BARRELING ON

Did you ever wonder about what constitutes a full barrel? Newscasters plague us with the costs of a barrel of crude oil which holds about 42 gallons. Being regulated by customs or laws a barrel of wine holds about 31 1/2 gallons—a 1/2 gallon more than a 31 gallon of beer.

Nowadays, Congress seems to be composed of a barrel full of monkeys—without offering us a barrel full of laughs. Their recent decisions have left us hanging over a barrel. In the olden days that meant “dragged over a barrel, getting a flogging and helpless with little chance of choice”

However, in this day and age we have a choice. Just because a few rotten apples can spoil a barrel is no reason that with our votes we can’t let them have it with both barrels.

Also, it seems as if some of the members of the Supreme Court have been scraped from the bottom of the barrel. We can stop staring down the barrel of a gun by voting for Senators who will take all of this bull by the horns and will strengthen our laws.

If the American voters will come out and vote in large numbers, we can rid ourselves of lies, and the self-serving politicians (both locally and nationally) who disdain the Constitution of the United States and crave tyrannical power.

It’s as easy as shooting fish in a barrel.

Esther Blumenfeld

SOMETIMES STUCK

On a rainy afternoon, I spent an hour thinking about glue. So what do YOU think about on a rainy day?  

There are many different meanings when talking about glue. For instance, at a wedding someone might say about the groom, “Look at him. He’s really stuck on his bride.” A few years later that same person might say, “Look at him. Now, he’s stuck with her.” Unfortunately, sometimes a relationship can be defined by a wayward preposition.

On the other hand, it’s a fact that many times a family is held together by one person—the glue that keeps them all together. When that person dies, often the whole Kit and Caboodle become unstuck. And what about the egotist who’s stuck on himself?

Gerald Ford said that “Trust is based on integrity. It’s  the glue that holds the government together.” Unfortunately, he forgot to say it to Richard Nixon, which brings to mind that invisible (latent) finger prints can be made visible by Permabond Glue. Also, you can make women more beautiful by bonding fingernails and false eyelashes or gluing extensions on stringy hair.  And, in a TV advertisement, people glue their false teeth, so they can eat corn on the cob—even when it’s not in season.

For me, Gorilla Glue has become my best friend, but I learned early on to wear rubber gloves, since the first time I fixed a broken something, I ended up with only 3 usable fingers. Now my fingers are intact, and I have been able to help friends repair their broken items which sometimes helps to repair sweet memories.

Writing is a very solitary profession, and through the years I was often tempted, when facing a deadline, to glue myself to my chair.  If you think that being enamored with glue is strange remember the actor Michael Constantine, the loving Dad in the movie, MY BIG FAT GREEK WEDDING.  He used Windex Spray to cure all ills.

Here’s a bit of advice.  If you listen carefully to what people say, you will realize that some thoughts will stick like glue.

Esther Blumenfeld

SAME VOICE

It gives me pane to sea Putin’s bear chest to aye his mussels. Parish the thought that he could chews too by a shirt. You’d think that the Knight of the Living Dead could write a Czech to afford to bye one, butt he’s probably two  cheep. It is a reel fax that Russia is running out of cache.  Give me a brake!

That paragraph is an example of some earthy Homophones that sound the same as other words, but have a different meaning, and to make it more difficult sometimes Homophones are even spelled the same way such as: watch, tear and fly.

“If the English language made any sense, lackadaisical would have something to do with a shortage of flowers.” (Doug Larson)  And, if you have ever laughed at someone with an accent, remember she speaks more than one language.

The reason I bring all of this up is that you Native English Speakers have no inkling of how difficult it is to learn the robust English language. However, lots of people who were born into it tend to abuse it when it gets in their way.  I should know, because I had to learn English when I was a three-year-old who spoke fluent German when my parents and I escaped the Nazis in 1939. “Only English” was the rule in our home, since my Father, who was already fluent in seven languages, had to improve his pronunciation and English language skills to remain successful in his profession. For instance, when he conducted his first funeral, he asked the President of the Congregation if he had done all right. The President was complimentary, but suggested that the next time Dad might want to say, “The man was deceased…not diseased.”

Rules or no rules, I wanted none of it! I, the stubborn child, wanted everyone to speak the way I did. Mother was quite concerned, but Dad said, “Don’t worry, the children in the neighborhood will teach her English.” Everyday, when I came into the house after playing outside, Mother would ask (in German) “Did you learn any English today?”And everyday I would shake my head “NO!” However after a week, she asked again, “Did you learn any English today?” I smiled, looked at her, and said, “Shit, Booger, Fart!” Hooray, I was an American. Of course, we all became fluent in English. One room in our home was a library, and Dad told me, “You can read any book you can reach without standing on a chair,” and he knew he had it made when he dreamed in English.

I not only learned the English language, I fell in love with it, and eventually my love affair with beautiful, expressive words became my career. However, English is an ever-changing language constantly in flux. Sometimes, I will use a word, and my son, Josh will say, “Mom, no one uses that word anymore,” and I will reply, “I do.” Other times some words fly away with the winds of extinction, and probably rightfully so. Other times, I find that there are words that I do not understand—especially those involving new technologies—even when I look them up.

So, I realize that the limits of my language draw the limits of my world, but that’s okay. When my parents moved to a retirement community, someone asked my Father, “Is it difficult for you to move?” He replied, “Not as long as I have my books.  My books are my portable homeland.”

Esther Blumenfeld

KEEP ON MOVING

This morning I walked past the exercise room on my way to the swimming pool.  I stopped and watched in awe as I saw several really old folks (like me) pushing, pulling, sweating, grunting and walking on the exercise equipment. I’m not sure if any of them qualify as “hard bodies,” but no one can argue that they aren’t maximizing being as healthy as possible—unless one of the machines throws them off.

I take a different approach. I try to hike outside for at least an hour, or 45 minutes, every morning—unless the sun tells me it’s time for air-conditioning. I’ve also become an avid fan of Chair Yoga. I stretch and sit in a chair, because lying on a mat hurts my back. I even do Yoga exercises in the pool. However, I don’t touch my toes, because  then I would drown.

When I was a child, exercise involved Mom yelling, “Go out and play!” I enjoyed roller skating, but that meant wearing leather shoes and tightening the skates around my shoes with a metal key. Everyday, I’d hit a crack in the sidewalk and the skates would fly off and I’d go home with skinned knees. Safety wasn’t that much of an issue in those days. I can’t remember a piece of play equipment that didn’t bloody my elbows or knees. The see-saw was fun until I sat way up high and the kid at the bottom ran off to play elsewhere as I hit the ground.  I liked my bike with the thick tires until I hit a wall. In my case, Klutz took on a whole new meaning. My favorite exercise in those days was climbing the neighbor’s apple tree, eating the apples and making up stories about the clouds in the sky.

High School not only required physical activity but added a sadistic gym teacher named Fanny to the equation. If she caught a girl chewing gum in class, she’d make her spit the gum on the gym floor, step on it and then scrape it up with a dull knife. Fanny also shouted, “Scrub pimples with soap!” Climbing ropes was big on her agenda.  I was too short to reach the ropes let along climb them, and, Field Hockey was played without shin guards. I quickly volunteered to be the umpire.  I wasn’t a very good umpire, but my friends didn’t care because they weren’t very good players.

At college, I was required to take four non-credit quarters of physical education. My first choice was tennis which involved a lot of running around and trying to hit a little ball with my big racquet. I received an A for attendance. The second course I chose was fencing. I did quite well until a six foot Amazon came at me, and I ran like Hell. She chased me around the room until she realized that the rubber tip had fallen off her foil.  Then I stumbled upon a class called “Posture, Figure and Carriage.” That I could do!  I walked around with a book on my head. I think the teacher thought that one could absorb Tolstoy through the hair.  After walking around we’d lie down and learn how to relax, which I enjoyed very much—especially after walking in the snow— way across campus to get to the P.E. building. To fill the requirement, I took this class twice. The Physical Education, non- credit class was dropped the next year.  I think that was the year they added Statistics to the Foreign Language Department.

I used to be a good swimmer until I tore up my shoulder. So, now I go to the pool, do my Yoga, and then I float about with a pool noodle making up stories about the clouds.

 I have traded roller skates for a walking stick. When I turned 80, my son, Josh requested that I get one. He said, “Mom, when you go hiking in the mountains the walking stick will protect you from falls, and from mountain lions.” He was right. So far, I haven’t fallen or been eaten by a mountain lion. The one time I did encounter a mountain lion, she took one look at me and obviously had no taste for old meat.

Esther Blumenfeld  (Four breaths in.  Five breaths out.  It works every time

IS A BUTTERFLY A FISH?

As I established in my last column, we don’t have to worry about an uprising of fish, because, not only do we have a fully trained military to protect us, we also have all those licensed fishermen who can bait a hook without injuring anyone except maybe their own thumbs.

 A license ensures that a person is not only competent, but has been trained, and has passed a test to do something complex such as driving a car. When misused, an automobile can be classified as a deadly weapon.

 So, why do 41 states require make-up artists, who work in spas and salons, to have licenses, and gun owners do not?  I think it’s because applying makeup can be very dangerous, especially when the make-up artist pulls the trigger on his high-capacity foundation spritzer, and a woman’s smile turns into a smirk.

Unarmed security guards are licensed in 32 states. North Dakota even requires them to have 1000 hours of experience before becoming eligible to walk around and check the doors. Who needs guns when you’ve got snowballs?  Lots of folks need licenses to do a variety of things. In Louisiana a person needs to pass an exam for a floristry license, because that will assure people that you’ve been well-trained and will not put Poison Ivy into a wedding bouquet.

And then, there’s the marriage license. Some people want to control who should be allowed to marry the person they love, but those people don’t care if the prospective father-in-law   brings an assault  rifle to the wedding. However, I do admit that buckshot is hard to control.

I am not sure that sex is more dangerous than an AK-77, but a lot of it has to be licensed. Whether you have a strip club, nude dancers, a store loaded with sex toys (not motorcycles), adult books, videos or sex films the owners have to go through stringent licensing requirements.

In Florida, minors are protected by laws that they cannot be involved in sex films. That is certainly vital!  All children should be protected from the monster who carries an assault camera loaded with film!

By the way, if a person doesn’t have a  license for all of these things, he’d better hire an attorney who does, because if you have a license and you break the law, you are in big doo-doo.

So, to end this perplexing tale, Time Magazine (June, 2022) informs us that the District Court of Appeals in California made a ruling on May 31st that, “Bumblebees can indeed be classified as fish for the purposes of being protected by the California Endangered Species Act.” Consequently, if you want catch a fish, get a license and buy a butterfly net.

Esther Blumenfeld