The Doctor is In

"May I help you?" said the young receptionist with a serious tone.

"Yes," I said. "I'm Mr. Chance and I have an appointment."

"Please be seated and Doctor Libby will be with you shortly."

I sat down on the family room couch, and watched Libby the receptionist morph into Libby the doctor. I am in a five-year-old's world.

Enter Dr. Libby: "How are you doing Grandpa, ah, I mean Mr. Chance?"

"I haven't been feeling well at all."

"Please lie down over here," pointing at the recliner chair.

I sat down and laid way back. Dr. Libby climbed up on my stomach, and with her magnifying glass, thoroughly checked my ears, nose and throat.

"I see the problem. There's a monkey in your left ear. After I remove it and you will feel better. Now, Mr. Chance, these are pliers and they will help me remove the monkey. They won't hurt you; I don't want you to be afraid."

"Go ahead and get that monkey out of my ear," I said with a grimace.

"There you go; you should feel better now."

"Dr. Libby," I said, "I also am having problems with my feet."

Dr. Libby took off my shoes and socks and checked my feet. Embarassing, as my toenails are really ugly. Frowning, she asked: "Is the problem with your toenails?" .

"Yep."

Dr. Libby put my socks and shoes back on. "I only do feet on Sundays."

End of appointment.

The Afro and the Birdseed

As soon as the passenger from a connecting flight filled the remaining empty seat next to me, we would depart on the late night flight to San Francisco. Twenty-five minute delay so far.

It was 1970. We get the same travel hassles today, except the airlines used to do it for a profit.

The guy seated in front of the empty seat sported a well kempt Afro that slightly infringed on our space. I thought he might have worked for IBM, as he was wearing the official IBM uniform--an expensive dark suit.

Finally! There was activity at the front of the aircraft. She came running down the aisle like the White Rabbit, carrying too many bags that probably added ten minutes to our delay. Breathing hard she threw everything in the seat and then started to store them in the overhead locker right over the Afro.

She managed to find space for everything but her large purse, which looked like a large straw hat turned upside down. As she lifted up the purse to try and cram it into the locker, it tipped and at least a pound of birdseed poured out on the Afro.

"Oh, my God," she mumbled, and proceeded without permission to dust the Afro. The owner of the Afro put his hands up to cover his head, but said nothing. Nobody said anything about the strange juxtaposition of an Afro and a pound of birdseed. Maybe taking off was more important.

The stewardess expedited the departure process by helping her get buckled in her seat. I had a short conversation with her and found out that she was from Boise, kooky, and not worth the energy to continue the conversation. I never learned the story of the birdseed in her purse. When we deported at SFO, I walked behind the the Afro. It was full of birdseed chaff; the chaff also covered his shoulders like terminal dandruff. I resisted the impulse to brush it off.

(Strange behavior: thirty-some years later, I know I would whisper, "Hey, man, where did you get all that birdseed in your hair?)

I arrived at the hotel at midnight. As I brushed my teeth, birdseed fell out of my hair into the sink.

An Anniversary: Not to be Forgotten

Sometimes the best times are those that you don't plan for.

We left Iowa City to catch a flight out of Minneapolis the next morning. My wife Lois and I had known that this day would be our thirty-forth wedding anniversary, but we had put off planning for the celebration. We had been immersed in a week-long writing course, having no time to think beyond our next manuscript deadline.

Now, as we drove north thru the Iowa villages, we didn't see much promise for a romantic place to celebrate our special day. Towns and hours passed us by. As we neared the airport, we were down to the last town before suburbia.

We needed help. We stopped at a tavern and walked inside. At the bar were three guys drinking beer, eating quesedillas, and watching the ballgame.

"Hi, guys," I said, "We're looking for a motel."

"There's a Motel 6 up the road about a mile," one motioned.

"Is there anything around here a bit more upscale than that?"

"It's our anniversary," said Lois.

"Well, there is a Comfort Inn on the other side of the highway. You guys know that that Viagra will work just as well at either place?"

We all laughed. "What are some good places to eat around here?"

They made suggestions: the Olive Garden, the Macaroni Grill and a place that sounded like the Charred House. We thanked them and headed for the Comfort Inn.

At the motel, I asked the clerk if she knew about the Charred House. She didn't, but a couple walking by just happened to overhear us. "Do you mean the Chart House? You'll like it -- just up the road."

That decided it for us. We dressed up and headed up the road. The Chart House was build on a marine theme around a lake. There were two wedding parties there, one on the dock next to the lake. Locals packed the joint.

Serendipity! Accidentally, we had found absolutely the best place in the country for our anniversary. We drank fancy drinks, danced and danced to a real band playing real music, chatted with people sitting next to us, ate a great meal, and were surprised when the waitress brought us a complementary -- almost foot high -- baked Alaska with a candle on top.

Thirty-four wonderful years. Under the black light we slowly danced our last dance and then headed for the Comfort Inn.

 

Talking Women

A friend Rich, in his seventies, and his wife visited friends in St. Louis last month. 

They decided to drive to an attraction. Rich drove, accompanied by his wife and her two friends. Rich stopped when he saw the cop lights flashing behind him.

"Did you know you went through a red light?" said the cop.

"No, said Rich. I was distracted trying to find the right turnoff."

"I'll bet that the women were all talking when you were trying to find the turnoff."

"Yes, sir."

The cop walked to the rear window. "I'm going to give all three of you a ticket for distracting the driver." 

Their shock melted away when the cop smiled.

No ticket.

I haven' t been so lucky lately.

 

The Swimsuit

When I picked up my college girl friend, she was wearing a short, short skirt. She looked very attractive, but I didn't like all the guys oogling  her legs. Possessively, I said, "You might as well be wearing a swim suit!"

A month later, we walked over to see a basketball game on a cold Friday night--like ten degrees--this was Montana.  We got to our seats at the game. I helped her take off her long winter coat. There she stood, in the middle of all the fans, in a bright yellow swim suit. More than embarrassed, I frantically tried to cover her up with her coat.

She had to be freezing on the long walk over and back from the fieldhouse--all for a cool joke on me. All the women I have told this story to say that I got what I deserved.

A Nice Stone

I was awakened by my granddaughter Libby; she had run down the stairs to my basement bedroom and was shouting in my half-awake ear.

"Grandpa, come upstairs, Cousin V has made us oatmeal for breakfast."

"Yuk, I don't want any oatmeal!" I kidded.

She lectured with the assurance of a four-year old, "But, oatmeal is good for you; it helps you grow up big and strong!"

"I'm already big and strong." I said.

We were having a reunion in Missoula, Montana at Cousin V's. The day before, we had gone to Superior to clean up around the family gravesites. Libby's mother had told her that a cemetary was a happy place where they put people's names on stones so we could remember good things about them after they had died.

Back at my ear, Libby explained, "Grandpa! You have to eat your oatmeal, so you'll grow old and die and get your name on a nice stone."