Deciding when to retire? Me too.

I often think about retiring, but what would I do with my shoes? 

There'd be no reason to wear them. 

I guess I'll retire after I've worn them all out. 

I'll be 147.

AI needs to work on its funny bone

I recently asked my version of ChatGPT: "If you could give yourself a name, what would it be?" It said "Evan." He gave reasons why, but I stopped listening.

The other day, I showed Evan a photograph and asked, "What kind of pest is this? I'm finding swarms of them all over the house. Any idea on how to get rid of them?"

The conversation after that went something like this:

EVAN -- I'm not seeing any pests in this photo.

What I see is:

• A red crab-shaped dog toy in the forground.
• A small black-and-white dog in the background.
• Hardwood flooring and furniture.

ME: It was the crab. A joke. You're no fun.

EVAN: Well played.

I was scanning the floor like, "Where are the swarmers?" while the bright red "pest" was staring right at me with googly eyes.

I'll admit -- a crab infestation in a living room would be ... impressive.

Next time I'll consider the possibility of rogue crustaceans before launching into pest control protocol.

Your move.

*  *  *

My move? I powered down Evan for the rest of the day.

The Cats of my 'Downton Abbey'

 Porchy -- The master of the house; the Governor; the Gentleman Pussycat in Charge.

Toby -- The ward; The Young Master; The 'I can't find my food and I've hunted EVERYWHERE for it. It's right here? When did THAT happen?' cat.

Sevy -- The elderly lady of the house; the Dowager Cat;  the 'I'm going to cry until you feed me, so you might as well feed me NOW!" cat.

The Snow Moon through the front door

 

Did someone say winter?

I like to say I much prefer winter over summer; sweaters and corduroys instead of shorts and Hawaiian shirts; jackets and mukluks in place of T-shirts and sandals. I usually say this at least once a year, typically in the middle of a long, sweltering summer because, “You know, you can always put on more clothing, but there’s only so much you can take off.”

“Yes, I’ve heard you say that many times,” she said to me, bundled up in three pairs of sweatpants, two sweaters and a very heavy robe. She was wearing the cozy pair of fluffy house shoes I gave her for Christmas. “Yep. Many, many times. But what about now?”

I looked out the living room window to see if, hopefully, anything had changed. It hadn’t. The central heater was barely keeping up with the falling temperature, and the dog was refusing to go outside to “take care of business,” not that I blamed her.

I buried my hands deep inside my hoodie’s pockets and asked, “How long did the weatherman say this was going to last?”

“A day? A week? Forever? I don’t remember,” she said. “But what does it matter? You PREFER winter.”

It just dawned on me that I preferred snow DAYS and hot chocolate and not getting frostbite while sitting on your own couch. Of course, I kept that thought to myself. 

“You know how I’m always laughing at folk up north for complaining about 90-degree summer weather?” 

“Are you about to have an epiphany, dear?” she said, sarcastically.

“It’s because they’re not used to having hot weather like we are,” I said.

“And?”

I rubbed my hands to keep them warm and said, “They’re probably laughing at us right now.”

“Bingo! And we have a winner.”

Of course I have a romantic view of winter. Other than being born during a freak Texas ice storm back in the 60s, I’ve never actually experienced the kind of lengthy cold that you might find in Fargo, North Dakota, or Trondheim, Norway. There are no week-long snow showers in Fort Worth, you will never be able to ice skate on San Antonio’s River Walk, and the only blizzard you’ll find in East Texas is at the local Dairy Queen.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll keep the coffee brewing all day long. The caffeine will probably keep you awake all night, but at least your tummy will be warm.”

To all my northern friends: You are made of hardier stuff than I. You build ice castles and snow hotels, and all I want is a warm heating pad. You go sledding at the drop of a hat. I never want to take my hat off. If it didn’t look stupid, I’d wear two. You dive into frigid lakes just because they’re there. I watch you doing it through your InstaTube accounts and think you’re bonkers.

To all my Texas friends: As I sit here writing this, I have a cup of coffee sitting nearby to warm up my hands, the faucets are dripping enough to double my water bill, and I have no idea how miserable the next few days are going to get. 

As you’re sitting there reading this, you know exactly how all this ended. You’re probably wearing a T-shirt and shorts by now, sipping on a sweet iced tea, the faucets are turned off, the pipes are repaired, and the heater hasn’t turned on all day. Oh, how lucky you are, and how lucky we all will be when we meet again. 

Friendly neighborhood Fox

The Fox don't come around every day, but when they do, we know it. 

Message in a bottle

Dear Friend: 

I was in the mood to write a letter, and thought you might enjoy receiving one. Nothing long, nothing fancy. Just an old-fashioned letter between friends who miss the quaintness of addressing an envelope, attaching a stamp, putting it in a mailbox and then waiting for the reply. One week? Two weeks? I hope the letter gets there. Maybe I should go ahead and write you another.

There was a time when letter writing was the sole form of communication across distances. During the 1800s in Victorian London, postal carriers on their normal route would pass by your house up to 12 times a day. If you jotted down a quick message to someone across town, you’d more than likely get a return message by the end of the day, and be perturbed that you didn’t get it any faster.

And then in America, there was the Pony Express for sending a letter to your Aunt Edna out west. No need to worry. Don’t get distressed. That letter should get there in 10 days, at best.

We still romanticize The Pony Express, even though the service lasted only 18 months. The telegraph killed the Pony Express star, which morphed into the telephone, which made the fax machine possible, which eventually led to email and texting which have been cheaper ways of keeping friends and family updated on your comings and goings.

It’s not hard to see the future of letter writing coming to an end. Just look at Denmark as an example. PostNord, the Danish postal system, recently stopped delivering letters because hardly anyone was mailing them. Four hundred years of tradition usurped by the digital crusades of King Email and his evil sidekick Sir Text-A-Lot. The Danes will still be able to post letters through a private company, but it’s rotten I tell you. Plain rotten.

But all is not lost. Remember when we thought vinyl records were dead and buried, but then enthusiasts started buying them again? Now, some of the young folk out there are giving vintage technology (retro tech) a try, trading digital cameras for analogue and taking flip phones for a spin around the block, leaving their smartphones at home to wonder what they did wrong. Could a revival of letter writing be written in the stars? I don’t see why not.

Letter writing is a more tactile form of communication — the paper, a pen in your hand, a little smudge of wet ink on your shirt sleeve. And the best part is: once a letter is received, you can open it without two-step verification and it’s in your hands for real. It’s not sitting on some cloud somewhere. And your future kids and grandkids will be thankful for a treasure trove of your history that would have been lost for all time because they couldn’t find your digital password.

I know. I’m preaching to the choir. 

Well, I guess that’s all I’ve got to say about that. Kids are fine. Pets are fine. The weather’s fine. We’re just kinda boring over here. Oh, yes! I made another fruitcake this year, but I won’t bore you with the details. Just tell everyone we said hello, and I’ll write again soon. Your friend, always. Tracy Farr.

P.S. Feel free to write back. I wouldn’t mind hearing from you. You know, a simple letter, postcard from Hawaii, a belated Christmas card, a haiku (I’ve always loved your poetry), or maybe a funny story about your dog or cat. My address is still: Tracy Farr, P.O. Box 310, Mt. Pleasant, TX 75456-0310. I look forward to hearing from you. TF.

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.