Dry Skin Relief Hand Cream, Eczema Relief Hand Cream, Pedi Smooth Foot Cream, Healing with Aloe Foot Cream, Softening with Shea Butter Foot Cream.

Original Cheerios, Maple Cheerios, Cheerios Oat Crunch, Peach Cheerios, Honey Nut Cheerios, Multi Grain Cheerios, Apple Cinnamon Cheerios, Chocolate Cheerios, Fruity Cheerios, Frosted Cheerios, Banana Nut Cheerios, Cheerios + Ancient Grains, Cheerios Protein Cinnamon Almond Cheerios Protein Oats & Honey, Chocolate Peanut Butter Cheerios, Honey Nut Cheerios Medley Crunch, Pumpkin Spice Cheerios, Very Berry Cheerios.

M&M's Hazelnut Spread, Peanut Chocolate, Peanut Butter Chocolate, Dark Chocolate, Dark Chocolate Peanut , Pretzel Chocolate, Crispy Chocolate, Caramel Chocolate, Coffee Nut Chocolate, Dark Chocolate Mint , Almond Chocolate , Mexican Jalapeño Peanut , Thai Coconut Peanut , English Toffee Peanut , Caramel.

I was told the Caramel M&M's are good.

Walk this way

My first job was with an insurance company in Chicago which had offices in the Bankers Building downtown. I rode the commuter train every day, then hoofed it from the North Western Station, crossing the river on Washington. It was another six or seven blocks from there to the Bankers Building at Clark and Adams.

When the weather started turning colder, I bought myself a new winter coat. It was black-and-red tweed, and it had a big black mouton lamb collar that could lay flat or could be hooked in front and made to stand up, encircling my neck. It was plenty sharp, that coat.

The first morning I wore it to work – collar up, of course, for maximum effect – I strutted along with an extra spring in my step because I knew everybody was looking at me in my new coat with the black mouton lamb collar.

I was flouncing down LaSalle Street in my black plumps with the three-inch heels when I suddenly put my right foot down on something very cold. I looked down and saw that my shoe was missing. I looked behind me, and there was my shoe, standing upright in the middle of the sidewalk as if it was on display. Just how I walked right out of it, I didn't know, but I wasn't thinking about that because what I was thinking was, "Oh, God! Now everybody is looking at me!"

So, I turned back, slipped my foot into the shoe, and kept on walking, almost without breaking stride.

Sometimes couture can get a little too haute.