Never count your scissors

I want to shake the hand of the person who only has one pair of scissors in their house. That’s a person who believes that four of anything other than tires on your car is unhealthy. That’s a person who figured out that if you can’t juggle three scissors at the same time, you best stick with one and invest the money you save on bandaids in buying useful stuff like three-ring hole punches and stapler guns.

I, on the other hand, went looking for a pair of scissors the other day and found 23 of them. And that was just in our “office supply” drawer in the kitchen. There’s no telling how many others are lost between the couch cushions or in the glovebox. Wait a minute. I just found two more lurking on the countertop. Kitchen shears. That makes 25, ain’t no lie.

I blame it all on Robert Hinchliffe, who lived in Sheffield, England, way back in 1761. He didn’t invent the scissors, but he is the person credited for mass producing them. Of course, that made them less expensive to buy. Which is probably why — are you kidding me? — I’m up to 31 pairs.

(I just finished brushing my teeth. I counted six more pairs of scissors in the bathroom, sitting there in plain sight, daring me to count them. I pretended I hadn’t. They looked really sharp.)

The origin of scissors can be traced back to the very beginnings of arts and crafts. At least to 4,000 BC in Mesopotamia. The Middle East. The “Cradle of Civilization.” They didn’t look like modern-day scissors, but they were just as useful. The ancient Egyptians had them. So did the Romans and Chinese. And then along came Hinchliffe and disposable income. Thanks, Bob.

You know how when you’re interested in a subject, like the history of scissors, and you start doing a bit of research and come across essays available on the Internet written by folk who appear to be trying to pass a Rock-Paper-Scissors 101 class? Well, I found one and this is the sentence that really stabbed me in the pinky: 

“Nowadays, I’m sure at least one pair of scissors can be found in every home across the country.”

Just one? Really? Was this essay written in 1807? Okay, it said AT LEAST one. But how many homes across the country can boast of a few more than just one? That’s what I wondered. And since I didn’t know, I asked.

According to a recent survey I conducted with my FaceBook friends (a survey which probably made me look like a total lunatic to the 77 people who kindly responded), I learned that the average household can proudly claim to have 7.7 pairs of scissors in it, plus or minus two pairs. If we round that number up to eight, that seems like a good number of scissors to own. Eight. Not 42 of them.

That’s right. When my wife came home and joined the search party, she found 11 more scissors scattered all willy-nilly throughout the house, upping our Grand Total to 42. Six per room, including bathrooms. And to be honest, she had so much fun in tracking down the little buggers, I didn’t have the heart to be embarrassed by it all.

According to Dr. Regina Lark, a board-certified professional organizer, the average American household has 300,000 items in it. And if that’s true, then our scissor horde only takes up 0.014 percent of our total accumulated 40-years-of-marriage household collection. A mere blip compared to our coffee mugs and non-working flashlight mounds. So I apologize. I shouldn’t have gotten so snippy about the scissors.

Let's get it right this time

I should have given the man the $10. I had it in my pocket. It’s not like my family would’ve starved without it. But he asked me in the middle of a grocery store. On Christmas Eve. And it caught me off guard. I was looking for egg nog, and the next thing I knew, someone in need was asking for help. And I balked.

I could say he didn’t look homeless, that he seemed to be in good heath, that he was wearing clothes not much different than what I was wearing, and more than likely that he was probably looking for cash to support some kind of habit — and that’s why I didn’t give him any money. But I didn’t really know his story. Maybe he was sleeping in his car and living on grocery store samples. But really, who cares what he would spend the money on? ’Twas the season to help. And I Scrooged it all up.

I need to do better in 2026. Maybe smile more. Maybe be more helpful. Maybe take in another stray cat. I mean, the man in the grocery store was somebody’s son. He could have been my son. And if my son was living in his car in some grocery store parking lot and needed money — to buy lunchmeat or vape juice (it doesn’t matter) — I hope there would be somebody there to see his need and help him along his way.

“But,” I hear you say, “he was probably a flimflam man looking for a sucker, and you fit the bill perfectly.” 

Yes. You’re right. I offered to buy him whatever he needed, but he wasn’t interested. He wanted the cash. And when it didn’t look forthcoming, he mumbled something and walked away. Later, I saw him in the produce section, hitting up someone else for the $10. But that didn’t matter. I should’ve gifted him the money. He was somebody’s son. He could’ve been mine.

If my children or grandchildren become desperate one day for assistance, and I’m not in a position to help them because I’m long dead and buried, will you see them as bums on the street trying to swindle “good, honest-working folk out of a few bucks. Shoot, I betcha they live in a mansion and drive a Corvette. So no. I’m not giving them a stinking dime.” Or will you help them out of the kindness of your heart, because they’re no different than you are? Tell me. I’ve got to know before I leave them at your mercy.

My horror is that we, as inhabitants of one of the most prosperous countries in the world, have become so unforgiving of “the others,” the ones who don’t look like us, the ones who “don’t belong,” the ones who don’t believe exactly what we believe in — so unforgiving and intolerant that we’ve forgotten that we’re all just living on a little rock that’s zooming through a practically infinite universe, and all we’ve got is each other to lean on.

“Mankind was my business,” the ghost of Jacob Marley said to Ebenezer Scrooge in Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. “The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance and benevolence were all my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business.”

Look. Right after midnight, all over the world, we all get a fresh start at a new year — a chance to get it right this time; a chance to see ourselves in those who are different; a chance to lend a helping hand. It may be the only chance we have left. Let’s try not to blow it.

First-Time ChocoFlan fan!

I didn't know ChocoFlan existed until recently. A student brought one to class and shared the recipe. So I made one. I thought it came out fine. I tried again a week later, and it wasn't so photogenic. But we ate it. Boy, did we eat it.

We should all be thankful

There was a tree. Pecan. A friendly giant. Older than all the other nearby trees. Older than my grandparents. Older than the house they lived in. Older than the train tracks that ran nearby. We grandchildren would rush down the hill to the back pasture and pick up the pecans it dropped on the ground. Cracked the shells. Ate the meat. Saved the rest in brown paper sacks to snack on later or to be made some day into pecan pies.

Thanksgiving and pecan pies go hand in hand. Tradition. You might could have one without the other — Thanksgiving without pecan pie, or a pecan pie in the middle of July — but I won’t. Thanksgiving, turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, pecan pie with a dollop of whipped cream on top. Or not. Depends on how I feel.

I make my pecan pie without an ounce of Karo. The old fashioned way. It surprises most people when they give it a try. A good surprise. Especially if they grew up hating pecan pie. Mine usually converts them. 

My mother was always surprised I could talk cooking. I can still hear her say things like, “Well, why didn’t you ever cook while you were living with us?” Probably because I was a kid back then, and she was a good cook. She never taught me to cook. She just set a good example. A subliminal one. And I am thankful.

My father dreamed. Had big ideas. The ones that sounded amazing but never quite panned out. Then another dream would come along. And then another. A weird kind of frustrating hobby. But all the while, he worked long and hard to provide. Set a good example. And I am thankful.

My mother-in-law is a social butterfly. Likes to talk. Sing. Sit out on the front porch and visit with neighbors. She’s not much into cooking, but she has plenty of ice cream in the fridge. Enough to share. She makes every grandchild feel like they are her favorite. She still sets a good example. And I am thankful.

My father-in-law was a putterer. Puttered in the back yard. The garage. Picked up limbs. Kept the cars running. Found a way to keep the house AC working without paying a pro. If anything needed fixing, he’d do it. He’d fix things before they even needed it. Or at least try. Set a good example. And I am thankful.

My wife is patient. After 40 years of marriage, she keeps hoping I’ll change. Learn how to fix stuff. Mow the yard before it needs it. I’m thankful she hasn’t kicked me to the curb. But she’s kind. Knows we all have strong points. Weak points. She can be a social butterfly. Likes to putter in the yard. Read. Play piano. Has big dreams. And is still surprised I can talk a good recipe. Maybe a little sad at me taking over the kitchen, which used to be her domain, but not sad enough to fight me for it. She likes my pecan pie. And I am thankful.

I often think of that little house where my grandparents once lived. The train tracks still there but unused. The house now owned by strangers. Somebody else’s grandchildren running down the hill to the back pasture. Unfortunately, the friendly giant no longer lives there. But at least he set a good example. His offspring are everywhere, growing tall and dropping their own soon-to-be pecan pies to the ground. And I am even more thankful.

Fruitcake 2025

The first year I tried to make a Christmas fruitcake, I started making plans for it in August. By September, I had found three different fruitcake recipes from which to choose. By October, I had decided on which recipe to use, and had bought all the dried fruit and other ingredients I would need for the endeavor. By the first of November, the fruitcake had been baked and the only thing left was to “nurse” it once a week with rum until Christmas Day.

This was back in 2018, and if I remember correctly, everybody took a taste of the fruitcake just to humor the old man, and the resounding opinion was for me to “please, don’t bake anything like that ever again.”

So, naturally, I made another one the very next year. Since I already had the recipe, I didn’t start gathering ingredients together until late September. But then a small hiccup hiccuped on my plans:

ME: “Honey, where’s my fruitcake baking pan?”

HER: “Oh no. Not this again.”

ME: “Funny. No, seriously. Do you know where it is?”

HER: “Just keep looking under things and you’ll probably find it; unless you don’t, which will mean no fruitcake this year, which will make me SO sad because you know how much I was really looking forward…”

ME: “Hey, hey, hey! I found it.”

HER: “Great, dear. Just great.”

If I remember correctly, everybody took a taste of the fruitcake just to humor the old man again, and the resounding opinion was, “Didn’t we tell him to never bake one of these things again? Is this the first sign of dementia?”

I thought the fruitcake wasn’t half bad. So I cut it up into small wedges and froze them, then ate a warmed-up piece once a month with my morning coffee. Still, I had so much left over by Christmas 2020, I didn’t need to make one that year. And nobody missed it.

I don’t know why I didn’t make a fruitcake in 2021 or 22 (PTSD?), but I readily admit that my “Back To Basics” Christmas 2023 attempt was an utter disaster. You see, the original recipe called for “nursing” the fruitcake with brandy, but I had been using rum. Surely, that must’ve been the reason my fruitcakes never lived up to their potential. So, I used brandy. Soaked that fruitcake every week with a shot or two of the stuff. And do you know what happened?

If I remember correctly, everybody took a whiff of the fruitcake and immediately claimed to be designated drivers. “You can’t ALL be designated drivers,” I said. “Oh, yes we can,” was their response.

When everybody was gone, I threw that fruitcake in the trash. I would’ve thrown it out in the woods, but who wants a drunk raccoon on the porch looking for a nightcap?

Christmas 2024 was my breakout year in fruitcake making. Maybe it was because I hadn’t tried so hard; maybe it was because practice makes perfect; maybe it was because somebody felt sorry for the old man. But I heard someone say, “Hmmmm. It’s not too bad.” Just one person. But that was enough. And then someone had seconds, which was a first. And when everybody had returned to their own homes, I saw there was hardly any fruitcake left for me to freeze and eat warmed up with my coffee throughout the new year.

Now that the temperature has changed, I’ve started thinking about fruitcakes again. Fruitcakes, hot chocolate, egg nog, and chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Who knows, maybe I’ll knock another fruitcake out of the park again this year, which is a whole lot better than having someone throw it out of the park. Yes? 

The Northern Lights in Texas

My wife insists that you could see the Northern Lights last week up in the sky. I took this photo looking over the roof of our house. Why don't I see any of it? Is it because I'm colorblind?  

Another day in the life

Here’s how the system works around here: Technically, I’m retired, but I go to work for half the day then spend the other half trying to figure out what to cook for dinner. It’s not like I don’t have a plan, I’m just not sure if I have all the ingredients.

Just to be safe, I usually make a stop at the grocery store on my way home. Get this or that. Avocados. Bottled water. Coffee. A new rice maker.

Out of all the kitchen appliances I use, the rice maker gets the most wear and tear. So much so that it recently went kaput. It was a good rice maker. It worked faithfully for 12 years — which is 87 in human years. We gave it a good soldier’s burial, right underneath an old oak tree. No telling what the future owners of our house will think if they ever dig it up.

(Just kidding. We gave it a Viking’s funeral. Placed it in the middle of a wooden canoe, surrounded it with bags of rice, and burned it right in the middle of Lake Bob Sandlin.)

(Just kidding, again. We threw it out with the rest of the non-working appliances.)

My wife works at a local bank. When she gets home, she walks the dog around the block. I fix the supper. When she’s finished, we sit down to eat. Maybe read a book. Maybe watch a TV show. Maybe talk about this or that.

One time we talked about the different cars we owned. Another time we talked about the history of the spoon. Last night we talked about septic tanks and haunted houses. There’s no telling what we’ll talk about tonight. Or maybe we’ll just sit in silence and see who’ll be the first one to break it.

(She can go hours and hours without saying a single word. I have a feeling she wished I had the same talent.)

“Have you noticed we never talk about socks anymore?” I say.

She looks up from what she’s reading and says, “Hold that thought.”

Thirty minutes later: “OK. What were you saying?”

And I say, “Hmmmm. I have no idea. You did that on purpose, didn’t you.”

“Socks.”

“Right. Cavemen wore socks. They were mostly just leaves and grass. A few thousand years later, the Greeks wore matted animal hair under their sandals. And then later on, the Romans came up with fitted socks made out of strips of leather or fabric. Somewhere around 400 AD, the ancient Egyptians made the first knitted socks. Everybody was wearing socks by the Middle Ages. And then at some point in history they became fashionable, expensive, and the poor working-class started knitting their own, which beget the French Revolution, The Revolutionary War, the Civil War, Korea, Vietnam, The Gulf, and now cheap socks abound in packages of four or eight, they last about a month, they’re too small, too thin, they make my feet itch, and all I want is a pair of quality socks — polka dot, striped, it doesn’t matter — that will be comfortable and last forever. So, I’ve decided I’m going to knit my own socks.”

My wife is now sound asleep.

Three days ago, I made a plan to bake some salmon filets for supper. Salmon, a batch of greens, and maybe some brown rice and lentils. I put everything on my shopping list, went to the store, bought avocados, grapes, cookies, cat food, a bag of gluten-free tortillas, and a new rice cooker. I completely forgot about the salmon and greens. So, I’m heading back to the store when I finish this paragraph. Like I said, that’s really how the system works around here.

Just me and the dog

 

Slow TV and me

“Slow TV” is the Norwegian concept of televising every-day activities in real time, without storyline, script or narration, allowing viewers to immerse themselves uninterruptedly in an unfolding subject.

Conceived by the Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation (NRK) in the early 2000s, the first slow-TV broadcast featured a 7-hour driver’s-eye-view train ride from Bergen to Oslo through the Norwegian countryside. Following the show’s success, the NRK then broadcasted a 134-hour-long ship voyage, a 24-hour-long opening day of salmon fishing, a 12-hour-long broadcast on firewood, and a 12-hour knitting marathon.

Can you imagine what a 12-hour-long broadcast of a writer trying to beat a deadline would look like?

We first see him getting out of bed at 4:57 on a Saturday morning because the dog has to pee, and she won’t be denied. He puts on his shoes, grabs his phone to use as a flashlight, and walks her out the front door. 

“If I don’t think of something to write today, I’m toast.”

He brings the dog back inside to feed her. Since the cats also show up, he might as well feed them, too. While they’re all eating, he starts the coffee maker.

“Did I write about the dog recently? I think I did. Coffee? Coffee mugs! Nope, I did that last year.”

He takes the dog outside again to let her finish her morning bathroom routine.

“I smell something smokey. I think it’s that new junk yard. They’re always burning something. Is that even legal?”

He brings the dog inside, she goes back to bed, and he fixes himself an early breakfast of coffee and avocado toast on dark rye. While he eats, he watches some YouTube videos to pass the time, and if he gets a writing idea, so much the better.

“Mongolian throat singing? Not sure. The ins and outs of whittling a spoon? Maybe later. The art of drawing caricatures of people for people who really don’t know how to draw for the one-time price of $47.50? I’ll think about it.”

After breakfast, the dishes go on the counter to be washed later, he lets the cats in or out, depending on which way they want to go, and he settles down to his laptop to begin the process of writing his story. But first…

“I think I’m going to make jambalaya tonight, which means I need to do some shopping. Bell peppers. We’re out of onions. Got rice. Need some shrimp. Are we out of milk? Might as well put some toilet paper on the list. We can always use more TP. I feel a bit sniffly today, so maybe some tissues. Pet food? Yep, they go through it fast. What to fix with the jambalaya? Asparagus, maybe? Cornbread. Need to put cornmeal on the list.”

He stops, opens up a new document on his laptop, and types: My old grandpa once told me, “Never trust a man who can’t make his own cornbread. He’ll rustle your cattle, cheat at cards, and put beans in your chili and claim YOU’RE the one who can’t be trusted.” 

He deletes the document because his grandpa said no such thing, “but it would’ve been awesome.”

Four hours go by and the writer has done practically everything he can think of besides writing. He pours himself another cup of coffee and watches some more YouTube videos about Africa, fingerstyle guitar playing, Octoberfest, motorcycles, classical piano, how to play a Chinese sanxian, Career Ladder, Scarlett Johansson, How To Move To Finland, Norwegian slow TV, planting a garden, building a…

“Wait a minute. Norwegian Slow TV. That beautiful Norwegian concept of televising the mundane as entertainment. Now THAT has possibilities!”

I wish I had a late-night talk show

I wish I had a late-night talk show. I’d dedicate an episode to bunny rabbits, if that’s allowed. I haven’t seen a bunny rabbit in my yard for ages. I’d invite all the bunny rabbits in town to a bunny rabbit roundtable to discuss where they’ve been lately. I saw a fox the other day. I wonder if there’s a connection between the two.

I saw a skunk in my yard last week. He wouldn’t be invited to the “Where Did All The Rabbits Go?” roundtable. I’d invite the skunks to their own episode. I wouldn’t bring them into the studio. We’d go out on location. “Out On Location” episodes are very popular.

I can’t imagine a single person having a gripe about letting bunny rabbits speak their mind. Well, maybe a farmer. The rabbits would probably complain about the farmer’s fences that keep them away from all the good vegetables. But everybody would agree, farmers have that right to build fences. I wouldn’t suggest trapping them (the rabbits) and putting them in cages and hurling insults at them until everybody believes bunny rabbits are the sole reason for the decline of our way of life, but I don’t see any harm in some chicken wire between good neighbors.

I wonder if Jessica Rabbit and Bugs Bunny are still in “the business?” An interview with both of them together might make the ratings shoot through the roof. We wouldn’t talk about shooting anything, though. That probably wouldn’t be allowed.

On second thought, Bugs Bunny can get a bit sarcastic. He might indulge in jabbing social commentary that would offend Elmer Fudd to the point he’d blow a gasket and sue another network. We can’t have any of that. And Jessica Rabbit might be too sexy. Can’t have any of that, either.

Puppies. A late-night puppy episode could be the ticket. Everybody loves puppies. Puppies and kittens. Maybe not on the same night. Puppies, kittens and baby squirrels. If ya can’t make an Emmy-nominated show out of THAT, you’re doing something wrong. 

Speaking of squirrels: I wasn’t raised to be a hunter, but I have shot a few squirrels in my life. I’m not proud of the fact. They never did me any wrong. And since they tasted mostly like chicken, I should have just eaten chicken. 

Squirrels are fun to watch. That’s why I believe audiences would thoroughly enjoy a nightly segment on my show titled, “Squirrel on the Move.” Squirrels on seesaws, squirrels on poles, squirrels on roundabouts where anything goes. It’d be the highest-rated show in the history of the universe. Unless it’s not allowed.

I’m so thankful we live in a country that cherishes free speech concerning bunny rabbits, puppies, kittens, foxes and squirrels. I imagine in some countries, talking openly about those subjects might be frowned upon. You might even be thrown in jail or sent off to a floating prison surrounded by man-eating Great White Sharks.

An episode about sharks? Nah, too scary. Somebody from the midwest might call saying the episode gave their kids nightmares. Can’t have that. 

Butterflies. Episodes about butterflies would always be allowed. We could…

Nope. This is just getting too silly. I don’t want to be a host on a late-night talk show. I just want to stay home and read a book. Drink some coffee. Watch the cats do acrobatics around the living room. Listen to owls asking endless questions. Figure out extravagant reasons for not mowing the yard today. Or tomorrow. Tell terrible Dad Jokes in the safety of my own home — while it’s still allowed.