23

Twenty-three is a good crooked number. It’s got a real ring to it. Go on say it, 23. If you hold the “e” it sounds like one of those kazoo-whizzers, twenty-threeeeeee… It was the number worn by "Donnie Baseball" Mattingly and retired by the NY Yankees. It’s an important number. It is now the number Renee and I celebrate in married bliss.

Twenty-three years, you’d think we’d have this marriage thing down, but just like every thing else worth working for in this world we’re still learning about our little union. Why just this week we learned a little bit more about how we communicate with each other, or don’t, as the case may sometimes be. This is one heck of a project, but I bet we figure it out in less time than it takes to build the east-end bridge over the Ohio.

As much as it grates on her, I think Renee has come to accept “Bob being Bob.” Boy, that’s gotta be tough to live with! She perseveres with the patience of Job waiting for the clock to reveal “Bob Time,” wondering if today is the day someday comes. I tend to procrastinate a tiny bit, like writing blog entries when I should be working on Renee's high priority household projects.

Like every machine, we need a tune-up every now and then, and Lord knows we’ve missed a few of the scheduled maintenance procedures, but, as the saying goes, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. This is not a partnership that has remained garage kept. We’ve parked it outside in the elements, let a little rust grow on the bumpers, let the paint fade to a dull sheen. Yet, every time we go to crank her up, the engine fires and off we go. We’re going to see if we can keep this thing running for at least another 23 years.

This is a song I wrote for Renee for our 19th Anniversary. I should change a line to keep up with the years but for now it stays.

FOREVER JERSEY GIRL
By Bob Masterson © Old Paint Music

We rode the bus ride out to nowhere
Crashed a Bermuda motorbike
On that first date out at Action Park
Did you think it’d be such a long and wild ride
For 19 years we’ve been spinning on love’s crazy tilt-a-whirl
Hold tight my hand as we ride
To forever Jersey Girl
Hold tight my hand as we ride
My forever Jersey Girl

From Alaska’s snow capped mountains
To Arizona’s desert escapes
From the banks of the Ohio
To the bow of the misty Maid
For 19 years we’ve been spinning on love’s crazy tilt-a-whirl
Hold tight my hand as we ride
To forever Jersey Girl
Hold tight my hand as we ride
My forever Jersey Girl

Ireland’s stone walls a real close call
Driving the wrong side of the road
Atop a castle in a hurricane
Back home to our Jackson loft
For 19 years we’ve been spinning on love’s crazy tilt-a-whirl
Hold tight my hand as we ride
To forever Jersey Girl
Hold tight my hand as we ride
My forever Jersey Girl

Oh we’ve seen ups and downs
Our hearts rise and fall
As good and bad times roll around
We stand together through it all

Now we watch as a young red head
Rocks our simple world
Her tender heart brings us sweet smiles
As she grows from a little girl
For 19 years we’ve been spinning on love’s crazy tilt-a-whirl
Hold tight my hand as we ride
To forever Jersey Girl
Hold tight my hand as we ride
My forever Jersey Girl

Hold tight my hand as we ride, as we ride …
Our love’s forever Jersey Girl

Happy Anniversary Renee!

Retreat No More

It is Memorial Day weekend, the kick-off to summer. Please, don’t forget to honor those who have made the ultimate sacrifice for you and me and our Country.

If you’ve been paying attention here, you’ve been noticing a bit of a drop in productivity. Some of this is do to the positive progress of our femme fatale and therefore a lack of reportable actions. This is not a bad thing. Some of it is distractions of the daily grind. Then, there is that last one, that long stretch between President’s Day and Memorial Day where there is no officially declared holiday to interrupt the routine. Last weekend I made a break for it.

For the first time in my life I attended a retreat. This was not a religious retreat, except in the sense that music and the written word are soul saving for me. This was a writer’s retreat. But it turned out to be more than an introspective getaway.

It was billed as “A Retreat of One’s Own – The Gathering of Writers and Songwriters.” About 35 of us were squirreled away in Greenbo State Park, a three hour eastbound trip from Louisville. The presenters were local, regional and national literary figures - authors, publishers, poets, professors, musicians and songwriters. The whole weekend was a moderated round table of improvement through sharing.

The staff served as tour guides through story and song, stopping along the way to highlight points of interest and snapshot opportunities that we could take back as keepsakes. There were casual classes and readings and song-stylings. Following the evening program, the real gathering took place. A circle was formed and all were encouraged to join in with instrument or voice or whatever else you may think to proffer. They called it a swarp. This is a new term for me, but having now participated, I can describe it as a social, intellectual and musical swap meet. I heard more great songs and stories in a weekend than I could cram into years of reading and listening in my routine settings.

All of these gifted people were approachable and friendly and genuinely willing to be helpful in the cause of getting better at our craft. Yes, I said our, because, for three short days I was part of a writer’s community. Even though I may have felt like a voyeur peering through a window, they threw open the sash and invited me in.

A few of these wildly talented people kindheartedly complimented me on my contributions. Were they merely being supportive? Well, yes, in a sense, but, they went out of their way to give encouragement, more than just polite approval following delivery of a number. A quick pat on the shoulder while passing in the chow line, “I enjoyed your music last night,” was extremely helpful in making me feel part of the group. After returning home, I received one “awesome” comment via email and the greatest accolade I could get from a singer-songwriter, a request to cover one my tunes. I could not be more honored if John Hiatt or Joni Mitchell just made the same request! For the past few days my path has been paved with clouds. I am still lighter than air, still in performance shock.

Although I did not list it on the evaluation sheet, the title for the weekend was completely wrong - one’s own retreat? How can that be? With the rejuvenation and refreshment which came from the mutual respect and experience of the participants, I disagree with the singularity of the billing. My experience was enriched by the contributions of the others. I can not lay individual claim to any part of the venture. It was more of a partnership, separate streams joining to become a creek and then branching back out to meander along their own paths, leaving some of our carriage and carrying away more than was brought.

Hopefully, I can incorporate some of what I learned into this blog to improve your experience. And despite the everyday chores and lengthy stretch between holidays, may I find the time and words to use this outlet to help Renee individually, and we as a group, continue on a route of forward progress toward a high quality of health, for we can retreat no more.

The Ghost of the Dead Air Conditioner

Yeah, I know, it’s been a couple of weeks. How’ve you been?

The weekend before Derby the thermometer topped 85 degrees for three straight days. The house climbed to 80º so it was time to test out the air conditioner. I cranked it up before bed hoping it would pull the humidity and heat from the house overnight but awoke in the morning to find no relief. The condenser fan motor seized during the night. Less than two years out from the five year warranty expiration and planned obsolescence proves that it can stop a Trane. Luckily the temperature backed down to springtime temps following the heat wave. It took a couple of weeks to get the parts and service aligned. Yesterday, we got the system running full steam again.

You would think that we moved in to the 1890’s house the way the girls were acting. Imagine sleeping with the windows open. Oh, the horror! Even worse than the humans was the canine. Polly would roam the house at night upset by all the nighttime noises that happen out in the real world. After a couple of days of this, she took to wimpering. The fifty pound mutt first tried to hide her head under our bed, which was not built for the clearance necessary to secrete a dog of substance. But sure enough that dang hound figured a way to scoot her whole body under the bed.

If she could figure a way under, she could figure a way out but at 4 in the morning who wants to hear the whining of a cowardly canine echoing up from under the mattress. We had to exit the bed, lift it up and drag the dog out from underneath so we could get back to sleep. When the air conditioning came back on and the windows were shut, she slept through the night. How spoiled is that? She’ll chase chipmunks and squirrels all day but night comes and she’ll cry over the chirp of a cricket.

A stranger thing happened in the house while the air was out. Even more strange than the neurotic pup. Renee thinks we may have been the victim of a break-in. Or, she said, we have ghosts. They must have come through the screens. I guess they can’t come in to the house when the windows are closed. They are double panes.

Mysteriously, the waste basket in Cassidy’s bathroom was partially filled with liquid. I went to empty the weekly trash, noticed it and asked the girls who dumped what in the can. Both were completely unaware of what I was talking about. There were no signs of a container nearby that may have been dropped or emptied. It was not wet around the basket so it could not have been rain coming in through the open window. The liquid had a familiar yellowish tint.

Renee’s paranoia got her and she jumped to the conclusion that someone broke in. I said, “What, they broke in just to pee in the wastebasket?” Now, this is a criminal mastermind. Polly is a low pee-er plus the can is too tall for her hind quarters. It could not have been her. So, we’re left with two culprits, the ghost or Cassidy.

A ghost coming in and haunting us by peeing in a garbage can is completely plausible, right? I called Dan Ackroyd and Bill Murry and the rest of the Ghostbusters to check it out. They came up negative for paranormal activity in the house. Darn, there goes our outrageous reality show.

The other explanation is just as absurd. Would the child pee in the waste basket? Why would the child pee in the waste basket?

Cassidy is a heavy sleeper but she has been known for getting up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. She is usually sleepwalking as she does this. Since we were up tending to the doggie, we heard her go into the bathroom and we thought kick the garbage can as she headed for the commode. We keep the can close to the toilet but you really can’t mistake one for the other, can you? The only conceivable explanation is that she did just that. In her sleep state she somehow confused the two and used the garbage can as a chamber pot. If we didn’t hear her kick the can in the middle of the night even we wouldn’t believe it.

Or, was it really a ghost that spooked the dog and slimed the garbage can?

Life without air conditioning sure is spooky!