To live is to battle with trolls in the vaults of heart and brain. To write; this is to sit in judgment over one's Self. Henrik Ibsen
There is nothing like coming back to home and work after being away for awhile. The there’s-work-to-be-done piles are as high as Fafner’s hoard. My soul swoons. However, this is predictable; it is the price one pays for letting the world spin unsupervised.
Not to be worrying! All is OK, other than I need time to catch up. Tune in tomorrow for the typical Wednesday Ws meme. I see you then.
Hugs,
Spo.
Outside my bedroom window
Greetings from Michigan Land of Perpetual Snow and Ice, and there is snow, about 4 inches or more. Happily we got here last night before the main event commenced. It’s lovely to look at but I have a flight this evening. Nothing frets me more than the notion of a canceled flight due to inclement weather. Brother #3, who has experience with flying, tells me this is nothing really. The snow stops about noon and my flight is at 6PM; this gives thems in charge plenty of time to clear the runways. Someone (the dear!) has be in first class, something I’ve not done in ages.
This whisky trip was far more fun than I imagined. I thought seeing one distillery means you’ve seen them all, but they were as various as the boozes. You could feel the excitement being around bourbon lovers, many of them well over four feet and quite knowledgable about the stuff, yet not ‘snobs’ per se. It was marvelous to hear the histories behind the bottles. Later, when I am sipping something, I can remember the experience. One of the masters taught me how to nose bourbon better than I was doing. He had just given us a talk about how bourbon is something you share to make memories. I told Mr. Freddie from now on when I smell a bourbon or whisky I will think of him, thank you.
Four months or so from now we are the proud owners of over one hundred bottles of Blantons with the Spo-crest on it, can you imagine?
Each had a marvelous tale to go with the scrumptious taste.
Patience above! I overspent; I bought four bottles. I purposely packed light to bring home any bourbon booty. Brother #4 assures me he can ship things for me, but I prefer all of them coming home today. Do I tempt fate? I have plenty of bubble wrap and clothing for cushion.
This morning I had the sad task today of going through my late Father’s things looking for mementos to keep. There wasn’t much. I found one shirt that fit me, a U of M polo shirt, and a coffee mug with his law firm name. I also took the cigarette box with the Mackinac Island design on its cover. I’ve seen it all my life. He got it when he worked at the Grand Hotel.
I am taking back the Spo-shirt I made for him, the one with the nautical flag design.
Alas, his watch collection is of no use to anyone. Sad to think of all the old men thinking to pass down to their grandsons their watches and nobody wants them. The simply tell time – and with batteries, can you imagine? It took one somewhat out of guilt, although deep down I know I will probably never wear it.
We also worked on papers to get the inheritance sorted. I get a tidy sum, more than I thought. Funny how this doesn’t matter as much as the shirts and cigarette case.
When will I return to Michigan? Who can say. Brother #3 no longer needs me to fly in to sit when he goes out of town. This weekend we spent five hours talking as we drove down and back from Kentucky. He asked if I had made retirement plans. No, I have not. The future has no direction at the moment. It bothers me a bit but I won’t worry about it today.
Greetings from Kentucky!
My whisky companions: Brother #3; Mr. Chris: Brother #4; Brother #2; The Howard.
The long-anticipated whisky barrel tasting was an amazing experience. It’s been quite an education. The tours weren’t just sipping times but lectures of history, chemistry, engineering, and architecture. For thems unfamiliar with the reason of the season: Brother #3 won a barrel of Blantons in his whisky club. After an extensive tour we went to the tasting room for a fun time.
The Master of Ceremonies, a wise whisky man who has been giving tours for twenty two years, had four barrels ready for us to choose from.
It was quite structured: there were six stations of samples we were to sip, sip again, sip with water, and take notes to vote which ones we preferred.
Really, all four barrels were excellent. Anyone one would be fine. They had nuance, so it got down to which one everyone preferred and then there was a the vote.
Curious! We nearly all voted “D” the best. It was complicated, spicy, with a strong finish – like my men.
Behold the winner!
Apparently after the vote the barrel is hauled away and bottled in a ~ 140 bottles with our personal label and ready for consumption in four months. It is unclear how these lovelies get to Michigan but like everything on this trip I don’t have to fret about it.
Brother #4 gets to keep the barrel.
Afterwards, we went to yet another ‘Southern’ restaurant and I ordered the pimento cheese. I am not sure if I have ever had any. The sweet talking waitress, who also called me ‘honey’, assured me theirs was the best and do not question this. It tasted like creamed cheese and cheddar to me.
Greetings from Kentucky Land of Horses and Bourbon and Not much Else. It’s been a whirlwind, running around in frigid weather and visiting distilleries. Our group consists of the four Spo brothers and their companions, Mr. Howard and Mr. Chris. Both men are well over four feet and very knowledgable fellows about bourbon. The two with Brother #4 are like three boys trying to hit as many of the good houses on Hallowe’en in order to get the most of the best treats. I just follow and listen. It is Friday morning; the three of them got up before dawn to stand outside a distillery in below-zero weather, to be first in line to get a special bottle when the place opens in a couple of hours. Brothers #2 and #3 and Urs Truly think this crazy-mad and decided to sleep in and drink tea/coffee rather. Which is why I finally have some time to type.
People get awfully queer about bourbon. During the tastings they describe the samples in colorful detail and bounce off each other comparing it to other bourbons. All the folks on the tours are men – apparently women don’t drink bourbon or they sensibly stay way. Mind! I am a black kettle throwing stones in glass houses.* I am just as excited as the rest in our party. Mr. Chris is a cutie and he loves to talk about bourbon, so I ask him something and get both an ear and an eyeful.
Unlike the others in our party, I am not buying bottles en masse. I calculate I can take two bottles home so they better be good ones, no rubbish indeed! I found one with unique flavor, RD-One, made with some sort of wood from Brazil. I hope I am not contributing to the extinction of the Amazon rainforest by buying a bottle. It costs 70$ – patience above! The other bottle was a rye from The Pepper Distillery. It is probably ‘summer rain’ but I was in a good mood.
Today we run around the county to even more distilleries. The Misters Howard and Chris have tell we are visiting today some really good ones. Their advice is to buy these. Brother #4 assures me any bottles I buy he can ship to Arizona. I thought mailing alcohol is illegal but like how does Santa visit all houses in one night it is best not to think about it.
When we are not sipping samples we are eating in small cafes and restaurants with menu items new to Urs Truly. Last night I was offered a sandwich made with fried green tomatoes and pimento cheese, served by sweet-talking waitresses who call us all ‘honey’.
Today is Valentines Day. I wish you a love-filled day. Consider this my billet-doux to you. In the story of Cupid and Psyche, they eventually marry, and the union of Eros with Mind produces a child, Happiness. Isn’t that lovely?
*This doesn’t sound right but The Board of Directors Here at Spo-reflections thought it amusing so they wouldn’t let me alter it.
What’s top of my mind: Whisky. Today I fly to Michigan (weather permitting) to Brother #3 and then drive to Kentucky to meet with the members of his whisky club to see the sights and claim the prize barrel. Brother #4 is excited as an 8yo going trick-or-treating on a street known for its houses that give special sweets. We will tour several distilleries. I am flying so I will limit my shopping to one or two bottles (no rubbish) . The prize barrel, the reason for the season, will make ~140 bottles of Spo-brand bourbon. Patience above!
If any Spo-fans want some, I have heaps.
Where I’ve been: Goodwill. I am ‘channeling Angela’ this week viz. cleaning out clutter, hauling things to Goodwill in large white plastic bags. I drop them off after work on my way home. Someone’s approach to donations is to ‘wait someday until we take inventory for taxes’. This someday never arrives. My way, there is no tax credit, but the job is done.
Where I’m going: Kentucky. I am not sure where I am going, or what we are doing, but I don’t have to worry about it. Brother #3 is driving, and Brother #4 is Master of Ceremonies. I just have to tag along and perhaps be the responsible big brother/designated driver. I am certain to post all the goings-on.
What I’m watching: The full moon. I have an app that tells me the phases of the moon. When it is full, the app sends a slightly spooky cord of music to tell me. I like following the moon phases, maybe because I am a Cancer A.K.A a mood child, and like the moon and tides my moods fluctuate. Mind! I have never seen any correlation to the full moon and shenanigans. It is a good time to have a bagel.
What I’m reading: Around the world in 80 games. Hot puppies! My kind of book! I love games, although I am not good at them. The author is a mathematician; he explains his picks through mathematics. The essay on Wordle is interesting, although it is more a puzzle. It turned into a game through groups posting their times and stats. He gives some start words best at solving the puzzle.
Do you play Wordle?
Are you in a Wordle group? I am in three.
Do you use the same or different start word?
What I’m listening to: Mozart. If I am going to get through all of Herr Mozart’s compositions I need to get going. I try to listen to a few on the weekends. I am up to K. 68. There are over 600.
What I’m eating: Oatmeal. Maybe my innards are peevish because I don’t get enough fiber. Most Americans don’t. Fiber is good for digestion and it feeds the wee beasties. When they are happy, we are happy. A half a cup of Oatmeal with a teaspoon of oat bran is a good thing. I also plan on getting some tins of various bean types to add to the cooking.
Who needs a good slap: WordPress. Lately when I type quickly what was written suddenly disappears along with a sizeable chunk of the composition. Thank goodness for the Control + Z feature. It feels like a program issue, although demons from hell remains on the differential. Spo-fans routinely complain about the inability to leave comments other than as Anonymous. This is annoying as I like to know who is behind all the nice comments.
On my 1-5 scale, I give WordPress two slaps.
Who gets a fist-bump: Someone. As is his wont, he did the airplane arrangements for my flight, checking me in and buying my luggage. Last time I flew I was in the window seat; next to me in the middle seat was a rawther large fellow who didn’t have good stay-in-your-lane boundaries. Someone got me an aisle seat, on the starboard side, as I am left-handed. Thank you.
What I’m planning: Trying not to fret. It looks wintery weather to fall to MI and drive to KY. There is a part of me that would rather not go under such conditions. Rumor has it to get into one of the distilleries you have to wait outside. Sooner I’d eat rats at Tewkesbury than stand outside in cold weather waiting for a whisky.
What’s making me smile: Wearing jackets. It’s true: people respond to me better when I am well-dressed, and I feel better too. By rotating the coats and shirts I have a handful of ensembles. True, none of them are colorful but it’s too cold still for Spo-shirt Fridays. Soon baby.
30. Can you tell me about your best friend (or longest friendship/relationship)?
Most children and grandchildren do not like to think grandma and grandpa had relationships before they met each other. It touches on the randomness of life that if she met him or that he met her before they met each other, you would not exist. Perhaps there was a trivial twist of Fate. Grandmother discloses I was at a dance hoping that handsome Dicky Purdy would approach me but before he did your grandfather got there first and the rest is history. You imagine if Dicky had been a bit faster, things would have gone differently. Oh the horror.
If my late father had previous girlfriends before mother, I am aware of only one. Her name was Venus (no joke). He mentioned her a few times, although it didn’t sound like a long-lasting relationship. Perhaps she was just someone he knew with a memorable name. Mother never mentioned any beaus.
Getting gran or gramps to fess up to their longtime friends may be easier than to their sweethearts. My mother had lots of friends, as well as her cousins, and she kept in contact with all of them in her life. Father had his friends mostly through work. His one claim-to-fame friend was Paul Stookey, of ‘Peter, Paul, and Mary’. They went to high school together. “I taught him cords” Father sometimes said as if it were nothing. It gave me a thrill to touch father’s guitar knowing it was touched by Paul, and it helped launched his career.*
These questions always get me thinking how I would answer them if my hypothetical grandchild interrupted my day with such a question. Who is my best friend? I still like to consider my best friend is Scott, called The Best Friend in my blog. If I call him, we instantly bond and connect. Throughout Time he has been 100% supportive, always the good listener. On the negative I haven’t seen him in years, and we rarely talk (although we text each other good morning each day). I do not recall the last time he has texted or phoned me; it is always I contact him. In his defense, he is that way with everyone. If you want him in your life this is what happens. Your bestest buddy can wonder the world over but the thread that ties you can pluck him or her back in an instant.
Tell me who is/was your best friend, why dontcha.
*I didn’t learn to play, worse luck, as I was left-handed.
In the walk-in closet are two lights. When each has its two bulbs going it looks like a pair of bug-eyes looking down on us. It is enough to allow proper dressing. Over time the bulbs have gone, and the last of them gave up the ghost on Saturday. We had to drag in from the garage the extension ladder to get up to them. Alas, we had only one bulb, a white ‘office’ type. The closet has light again, but it looks like a subway in there. Being up on the ladder gave opportunity to dust those high shelves. Lordy, what a lot of dust there was. We found a handful of objects on the high shelves we didn’t know we had, let alone remember how they got up there. The most puzzling find was a pair of spiked red high heels. I’m not joking nor exaggerating. The Goodwill folks will be puzzled to see it among the men’s shirts and Ts.
I dusted off the several jackets, unworn in ages. It is hard to distinguish ‘his’ vs. ‘his’ as neither one of us wears jackets these days. Happily, they still fit, including the yellow one. I think I got it in Bermuda in the 90s, back when medical conferences went to fun places and were tax-deductible. It is good for Easter brunches and not much else. There are several suits, all covered in dust as well. I will try them on anon.
The ‘to read’ bookshelf is just above the shelf with all the caps. It remains full, because I keep buying books. There are several tomes I am avoiding starting. They seem to stare down at me as if to say ‘I’ve been sitting here for years when are you going to read me?” I am half-tempted to put most of them in the ghost bag (along the red heels) and be done with them. The 500-page biography of Peter the Pretty Alright of Russia can go,* as can the second book in the “Wheel of Time” series. By now I don’t remember what happened in the first book.
The ratio of clothes is 3:1 with Someone in the majority, and the ratio of never-worn clothes is more like 5:1. Someone is working on his weight to get back into some of them, also covered in dust, like waiting for Godot.
I am a firm believer in discarding clothes you know you will never wear, but there always seems to be a few you cannot let go of. I have a few vests. bought on my Key West winter holidays, that I have never worn, and they don’t fit (nor likely ever), but I can’t get myself to be rid of them. This includes the Daisy Duke-like white linen shorts but in the 90s, that if put on would look like Fruit-of-the-Loom tighty whites. Oh the horror.
Once four proper ‘warm’ lightbulbs are purchased I will again haul out the ladder and do another round of dusting and look for more things to discover and discard. I am keeping the two Viking helmets, one with and without blonde braids. One never knows when The Board of Directors Here at Spo-reflections will call a formal meeting.
*It ends badly
Palm Springs approaches, and that gives me motivation to complete a shirt. I can’t show up wearing last year’s can I? Its parts have been in the sewing drawer for some time, so it wasn’t difficult to put together. It turned out well, without any mistakes. I am pleased as Punch.
As always I imagine myself showing up at the resort, making an ingress, with all eyes turning in admiration and envy. This doesn’t ever happen but it’s fun to imagine.
I give my shirts names so I can remember them. The name is usually based upon the pattern. I cannot come up with a name for this one. ‘Multi-colored swirls’ doesn’t roll off the tongue. ‘Palm Spring 2024’ is a precise if not too imaginative name. If my records are right, it could be christened “Shirt #136”. Surely I can do better than this.*
If Spo-fans have any ideas, I am keen to hear them.
*I looked up the order. Equilter.com calls it Arcadia color play – Malachite. Can you imagine?
Note: this isn’t a rant nor a complaint but an attempt at humor. Spo-fans are invited to zoom in and read it as you will. Spo
I caught myself squinting at some print the other day, saying out loud ‘how do people expect one to read such small letters?”. Up until then I’ve done a good job deluding myself I am not that old, but no young person says that, do they? Once upon a time my body parts were on auto-pilot working as one, but lately they’ve decided to all go their own way and none in a good direction.
Lately my body, not my brain, is calling the shots. It cavils it is always too cold or too sore or too tired. Body is not the right word, let’s say body parts.* Last time I looked, the seven orifices of Spo are all questioning their job descriptions. I still need to consume food although the process has a become progressively inefficient. A part of the brain doesn’t believe it is getting fed anymore and insists nearly nonstop it is hungry. This preoccupation interferes with its proper functions, like solving Wordle. Yet put something down the red road and the stomach responds with a WTF am I supposed to do with this.
I could go through the catalog of complaints each system has filed but this makes for dull reading. I remember as a boy hearing my elderly uncles, sitting around sharing their aches and pains, and wondering why on earth don’t they try something else to talk about. I would sit and join them now in their charades of who has it worse. In a way I have joined the old man chorus. On Saturday mornings at the gym I see the same folks, none of them spring chickens (no young person goes to the gym on a Saturday morning at eight). No one is trying to become ripped; they are trying to prevent bone and muscle loss and making sure they can still get up by themselves. I’ve joined them on the floor – and mind my diet more. I make sure I take my medications, what the Board of Directors Here a Spo-reflections refers to as ‘the other pillaging’. Like Alfred the Pretty Good, I am trying to unite the organs and orifices into one country to better face the barbaric raiders, who are well over four feet and none under seventy.
*One part, despite a lifetime, remains entirely uncivilized. Historically it joined the brain before civilization and even before humanity. It still manages to get in the casting vote from time to time. At my age I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Thorsday thoughts was postponed for the feast day of the blog’s nativity. Here it is in Friday form. Spo
I want to thank all of you thems who dropped by and thems who left comments. You are dears, all of you – and not just for this. The Board of Directors Here at Spo-reflections were happy campers as well. Yesterday at the birthday ballum rancum one of the members who was in their cups slurred the secret they were going to replace me with something I heard as Aa-eye, but with business booming the proposal was scrapped. Thanks, guys.
Now back to the usual rubbish.
While Heorot Johnsons partied the likes that hasn’t happened since the time of Grendel, at La Casa de Spo the AC/heater man (or someone like him) showed up and replaced the system. It is up in the attic, so I didn’t see it – nor did I ever see the old one. Someone was there to supervise and assured me they did the switch.* What is noticeable is a hole in the living room ceiling. It is where a speaker is – or was – as their stomping above caused it to fall to the floor. As soon as the hole happened the crew were immediately contrite and on their phones to their supervisor, who was also very contrite. There was an impromptu reenactment of The Monty Python “dirty fork sketch”. Someone didn’t tell them we haven’t used the speaker system since the 90s but said accidents happen. The Hole-Fixer crew (or someone like them) come out the next day to patch things up. They did this well.
Speaking of money, Brother #3 is working on our late Father’s estate. Dying is a complicated process as living, with a lot of paperwork. Getting four people in four areas to sign the same papers is a proving a challenge. As we are all going to Kentucky next week, we can sign things while having a snort at the distillery. While in Michigan I am supposed to pick any clothing or knickknacks I want. If Brother #3 had his druthers, I would haul home the whole lot. What I plan to take is a Spo-shirt I made for him. I also want the copper mug Father used to hold his pens. In theory we each get a Stobert print, but B#3 can keep mine as reasonable attorneys fees.
Caution: old man rant ahead!
For sometime now my innards have been rumbling like a volcano about to become active – which on occasion they have done. I am trying to figure out what is the matter. I fear this is diet. I need to layoff hot sauces and large servings and nasty carbs. GI MDs advise for intense intestines try cutting out all possibly offending agents and then slowly reintroduce them one at a time until you find the culprit. It’s worth a try. The other suspects are exercise, stress, and bizarre medical conditions, the likes of which I won’t write lest some of you are reading this at lunch time.
It’s been a relatively quiet week at work, which has allowed me to scram at 4PM at few times. When I was on salary, in private practice, The Bosses would fret mightily to see my dance card anything but 100% full. As my current boss or bosses are far away and busy with other things I doubt anyone notices I am playing Wordle and doing language lessons in the down times. Now it is Someone who is the concerned one: if I don’t work enough, I won’t get no bonus check this quarter. We have a AC/heater system to recover from. Everyone lay off why dontcha. Maybe that’s why my innards are cranky.
*It cost 20K, patience above! Someone that crafty scout paid via credit card, so at the end of the month when we pay it off in full we’ll get gobs of frequent flier miles, enough to fly to any place where people aren’t angry at Americans. Fat chance of that.
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