Ten Words I Think Should Be Banned in 2014

Johnson, watching the ticker symbols flash across the big board noticed that his particular stocks were all trending down. He had invested almost his entire savings against the wishes of his wife. Being the gambler he was, including the tables in Vegas, he knew what he had to do to save face and perhaps make a few thousand if he were lucky. He needed to double down on everything or risk facing his own fiscal cliff. After all YOLO. Spoiler alert: If Johnson’s financial situation improved and his stocks performed like they were all on steroids then he could financially afford to actually knock a few items off his bucket list. No sir, no more kicking the can down the road for old Johnson. Take a selfie and hastag it:goodluckwiththat.

America’s Most Apocalyptic, Violent City

This is a sad story of the city where I was born.

Filmmaker Michael Moore is a Flint native and made the 1989 documentary “Roger and Me” about the city (which was recently inducted into the National Film Registry.) Moore said of his hometown, “The only difference between your town and Flint is that the Grim Reaper just likes to visit us first.”


Still Here

I haven’t been very active on blogging this week. Went to Florida on a little house hunting trip. Found a great home and a very good lot. Still have second thoughts about am I doing the right thing. Picking up and starting all over with friends etc.

The home we found had a two and a half garage! Two cars and one golf cart. Spend almost the entire time in a golf cart. Great people, sunny climate; perhaps too hot in the summer. Thinking…thinking…thinking…

And I don’t even play golf!

On The Evening Train

On The Evening Train
On The Evening Train

Night after night, week after week, month after month and year after year,
Clad in her garments of dingy black, ragged and wrinkled, she’s waiting here
Watching the passenger trains come in, silent and sad in the self same place,
Anxiously viewing the careless crowd, eagerly scanning each stranger face.

Never a word she speaks as she waits patiently every night for the train,
Sadly and silently turning away, over and over again;
Children have grown to be women and men since the first evening she waited there,
Close by the station, silently, with that eager vacant stare.

Ah! that was thirty years ago, where she looked for three or four engines then
She watches, unnoting the flight of time, a score of trains come in;
And the city has grown to twice its size, yet faithful still at her post she stands
Grasping her old worn traveling bag tight in her wrinkled hands.

The station employees scarcely heed the thin bent figure and anxious face,
They have seen her there ’till she seems to them almost like a part of the place;
If any of them, as they pass her by, kindly warn her of coming snow or rain,
She only says, with a faint sad smile–
“He promised to come on the evening train.”

When the lights are extinguished, the crowd dispersed, wearily she will walk away
Only to come to her lonely post with a feebler step next day;
Whom is she looking for? you ask.
Perhaps it is not worth the telling o’er
The same old story I know you’ve heard many a time before.

He was her sailor lover and she, courted by many, young and fair
With rosy cheeks and graceful form and sunshiny golden hair;
She stood that day where she’s standing now, watching the train ’till it passed from view,
Never doubting but he would prove faithful to death and true;

He had gone on a voyage across the sea promising to return in the Spring
When, with the chime of the early year, their bridal bells would ring;
But the Spring flowers bloomed and the blithe birds sang and she waited and waited in vain
For her sailor lover never returned and no message came to explain.

Whether he met with disaster or death, or proved to his promise false and untrue
No one can prove or even guess, for nobody ever knew;
Wild with anxiety, worn with grief, disease had found her an easy prey,
Flickering between life and death for many a week she lay.

And when she rose from her weary couch, restored to life and health again,
This one thought throbbed in her vacant mind: “He promised to come on the evening train.”
So down to the station she daily walks, standing alone at the corner there,
Closely scanning each stranger face with that eager, vacant stare.

She sees friends meet when the trains come in, with clasping of hands, with smiles and tears
And fond embraces she often sees, and lovers’ greetings she often hears;
But the face that she looks for among the throng will never gladden her sight again,
Poor faithful heart, you will soon forget the broken vow of the evening train.

Martha Lavinia Hoffman

Small Town America

Sometimes in nice to live in small town America.

You know you live in small town America when the following two items make the front page.

  • “Tie broken, town elects mayor. Both candidates tied last week with 288 votes each. After opening three provisional and two late absentee ballots last Friday the Board of Elections certified the winner Tuesday.” “I was happy to win” said the winner. It’s kind of like when you play football, and your tied until the last two minutes, and then you win.”
  • City gives women $312 to a resident who says her garden was “destroyed” by a city street paving project.

Don’t you just love small towns?

NaBloPoMo # 16


Grandma & Grandpa
Grandma & Grandpa

Herman Horton, born 06.17.02, died 10.13.83 (81)

Nora Edith McDowell, born 02-03-06, died 11.03.87 (81)

Married: 10-02-21.

Doing research on my maternal grand parents I found out an interesting fact: my grandmother had to have her mother sign the marriage certificate because she was only 15 when they got married.

Movin’ on slowly, sittin’ forlornly
Looks through her window, clouds hide the sun
She thinks of her love, gone like the wild ones
She knows he’ll never return

Grim reaper of love, grim reaper of love
Grim reaper of love, grim reaper of love
Killing the living and living to kill
Grim reaper of love thrives on pain, people, beware

Missed her sadness of the loss of his loaning
But in his past thinking, love can’t last
We were so happy, peaceful and dear
But now his life’s a little miser

Grim reaper of love, grim reaper of love
Grim reaper of love, grim reaper of love
Killing the living and living to kill
Grim reaper of love thrives on pain, people, beware

Turtles – Grim Reaper Of Love Lyrics
NaBloPoMo #13

I Remember: Clarinet

I remember, as a boy growing up, wanting to play the clarinet. I was in awe of Benny Goodman, Woody Herman and his Orchestra, and Artie Shaw.

After much nagging, my parents finally said I could have one if I practiced every day. I did. I even had a little report card that my dad had to sign off on to testify I had played for at least an hour that day. One slight problem is that my dad practiced as much as I did.

I found out later in life that my parents had to take out a loan to pay for the clarinet. It was a large expense at the time. I never was any good. I was always “second chair”; I think everyone after the “first chair” was a second chair. The first chair was my next door neighbor Ginger. Not only was she good at playing the clarinet but she played the damn piano as well. Her parents even bought her a piano.

NaBloPOMo #11



Huh? It’s a universal word, linguists find. A new study examined languages from around the world and discovered what they could be a universal word: “huh?”

“While it may seem like a throwaway word, “Huh?” is the glue that holds a broken conversation together, the globe-trotting team reported Friday in the Journal PLOS ONE.”

Now I can point to this study when my wife asks me a question when I’m not paying attention. “Huh?”

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