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Plumbers and Electricians

I don’t pray because it makes sense to pray. I pray because my life
doesn’t make sense without prayer.    Noah Benshea[i]

Retirement is deceptive. You’re lulled into thinking that things will pretty much go on as they always have. They usually do. But then, life happens.

I’m working in my college office when the phone rings. “Jim, I don’t know what to do. I’m just sitting here on the sofa sewing and three times I’ve felt faint—like I’m about to pass out.”

My mind races. Is this just in Barbara’s head? In the past, I’ve joked with her that I’ve decided on her epitaph: “I told you I was sick!” But what if something’s really going on? She’s never complained about feeling faint before.

“How often is this happening to you?

“About every half hour or so. Oh! I feel like I’m fainting now!”

“Okay—I’m calling 911 and I’ll come home as soon as I can.”

I call 911, run out to my car, and drive home, praying as I go. When people ask me how prayer works, I always have a ready answer: “I don’t know. But the Bible tells us to pray, and Jesus prayed, so I pray.”

When I wheel into our driveway, there’s a white paramedic van sitting in front of the garage, and they’re rolling Barbara out on a stretcher. She gives me a wan smile as they roll her in. I can almost read her mind—Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. They’re just going to take me in to check me out. I’m not reassured. I jump into my car to follow the wailing siren.

The emergency room people admit Barbara immediately and hook her up to an EKG monitor. Sure enough, every eighth beat or so, the little squiggly line gets tired, flattens out, and squiggles more slowly.

After a short wait, Dr. Olinger walks in. “Your heart monitor indicates you’re skipping beats once in a while.” He’s in his early forties with alert, spiky brown hair, no glasses and the requisite white coat. He sits relaxed with crossed legs, talking calmly about life and death issues.

“We’re going to keep you overnight for observation and then we’ll probably give you a monitor to keep an eye on those skipped beats when we send you home.”

But the next morning, Dr. Olinger comes in, “I don’t like those skipping beats. We have ‘plumbers’ and ‘electricians’ here in the heart center. We’re going to send you to our ‘plumbers’ for an angiogram to see if any plaque is plugging your arteries.” I smile and nod my head in agreement.

Not Barbara. “I don’t want an angiogram.” This is vintage Barbara—even in the midst of medical emergencies, she’s still in control, questioning, making her own decisions.

“Well, we can just send you home with a monitor and take our chances, but what if you pass out again? I think you need an angiogram to check for blockage.”

“How do you do that?”

“Well, the doctors will insert a tube through your groin with a tiny camera on it and go hunting through your arteries.”

“What are they looking for?”

“They’re looking for blockages. We’re wondering if a partial blockage might be causing your fainting spells.”

“What if they find one blocked?”

“Then we can immediately put in a stent. It’s a little mesh cylinder that we insert collapsed.” He shows us a picture of the stent. It looks like one of those Chinese finger puzzles that you put your fingers into and then can’t pull them out. “After it’s inserted, we inflate a tiny balloon to push it out against the artery walls. In a few months, it gets ‘adopted’ by the artery and feels right at home there, and it’ll hold the artery nice and open.” I’m nodding my head to encourage Barbara.

“I don’t want a stent.”

But eventually she relents and decides to have the angiogram. I sit outside, wait and pray. After what seems a long time, they emerge and I walk alongside with my hand in hers as they roll her back to her room.

Dr. Olinger comes in and reports, “We did an angiogram and found a 70 percent block in your ‘widow maker’ artery.”

Widow maker? I think, That doesn’t sound good. He shows me the X-ray and I can see a narrowing in the artery that runs across the front of the heart.

“It’s called a widow-maker because if it’s completely blocked, you die. But we put the stent in. Hopefully that’ll take care of it, Barbara. We’ll keep you overnight and send you home tomorrow morning. But we’ll give you a monitor so we can keep an eye on your heart.”

Barbara’s having trouble getting used to the idea of an invasive stent in her body.

In the morning of day three, I’m watching the EKG screen. The squiggle’s mostly behaving itself but sometimes it stops and rests a couple of seconds.

Dr. Olinger says, “Hmmm. I don’t like the way the EKG looks. I don’t think the stent took care of the problem. I think you need to see an electrician.”

“Why? What’s that?”

 “The ‘plumbers’ work with the mechanics of the heart; the ‘electricians’ specialize in the electrical circuits that energize the heart. The heart nerves shock the muscles and contract them. One shock contracts the upper part of the heart; the other contracts the lower part. We’ll check them both out. They’ll stick a thin electric wire down into your heart area to see if the current is flowing normally to your heart.” He talks as if they’re checking your car’s ignition harness or something.

“I don’t want a wire in my heart.”

He gets up, walks over to his butcher-paper flipchart and draws a diagram of the upper and lower heart chambers, the little nerves that deliver shocks to each and the “bundle branch” in between that acts like an electrical switch that causes the lower muscle to contract just after the upper one does.

“We need to see if everything’s working.”

Barbara asks, “What happens if it’s not?”

“Well, since we’ve installed the stent and it hasn’t made any difference in your heart rhythm, we think you have a ‘bundle-branch block.’ This little switch here isn’t always working like it should.” (He points to the flipchart.) “If we find that it’s defective, we’ll install a pacemaker here to regulate the electric pulses.” He reminds me of my mechanic when he told me, “All you need is a new alternator.”

Barbara’s not convinced. “I don’t want a pacemaker.”

“Well, you don’t have to get one. You can just go home and see if you start fainting again. Why don’t you two just talk about it for a bit and I’ll come back in a while.”

Barbara’s looking at me. I’m looking at the green squiggles.  “We’d better let them check out your electric circuits.”

“But I don’t want a pacemaker.”

“They said they’d only install one if your electric circuits aren’t doing the job.”

“Yeah, but they’ll probably say I need one. I don’t want a wire in my heart.”

“But Precious, I don’t want you to have another fainting episode. Why don’t we pray for wisdom here? We need to make a decision.”

We pray. Dr. Olinger comes back in, and looks at Barbara. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” he says.

She laughed. “I just don’t want a pacemaker.”

“Well, you can always just go home and hope for the best.”

“Well . . . Jim thinks we should get it checked out, at least.”

“We can do that but if we find it isn’t working, we need to install a pacemaker.”

“Well . . . okay,” Barbara says, brow furrowing. “But I don’t like it.” Pen poised hesitantly, she ponders the permission document that has phrases like, “You might be disabled” or “you might die” or whatever. I can see her mind racing. It’s not that she doesn’t trust doctors—it’s just that she doesn’t trust them very much. She seems more comfortable with chiropractors, herbalists, naturopaths, or nutritionists.

Finally, she signs.

Barbara and I have had many conversations about health. She doesn’t seem to appreciate my personal philosophy—”Everybody needs to believe in something. I believe I’ll eat ice cream.”

If I complain of any health problems, she usually says, “Well, if you’d eat better, you’d probably feel better.”

“Maybe, but I’d rather be happy than healthy.”

(Eye roll) “Well, don’t expect me to take care of you if you get disabled.”

I think, Empty threat! I guess that’s the chance I’ve got to take.

She insists, “Why don’t you ask your doctor if you should change your diet?”

“Well, because I’m afraid he would say yes. Anyway, I think that if my body craves something, that must mean it’s good for me. I’d rather just take pills for any problem. Besides, what if I ate healthy for years but then got hit by a truck—all that sacrificial eating would be wasted.”

(Harder eye roll, furrowed brow. Then silence). I fear she’ll get her revenge when she writes my epitaph: “I tried to tell him but he wouldn’t listen.”

But now I’m concentrated on Barbara’s heart. They roll Barbara away to the procedure room and in an hour roll her back in.

“They put in a pacemaker,” she says. “I’m not too happy about it.” She shows me the purple bulge near her collarbone with the red slit and stitches. (Later she’ll show it off to relatives, friends and strangers.)

The nurses hook her up to the EKG, and I watch the little green squiggle. It’s squiggling perfectly, not missing a beat. “Barb; that means you won’t faint again, and if you should have more problems, the pacemaker will jump in and take over—it’s good insurance.”

Dr. Olinger comes in and explains that she must take Plavix for twelve months to prevent her stent from clogging up. “If your artery blocks again, you will probably die.”

“I don’t want to take lots of medicines.”

I say, “But Barb, you don’t want your stent to get clogged up.”

So she tries Plavix for a week; then we return to see Dr. Olinger. “I can’t take this medicine; it gives me headaches and I can’t sleep.”

“Well, headaches are better than dying.”

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to die.”

I feel like I’m in the middle of a food fight between people from two different cultures.

“Well, we can stop the Plavix and try putting you on Effient, but only if you don’t read the side effects!” (He laughs.) “But you have to take it faithfully every day for a year. Take half a pill in the morning and the other half in the evening.”

Barbara has always considered a prescription more a suggestion than a command. She starts the medicine, but at her own pace.

The next time we see Dr. Olinger, Barbara says, “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”

He laughs. “Have you been taking your Effient?”

“Yes . . .  I take the half pill every morning but I only take the evening pill on alternate days.” Dr. Olinger groans, holds his head in both hands and drops his head onto the table in mock horror. “Barbara, you’ve got to take this regularly, or your stent might clog up.” Barbara smiles and says she’ll try.

*          *          *

Now it’s a year later, and Barbara’s feeling very good. She wasn’t kidding—she was very ill, and I’m grateful she’s feeling better now. She telephones in every three months so they can remotely check pacemaker function. Her Effient pills are finally done, but the final month she’s cut down to one-half pill per day. Did I mention she makes her own decisions about medicines?

Now we’re at Barbara’s last follow-up visit with Dr. Olinger and he’s smiling. Is it because Barbara’s doing so well, or because he won’t have to deal with her any longer?

[i] Noah Benshea, Jacob the Baker: Gentle Wisdom for a Complicated World. Random House, 1989.

On A Roll

Traveling out of state you never know what you’ll run into—alien environment, alien customs. You want to be open-minded but where do you draw the line?

After flying to San Francisco, embracing my dear California sister and catching up on our lives, I get up to use the bathroom. It smells fresh and has a new towel laid out. But when I reach for the toilet paper, it’s facing the wall—backwards!

I’ve known Anne all my life―her opposite political persuasion, her preference for a different kind of church. None of this ever came between us. But the toilet paper shakes me. Where did she learn this? I don’t remember this happening in our childhood home. If she does this to the toilet paper what else is she hiding? Have I missed her darker side? Uncontrolled passive aggression? Anger issues? Never before have I noticed any serious issues. Did she do it on purpose?

I determine to take the high road here. I turn the roll around on the holder, exit the room and greet Anne as if nothing happened. But when I later pop into the bathroom to brush my teeth, I feel slapped in the face―the toilet paper is reversed again! We never exchanged any angry words—she just reversed it without asking me.

I spend a sleepless night, tossing, turning and troubled. I give myself a lecture: You’re not the host; you’re a guest. You must go with the flow and overlook things. Get over it. And yet I can’t. I can eat different foods she prepares, engage in long conversations about topics I’m not interested in, go places I don’t want to go. But the toilet roll—I just can’t let it go.

In the morning neither of us say anything but I can feel the tension rising. I wonder if Anne has talked to her husband but I don’t sense any estrangement when I talk to him about cars, airplanes, softball. Maybe he doesn’t know about it, or worse, doesn’t care. I dread the coming weeks and months with this bone of contention lodged in my throat.

I have forgiven her, really, but I wonder if I shouldn’t talk to her. At breakfast, Rich hasn’t gotten up yet and Anne and I sit savoring the comforting coffee and scrambled eggs cooked with just a hint of tabasco sauce. I take a deep breath and begin: “Anne, I noticed the toilet paper was reversed and when I turned it around you turned it back. I want you to know I’ve forgiven you and will never bring it up again.”

My sister’s eyes widen and her mouth opens but nothing comes out. Finally, “Oh, Jamie; I didn’t know that was such a big deal. I’m sorry.” Not said patronizingly but full of respect and I don’t detect any anger. (I notice that women tend to apologize, even if they don’t think they’ve done anything wrong.) We share small talk for a few awkward minutes. I think this helps; I feel my muscles relax and the tension dissipate. From then on, I turn the roll her way but later I notice she comes in and turns it back my way. I count that as a sign of our mutual respect.

A couple days later I red-eye back to Minnesota and Uber home after midnight. My own kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. My bathroom! I feel relief wash over me as I reach for the toilet paper and find the loose end facing front. It feels so right.

Why make such a big deal of this? Because if you let things like this slide, next it’s slurping, double chip-dipping or maybe even grand larceny. I figure I did her a service by nipping bad behavior in the bud. And anyway; one of my strongest spiritual gifts is judgmentalism.

Since that difficult day I’ve moved on; I’m not holding on to it. Like, every time I call Anne, I assure her that I’ve put the toilet paper conflict behind us and will never bring it up again. And I congratulate myself on achieving reconciliation after such a sharp misunderstanding.

But I sometimes wonder if she’s still doing it wrong.

WINGSPREAD Ezine for June, 2025


Spreading wings in a perplexing world
June, 2025                                                    James P. Hurd

Please forward and share this ezine with others. Thank you.

Contents

  • Writer’s Corner
  • Blessed Unbeliever 
  • This month’s story
  • This month’s puzzler
  • WINGSPREAD Ezine subscription information
  • Wisdom

Writer’s Corner

Writer’s tip: “If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.” Elmore Leonard

Word of the month: DEIPNOSOPHIST: An expert in the art of discourse while dining

Task for you: Find a piece of writing that you really enjoy and use it as a template for your own writing: style, vocabulary, metaphors, characterizations, description of scenes, plot.

BLESSED UNBELIEVER novel

I confess I sometimes more enjoy talking to atheists than to Christians. My atheist friends seem honest about their doubts. Although my own doubts have been addressed, they have not been quenched. I believe we are all on a spiritual quest and I wish to know the quest of each person I meet. Blessed Unbeliever (below) is the story of one such quest. Much is autobiographical (I won’t tell you which parts!). But the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Blessed Unbeliever (paper or Kindle version) can be found at Wipf and Stock Publishers, Amazon https://a.co/d/9su5F3o or wherever good books are sold.

New story: “Venturing Beyond the Pale”

*Note: This is a different kind of essay where I trace my personal journey from fundamentalism into a more ecumenical faith.

“The President,” sarcastically so called because he was thermometer-thin, unathletic and mute, sat alone on a bench near the Orange High School snack shop. I felt pressure rising in my gut as I sat down to “witness” to him about how all people are sinners and how he needed to “accept Christ” to escape eternal damnation. He said nothing. After about twenty minutes I got up and walked away—and never spoke to him again. My most embarrassing day in high school; I felt like I had committed a violation.

Witnessing to The President was an example of what fundamentalists did. . . . To read more, click here:  https://tinyurl.com/asepunwc

Leave a comment on the website and share with others. Thanks.

This month’s puzzler (thanks to “Car Talk” archives)

Years ago, back in the 80’s, a guy walks into a hardware store to purchase something for his house.

He asks the clerk, “How much is one?”

The clerk says, “60 cents.”

And the guys say, “Okay, how much for 12?”

The clerk says, “$1.20.”

So the guy says, “Okay then. I’ll take 200.”

And the clerk says, “That’ll be $1.80.”

And the puzzler is very simple. 

What was he buying?

Good luck, friends.

 (Answer will appear in next month’s WINGSPREAD newsletter.)

Answer to last month’s puzzler: 

How start building a bridge across Niagara Falls? They held a kite-flying contest. The first kid to be able to get his kite to land on the other side of Niagara gorge won the contest.

So once the kite was across, they attached a rope to the kite string and pulled it across. And they did this with the rope until they were able to pull the cable across. Pretty brilliant. 

And the kid’s name was Homan Walsh, a 16-year-old kid from Ireland who won the contest and made history. 

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Wisdom

C.S. Lewis’s stepson tells the story of a time when Lewis was walking with a friend and a person on the street came up and asked him for spare change. Lewis emptied his pockets and gave it all to the man, and once he had left, the friend challenged him, “You shouldn’t have given that man all that money, he’ll only spend it on drink.” To which Lewis replied, “Well, if I’d kept it, I would have only spent it on drink.”

The upward path of human evolution

Empathy. These eleven short stories make us think twice about the daily happenings in our lives.

1. Today, I interviewed my grandmother for part of a research paper I’m working on for my Psychology class. When I asked her to define success in her own words, she said;
“Success is when you look back at your life and the memories make you smile.”

2. Today, after my 72 hour shift at the fire station, a woman ran up to me at the grocery store and gave me a hug. When I tensed up, she realized I didn’t recognize her. She let go with tears of joy in her eyes and the most sincere smile and said;
“On 9-11-2001, you carried me out of the World Trade Center.”

3. Today, after I watched my dog get run over by a car, I sat on the side of the road holding him and crying. And just before he died, He licked the tears off my face.

4. Today at 7 AM, I woke up feeling ill, but decided I needed the money, so I went into work. At 3 PM I got laid off. On my drive home I got a flat tire. When I went into the trunk for the spare, it was flat too.

A man in a BMW pulled over, gave me a ride, we chatted, and then he offered me a job. I start tomorrow.

5. Today, as my father, three brothers, and two sisters stood around my mother’s hospital bed, my mother uttered her last coherent words before she died.

She simply said, “I feel so loved right now. We should have gotten together like this more often.”

6. Today, I kissed my dad on the forehead as he passed away in a small hospital bed. About 5 seconds after he passed, I realized it was the first time I had given him a kiss since I was a little boy.

7. Today, in the cutest voice, my 8-year-old daughter asked me to start recycling. I chuckled and asked, “Why?” She replied, “So you can help me save the planet.” I chuckled again and asked, “And why do you want to save the planet?”

Because that’s where I keep all my stuff,” she said.

8. Today, when I witnessed a 27-year-old breast cancer patient laughing hysterically at her 2-year-old daughter’s antics, I suddenly realized that I need to stop complaining about my life and start celebrating it again.

9. Today, a boy in a wheelchair saw me desperately struggling on crutches with my broken leg and offered to carry my backpack and books for me. He helped me all the way across campus to my class and as he was leaving he said, “I hope you feel better soon.”

10. Today, I was feeling down because the results of a biopsy came back malignant. When I got home, I opened an e-mail that said, “Thinking of you today. If you need me, I’m a phone call away.” It was from a high school friend I hadn’t seen in 10 years.

11. Today, I was traveling in Kenya and I met a refugee from Zimbabwe. He said he hadn’t eaten anything in over 3 days and looked extremely skinny and unhealthy. Then my friend offered him the rest of the sandwich he was eating. The first thing the man said was, “We can share it.”

WINGSPREAD Ezine for April, 2025

Spreading wings in a perplexing world
April, 2025 James P. Hurd


Please forward and share this Ezine with others. Thank you.


Contents


 Writer’s Corner
 Blessed Unbeliever
 This month’s story: Pitch Perfect
 This month’s puzzler
 WINGSPREAD Ezine subscription information
 Wisdom

Writer’s Corner

Writer’s tip: Unreliable narrator: use a narrator for your story that does not always remember correctly, does not always tell the truth.


Word of the month: DEEPFAKING: Manipulating an image, video or audio of people doing or saying things they never did or said. Easy to do with A.I. Be careful!


Task for you: Write a paragraph spoken by a five-year-old narrator.


Book of the month: An Axe for the Frozen Sea: Conversations with poets about what matters most. Ben Palpant. 2024. Rabbit Room Press. Palpant interviews eighteen poets about their writing craft, family life, grief and the imagination. “May these words reminds us that words matter, that poetry matters, and that we matter.”


BLESSED UNBELIEVER novel

I confess I sometimes more enjoy talking to atheists than to Christians. Since I am a doubter, I find much in common with my atheist friends who seem honest about their doubts. Although my own doubts have been addressed, they have not been quenched. I believe we are all on a spiritual quest and I wish to know the quest of each person I encounter. Blessed Unbeliever (below) is the story of one such quest. Much is autobiographical (I won’t tell you which parts!). But the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Sean McIntosh left his Fundamentalist childhood and walked the road toward becoming an atheist—while attending Torrey Bible Institute! Spoiler alert: it didn’t work out very well. Blessed Unbeliever (paper or Kindle version) can be found at Wipf and Stock Publishers, Amazon https://a.co/d/9su5F3o or wherever good books are sold.


New story: Pitch Perfect


It’s a normal smoggy day at Chino airport. I’ve just taken off with my student, Stan, in his two-seater, fabric-covered Taylorcraft. The takeoff goes normally but after we level off and pick up speed, Stan can’t keep the plane’s nose down.
“Trim forward, Stan.”
“I am.”
“Trim down more.”
“I am!”
The plane is still pitching up violently, threatening to stall. I see Stan straining to push the control wheel forward, but it isn’t helping. What’s wrong?
I’m studying anthropology at Cal State Fullerton and need a little extra cash so when Hank Bradford lures me over to Chino with the promise, “I’ll give you a twin-engine checkout in the Aero Commander” (a larger twin-engine plane), I jump at the chance to work for United California Aviation—the outsize name for Hank’s dubious fixed-base operation. UCA consists of an office, a small workroom with a picture of a naked woman hanging on the wall and a few hundred square feet carved out of the vast and empty adjoining hangar. . . .

To read more, click here: https://tinyurl.com/4s6edsju
Leave a comment on the website and share with others. Thanks.

This month’s puzzler (courtesy of “Car-Talk Archives”)


This one is kind of automotive. Well, it is, and it’s not. You’ll see.
Here we go.
In what famous old black and white movie were a Ferrari and a Renault both featured?
I might add that these weren’t just passing scenes. I mean, these were featured roles in this movie. Very prominent.
Almost every scene in the movie has one or the other in it. So that is how featured they are. What movie has both a Ferrari and a Renault?
Good luck.

(Answer will appear in next month’s WINGSPREAD newsletter.)

Answer to last month’s puzzler:
So, how did the guy at the auction know that the sled, signed and dated “September 10, 1752 G. Washington,” was a fake?
Here is the answer.
There was no September 10th in the year 1752!
So, the sled must have been a fake.
In the year 1752 in the British Empire (including the American colonies), the dates of September 3rd through September 12th were eliminated
These dates were eliminated in order to switch from the old-style Julian calendar to the newer Gregorian calendar. Skipping these 11 days allowed the calendar to line up with the rest of Europe.
So, the date carved on the sled could not be valid, because in the year 1752 that date did not exist.
Good one!

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Wisdom


• Due to my time alone, I finished three books yesterday. And believe me, that’s a lot of coloring.
• What did our parents do to kill boredom before the internet? I asked my 26 brothers and sisters and they didn’t know either.
• I tried donating blood today… NEVER AGAIN! Too many stupid questions:
Who’s blood is it? Where did you get it from? Why is it in a bucket?
• There’s nothing scarier than that split second when you lose your balance in the shower and you think, “They are going to find me naked.”
• Today, I melted an ice cube with my mind just by staring at it. It took a lot longer than I thought it would.
• Struggling to get your wife’s attention? Just sit down and look comfortable.
• Just sold my homing pigeon on eBay for the 22nd time.
• I grew up with Steve Jobs, Johnny Cash and Bob Hope. Now there’s no jobs, no cash, and no hope. Please don’t let anything happen to Kevin Bacon.
• Shout-out to everyone who can still remember their childhood phone number but can’t remember the password they created yesterday. You are my people.
• One minute you’re young and fun. And next, you’re turning down the stereo in your car to see better.
• Think you’re old and you will be old. Think you are young, and you will be delusional.
• When I offer to wash your back in the shower, all you have to say is ‘yes’ or ‘no.’
Not all this “Who are you and how did you get in here?” nonsense.
• Not in jail, not in a mental hospital, not in a grave—I’d say I’m having a good day.

Van Goh’s Starry Night
The whole sky’s aspangle with light.

Our souls long for a quiet harbor. It is there we shall rest from all our labors.


Fun with puns:

  1. Atheism is a non-prophet organization.
  2. Two hats were hanging on a hat rack in the hallway. One hat said to the other: ‘You stay here; I’ll go on a head.’
  3. I wondered why the baseball kept getting bigger. Then it hit me.
  4. A sign on the lawn at a drug rehab center said: ‘Keep off the Grass.’
  5. The midget fortune-teller who escaped from prison was a small medium at large.
  6. The soldier who survived mustard gas and pepper spray is now a seasoned veteran.
  7. A backward poet writes inverse.
  8. In a democracy it’s your vote that counts. In feudalism it’s your count that votes.
  9. When cannibals ate a missionary, they got a taste of religion.
  10. If you jumped off the bridge in Paris, you’d be in Seine.
  11. A vulture carrying two dead raccoons boards an airplane. The stewardess looks at him and says, I’m sorry, sir, only one carrion allowed per passenger.’
  12. Two fish swim into a concrete wall. One turns to the other and says , ‘Dam!’
  13. Two campers sitting in a kayak were chilly, so they lit a fire in the craft. Unsurprisingly it sank, proving once again that you can’t have your kayak and heat it too.
  14. Two hydrogen atoms meet. One says, ‘I’ve lost my electron.’ The other says, ‘Are you sure?’ The first replies, ‘Yes, I’m positive.’
  15. Did you hear about the Buddhist who refused Novocain during a root-canal? His goal: transcend dental medication.
  16. There was the person who sent ten puns to friends, with the hope that at least one of the puns would make them laugh. No pun in ten did.

WINGSPREAD Ezine for March, 2025

Spreading wings in a perplexing world
March, 2025                                                    James P. Hurd

Please forward and share this Ezine with others. Thank you.

Contents

  • Writer’s Corner
  • Blessed Unbeliever 
  • This month’s story: “Brave New World of Cooking”
  • This month’s puzzler
  • WINGSPREAD Ezine subscription information
  • Wisdom

Writer’s Corner

Word of the month: RECRUDESCENCE. The return of something terrible after a time of reprieve. E.g., the recrudescence of the polio virus. Remember Faulkner’s critique of Hemingway: “He refuses to use a word that would send a person to a dictionary.”

Task for you: If you’re stuck, try responding to a probe. Here’s one: What was the most embarrassing incident in your life? Another: Choose a memorable incident. How would that incident have unfolded if you were the opposite gender? Different age? Different ethnicity?

Book of the month: I write this WINGSPREAD on March 17, St. Patrick’s Day, the great saint who led a non-violent conversion in Ireland in the 5th century. Some of his writings have come down to us. Just Google “St. Patrick’s Confession” and you can read his Confessio where he recounts being hauled off to Ireland as a slave, his miraculous escape, and his years of service to the people of Ireland.

BLESSED UNBELIEVER novel

I confess I enjoy talking to atheists who seem honest about their doubts. Although my own doubts have been answered, they have not been quenched. Since I am a doubter, I find much in common with atheists. I believe we are all on a spiritual quest and I wish to know the quest of each person I meet. Unbeliever (below) is the story of one such quest. Much is autobiographical (I won’t tell you which parts!). But the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Sean McIntosh left his Fundamentalist childhood and walked the road toward becoming an atheist—while attending Torrey Bible Institute! Spoiler alert: it didn’t work out very well. Blessed Unbeliever (paper or Kindle version) can be found at Wipf and Stock Publishers, Amazon https://a.co/d/9su5F3o or wherever good books are sold.

New story: “Brave New World of Cooking”

I was no stranger to cooking; It was what happened before Mom or Wife called you to the dinner table. Most people on the planet know how to cook. This story is for the rest of us.

After I left home at eighteen, I ate institutional food at Moody Bible Institute for two years. When I moved out to Wooddale Airport for flight training I boarded at Mrs. Volle’s house and ate her excellent cooking. Then back to dorm life at Cal State Fullerton and eating in the cafeteria. When I departed to fly in southern Mexico for Mission Aviation Fellowship, I roomed in a boarding house. Great food—refried beans, eggs, rice, tamales and tortillas, sliced papaya, fresh tropical fruit juices, café con leche. I used to sit in the kitchen smelling the simmering pots and watching the Indian women scraping the leftover refried beans back in.

Moving to Honduras, I lived with Mario who worked as an assistant to the MAF dentist. A maid cooked all our meals—until Mario spied her lover’s shoes under the closet curtain and dismissed her. . . .

To read more, click here:  https://tinyurl.com/4tu4rvd5

Leave a comment on the website and share with others. Thanks.

This month’s puzzler (courtesy of “Car-Talk Archives”)

Many years ago, when I was vacationing in upstate New York in a sleepy little town called Cold Springs, I had occasion to go to an antiques auction.

One of the items that comes up was a child’s sled, a wooden sled that the auctioneer claims was made by George Washington himself.

The auctioneer turns the thing over and carved into the one of the wooden slats on the back is this:

“G Washington, September 10, 1752.”

Now I remember from sixth grade that the square root of 3 was George Washington’s birthday. The square root of 3 is 1.732. And George Washington’s birthday is in 1732. 

So, if this carving on the sled is accurate, that would make him 20 years old at the time. So it stands to reason that at the age of 20, before he started his military career, he might be making a sled for a niece or nephew or for his own kids. Who knows. 

So, I’m ready to bid 20 bucks on the thing, when someone in the crowd pipes up and says, “It’s a fake.”

He was right. It was a fake. But the puzzler is, how did he know that?

Good luck.
 

(Answer will appear in next month’s WINGSPREAD newsletter.)

Answer to last month’s puzzler: 

Recall Holmes told Watson he was 35 the day before yesterday and will be 38 next year. How is this possible? Tricky, right? Here is the answer. The conversation took place on January 1. Holmes’ birthday is December 31, when he turned 36. He was 35 the “day before yesterday.” Got it? Great, huh?

(Whoops! A careful reader reminded me I had used this puzzler last year.)

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Wisdom

When I was young, I was told that anyone could become President….
I’m beginning to believe it.

I didn’t realize how unsocial I was until there was a pandemic….
And my life didn’t really change all that much.

Don’t wear headphones while vacuuming; I’ve just finished the whole house before realizing the vacuum wasn’t plugged in.

I gave all my dead batteries away today—free of charge.

I just ordered a life alert bracelet. If I ever get a life I’ll be notified immediately

To the guy who invented “zero” … Thanks for nothing.

The Disappointment Club is pleased to announce that the Friday meeting is cancelled.

When telephones were tied with a wire—humans were free

Self-esteem is the feeling which makes us attribute our failures to bad luck, and our successes to good judgment.

A woman adopted two dogs and named them Timex and Rolex.
Her friend asked her how she came up with the names.
She replied, “They’re both watch dogs.”

Doctor: I’m afraid your condition is fairly advanced.
Patient: It was in its early stages when I first sat down in your waiting room.

How does my doctor expect me to lose weight, when every medication he prescribes says, ‘Take with food.’

Me: Doctor, I’ve swallowed a spoon.
Doctor: Sit there and don’t stir.

I was walking past a farm and a sign said: “Duck, eggs!”
I thought, “That’s an unnecessary comma. Then it hit me.”

If you’re not familiar with the work of Steven Wright, he’s the famous Erudite (comic) scientist, his mind sees things differently than most of us do. . . here are some of his gems:

1 – I’d kill for a Nobel Peace Prize.

2.- Borrow money from pessimists — they don’t expect it back.

3 – Half the people you know are below average.

4 – 99% of lawyers give the rest a bad name.

5 – 82.7% of all statistics are made up on the spot. 

6 – A conscience is what hurts when all your other parts feel so good.

7 – A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory.

8 – If you want the rainbow, you got to put up with the rain.

9 – All those who believe in psycho kinesis, raise my hand.

10 – The early bird may get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.

11 – I almost had a psychic girlfriend, …… But she left me before we met.

12 – OK, so what’s the speed of dark?

13 – How can you tell when you’re out of invisible ink?

14 – If everything seems to be going well, you have obviously overlooked something.

15 – Depression is merely anger without enthusiasm.

16 – When everything is coming your way, you’re in the wrong lane.

Brave New World of Cooking

I was no stranger to cooking; It was what happened before Mom or Wife called you to the dinner table. Most of the people on the planet know how to cook. But this story is for the rest of us.

After I left home at eighteen, I ate institutional food at Moody Bible Institute for two years. When I moved out to Wooddale Airport for flight training I boarded at Mrs. Volle’s house and ate her excellent cooking. Then back to dorm life at Cal State Fullerton and eating in the cafeteria. When I departed to fly in southern Mexico for Mission Aviation Fellowship, I roomed in a boarding house. Great food—refried beans, eggs, rice, tamales and tortillas, sliced papaya, fresh tropical fruit juices, café con leche. I used to sit in the kitchen smelling the simmering pots and watching the Indian women scraping the leftover refried beans back in.

Moving to Honduras, I lived with Mario who worked as an assistant to the MAF dentist. A maid cooked all our meals—until Mario spied her lover’s shoes under the closet curtain and dismissed her.

During my language study in San Jose, Costa Rica, my landlady, Doña Maria Eugenia Odio de Esquivel, turned out wonderful meals which she served at her formal dining room table. While there I met Barbara Breneman. Just before we married I moved to Venezuela to live alone in the MAF house‑without a maid. I would buy a loaf of bread and have the storekeeper slice it, a big loaf of ham and have him slice it. Big loaf of cheese and have him slice it. I would freeze all this, then periodically buy onions and tomatoes to create sandwiches. I survived on sandwiches and rice until I married Barbara who cooked for me for the next fifty-four years.

But in December, 2024 when we were living in our Minneapolis apartment, Barbara died. I not only lost my greatest treasure, my loving and faithful companion; I also lost my cook. Kind friends thronged my door with soup, sympathy and casseroles, gifts of mercy which I stuffed into an already-full chest freezer. Today, months after Barbara’s death, I’m still eating out of the freezer.

I did not want to be a needy widower who orders Meals on Wheels and eats TV dinners so I began a timid foray into the world of cooking. I searched online for recipes—rice, fish, various kinds of eggs (scrambled, poached, omelet), chicken and salads (sweet or salty). This opened a new world of unfamiliar ingredients: paprika, cumin, parsley. And unfamiliar processes: sauté, simmer, dredge, mince. I would copy these recipes into a computer file and print them out when needed.

Turned out though, finding recipes were the easy part. The first time I opened the fridge door I was shocked. All I saw in there were ingredients. For some ingredients I had to search the whole house. I found that the spices, for instance, were stored in multiple containers placed in different locations around the house—laundry room, coat closet, random dining room, kitchen cupboards or under the sink. Some were in tiny unlabeled jars (chopped green stuff, mixed spices); some had lids with the wrong label. Mysterious, unmarked frozen somethings in the freezer.

I learned that before you cook you need to create a grocery list of stuff you need to go buy. First, you should verify that you really need all the items. Check recent mailings for store specials and check for other coupons on your phone. When you go shopping, remember to take along your cloth bags to avoid paper or plastic. If the list is long, it’s helpful to group the items based upon their location in the store.

Buy only stuff you can consume in one or two meals. Otherwise, you’ll be condemned to eat only things that are beginning to rot. Yes, rotting. Important to figure out how long things can last in the fridge before they rot. When shopping, pick up the frozen items last so they won’t melt on your way home. Remember to use your coupons at checkout. (The Ht-Vee guy scans a barcode on my cellphone for coupons and loads special gas discounts.) When you return home, immediately empty your bags and put stuff away. (You should really wipe stuff off like we did during Covid but life is too short for that.)

On those momentous occasion when you invite someone over, it gets much more complicated. Don’t forget to check with your guests for allergies and food preferences before selecting recipes. The night before the meal, print out the recipes you’re going to use. Thaw out the frozen stuff. You can even pre-prepare or pre-cook parts of the meal at this time. Then you need to set the scene. Pick up, clean and organize the dining room, living room, bathroom and kitchen. Set the table with placemats, plates, silverware, glasses and napkins. Can you find a centerpiece? Think about the lighting. Pick out appropriate music for the evening. If you really want to go crazy, plan an activity after dinner.

Do as much prep work as possible ahead of time. Warm the oven to heat the plates or keep foods warm. Organize all the ingredients on the counter, measuring them out. Put skillets on the stove, then get out bowls and serving plates and all utensils you’ll need. Combine all the dry ingredients in one bowl and all liquids in another bowl (unless you need to add these at different times).

Decide what needs to be cooked before it’s used as an ingredient (e.g., sauté the onions, brown the butter). Then cook the items that will take the longest (e.g., rice or potatoes). Mind the stove burner temperature. (It was a breakthrough when I discovered there were settings between “off” and “high.”) You can put some of these cooked foods in the oven to keep warm. Use a thermometer to check internal temperature of the meats. Use a timer for critical cooking times. When cooked, transfer the food into serving bowls or spoon directly onto the plates. Seat your guests. Sing a hymn, read a scripture, say a Celtic blessing. Then enjoy!

Dining together is one of the great joys of life. For the first 80 years of my life I took all of this for granted—it just happened. But these days, I’m scrambling to learn what I should have learned 70 years ago.

The World of Center Street Elementary

September, 1946. Mother took my hand as we walked the dirt along Mr. Wheeler’s avocado orchard, turned to walk the three blocks of Culver Street, then crossed the playground toward Center Street school. I raised my eyes to view the enormous three-story wooden cube with its green-shingled hip roof and windows that stared out with unblinking eyes. I was excited about the classroom work but worried about meeting new kids. Mother pointed to a cave-like opening under the entrance stairs. “That’s the boys’ bathroom. The girls’ is on the other side; never go in there.”

She said goodbye as I climbed the wooden steps to where Mrs. Brennan extended her carefully-tended white hand. She wore her greying hair up in a bun and her blue dress reached to her calves. I glanced behind me to see my mother disappearing across the playground. As we entered, I smelled the waxed hardwood floor and turned to gawk at the carved wooden staircase rising toward second floor.

When the noon buzzer rang, Mrs. Brennan told us, “You may eat downstairs in the lunchroom or outside under the playground shelter.” Students walked to the cloakroom and grabbed lunches out of their cubbyholes but I left the building and wandered around the playground hungry, wondering why my mother hadn’t packed me a lunch.

Principal Ebersole saw me. “Are you in kindergarten?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you still here? Kindergarten ends at noon.”

“Mrs. Brennan never told us to go home.”

“Mrs. Brennan? She’s the first-grade teacher. You should have been in Mrs. Baker’s class.”

“No one told me . . .”

Mother came to pick me up.

The next morning, my neighbor Jerry and I were walking to school along Culver when we passed a dark, stuccoed house with tall grass, scraggly bushes and the window shades pulled down. “A witch lives there,” Jerry told me. We started running.

A block farther on, we looked down Harwood Street and saw the tiny store that sold Bazooka gum, M&Ms, and candy cigarettes. We walked over, searching our pockets for change. I opened the little paper packet Mom had sent with me and used the money to buy M&Ms for Jerry and me. We arrived at Kindergarten all sweet and chocolatey.

After a few weeks of walking down Culver Street we got braver and shortcut through our orange orchard smelling the fragrant blossoms so we could cut through Joe’s Lumberyard—a chaotic assortment of broken chairs, metal tables, old doors, window frames with peeling paint, derelict staircases, ceiling trusses, broken strips of siding, toilet stools, bathtubs, kitchen sinks and faucets, piles of used lumber—all strewn helter-skelter with little rabbit runs winding between. It looked like a ghost town hit by a tornado.

Stray cats haunted the woodpiles, along with the occasional rabbit. Once we saw a coyote. And then there was Sam the Tramp who guarded the lumberyard with his snarly dog Butch. Unshaven, with his long dishwater-gray hair hanging to his earlobes, he wore torn brown pants too big for him, scuffed shoes with holes in the leather and a ripped straw hat, appearing as a person destiny had a serious grudge against. He slept in a tiny tarpaper shack that stood amidst the lumber and debris. He didn’t talk; he just sat in front of his shack on an old chair with missing spindles and stared at us until we took off running. “I think he’s a serial killer,” Jerry told me.

. Mrs. Baker, serious as a Puritan preacher, sat soberly with every inch of her body erect in her desk chair. When she rose to illustrate something, her fingernails would scratch the blackboard. And yet she had a great heart for her students. Her classroom had plastered walls reaching high to the ceilings, large windows that allowed the sun to beat in onto the hardwood floor and no air conditioning. Chains supported big hanging light fixtures that glowed beige. A sandbox stood in one corner. The letters of the alphabet in block letters and cursive ran along the top of the blackboards. We sat at cast-iron-legged wooden desks on which some past students had carved their initials. A hole was cut in the top that previously held an ink jar, the purpose of which, my dad told me, was for dipping the pigtails of the girl in front of you. A pencil sharpener hung on the wall near the blackboard. Once when I blew in it to clean out the shavings, pulverized lead flew out all over my face

We always began by reciting the Pledge of Allegiance but it was years before I learned what “republic” and “indivisible” meant. I liked learning about the pilgrims and singing patriotic songs—“God Bless America,” “America the Beautiful.” Then  a song about leading the tow-mules sixteen miles along the Erie Canal and finally, “Las Chiapanecas,” about the Mexican girls who danced twirling their full skirts. I don’t remember any opening prayers. I learned to form letters and to add and subtract. Being left-handed, I would pull my pencil across the page and slant the letters to the right. The teacher gave up trying to change me. When mid-morning came, we marched down to the lunchroom where we drank our little cartons of milk, free if your family was low-income.

Then we returned to class to read from Dick and Jane—a beautiful picture story book about little kids and their dog, Spot. “Look, Dick, look.” “See Spot run.” “Jump, Spot, jump.” Dick and Jane lived in an all-white neighborhood with no dirt or trash or crime, yet still patrolled by big, friendly, blue-suited policemen. Next, we had show-and-tell time when kids would stand in front of the class and tell stories about themselves. Some of these may have been true. Once Harold told his story with his fly open. Nobody said anything.

The next year I was sitting in Mrs. Brennan’s first grade class as the hands of the big Seth Thomas wall clock nibbled away at the morning until the piercing buzzer signaled lunchtime. We carried our lunches outside to eat under wooden shelters that shielded us from the sun. The kids who ate bologna and cheese sandwiches made fun of my mom’s sandwiches of mayonnaise and avocado, made with avocados from our own orchard. Once when Darlene walked by, a boy yelled, “I wish I had that swing in my back yard!” I didn’t know what he meant..

Out on the playground, the LA basin smogged our throats. But sometimes, hot, dry, fifty-mile-per-hour Santana winds would roll in from the east through the Banning pass. The wind blew all the smog out to sea, leaving the air so clean it quivered. The trees swung their leaves like nets and shed some of their smaller branches. Inhaling the smell of blowing dust, we tried out the merry-go-round, swings, a sagging, netless basketball hoop and the exercise bars. The merry-go-round was a marvel of perpetual motion that seemed to spin forever, making your head dizzy. But if it spun too fast, the bearings would grind and it would throw kids off. The tall swings had canvas seats held by long chains. The fifth graders told us they could pump the swings so hard they looped-the-loop. I had nightmares about looping, then crashing down on the high crossbar. I spent hours shooting baskets at the solitary, sad and sagging iron hoop.

Kids would jump and grab the parallel bars with gritty, sweaty hands, then do the dead man’s drop. You got swinging by your knees, then released at the top of the swing and tried to land on your feet. When I  tried it I landed on my backside and knocked my breath away. The girls would hang upside down on these bars with their dresses falling down over their heads, yelling at the staring boys, “Get your eyes full!” The Center Street girls fascinated me. They seemed a different species, walking around the gravely playground in their white dresses with the little starched collars, white bows in their hair.

We played kickball on the dirt diamond. When it was my turn to kick, Gary Bradley sauntered over, pushed me down and took my place. I started crying. I tried to avoid him but later, in middle school, he beat me up again. Gary—poster child for the human condition, terrifying pustule of ego with bulbous eyes, puffy face and wearing an attitude tough as nails, grated on people like tinfoil on a filling. He gave me my first bloody nose. Then Sherman, an unerupted volcano with an IQ below the range of his body temperature, would push boys down onto the gravel. I avoided him until the day Mom invited him to go to church with us. Awkward. I assumed. Jesus’ command to “love your enemies” did not include Gary or Sherman,

We met Okie and Arkie kids whose parents had fled to California from the Midwest of the 1930s to escape the terrible dustbowl droughts. They took over the jobs the locals did not want and began replacing the Mexican orange pickers in the orchards. The girls in their faded dresses looked as if their mothers had forgotten to comb their hair. The boys wore longer, disheveled hair, overalls instead of jeans, and they talked funny. Big belt buckles. You didn’t want to sit next to them. They smelled perspired and If they sniffed something, they would lean over and smell your crotch.

Most Mexicans lived on the other side of Glassell and went to Killefer School. In the 1940s, Orange Unified was one of the first districts to integrate so later, in first grade, we got Richard Herrera. Brown-skinned with straight black hair, he wore a tiny crucifix hanging from a gold chain. His English was pretty good. We became friends.

Every Wednesday, the higher grades got to practice jumping onto a fire escape slide that spiraled down from the third floor. During Cub Scout nights, some of us would sneak up to the dark third floor and feel our way over to the fire escape. One after another we launched, sailing down the slick slide. We found the exit doors locked, so we had to climb back up the slide, slipping and sliding. One night the principal caught us. It was totally worth it.

At the end of my fifth grade year, Center Street finally closed her doors. That day, anyone could slide down the fire escape—even the principal! But soon they bulldozed the school to the ground. When graduation day came we filed by the principal to receive our diplomas. Afterwards the teachers assembled the students to do the Bunny Hop. But Silver Acres Church was fundamentalist and Brother Cantrell preached hard against dancing. So instead of dancing, Kevin and I sat in the hallway at a table playing chess. Kevin was happy but I felt like a nerd. That summer Jerry and I were walking through Joe’s junkyard when we saw an abandoned metal helix lying on its side, forlorn and forsaken. We stared at the twisted metal of the derelict fire escape.

After graduation I thought my bullying troubles were over. Until I moved on to the anteroom of Hades—Orange Intermediate School. Another world to conquer!

Freedom Sunday

Here’s an op ed I wrote several years ago on “Freedom Sunday.”

Alan, please forgive me for walking out during our church’s Freedom Sunday. I mean you no disrespect. At our service you sit down near the front with your prosthetic leg in camo. I recognize your courage–the agony you endured plus your agony when you inflicted suffering on others. I pray for your complete healing—body, mind, and spirit.

 I grieve for you, but also for my church and her mixed loyalties. In the narthex, a huge American flag hangs over the cross, a crown of thorns obscuring its starry field. We sing “Battle Hymn of the Republic” and the spotlight swings to illuminate a raised white cross. “As he died to make men holy let us die to make men free…” On the big video screen behind the altar, three F−15’s flash over the three-crossed hill of Calvary. Not missionaries, but uniformed soldiers march up and down our church aisles bearing, not Christian, but military flags. Today, Caesar trumps Christ. The sword trumps the dove. America’s founding fathers trump Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

It seems that even more than the cross, patriotism bonds people together. In front of the pulpit I see the central sacred symbol—erect between army boots stands an upright AK-47 rifle holding a helmet. We learn it’s even okay for Christians to kill other Christians if the targets are fighting in enemy armies. Today, the nonviolent, bloodied Lamb of God wears camo and carries a gun. They’d better not try to take away his rights again. Our children learn the lesson well—it takes redemptive violence to bring peace.

On Freedom Sunday the church cheerleads for the State, praising its force as she mourns her own dead and wounded. The State returns the favor and declares the church tax-exempt.

 So Alan, I honor you. I’m glad the church makes a place for you at Christ’s table. I love my country; I love my church. I’ll be back next Sunday. But today, I must walk out. Please forgive me.

Thank you.

James P. Hurd

Wingspread Ezine for May, 2024


Spreading your wings in a perplexing world
May, 2024                                                    James P. Hurd

Please forward and share this E-zine with others. Thank you.

Contents

  • Writer’s Corner
  • Blessed Unbeliever now available
  • This month’s story: “Trouble in Paradise”
  • This month’s puzzler
  • WINGSPREAD Ezine subscription information
  • Wisdom

Writer’s Corner

Tip for writers: Notice dialogue, description and metaphor used by other writers. These can be adapted for your own writing.

Word of the month: SCABROUS.    Indecent, salacious. (from “scabs”). “He began receiving scabrous publications.”

Question for you:  What is the best novel you’ve ever read and why? (I’ll publish some answers in our next ezine.)

BLESSED UNBELIEVER novel

Why did Sean, who received his Christian teaching with his mother’s milk, turn his back on faith and walk away? But unbeknownst, grace pursued.

Blessed Unbeliever (paper or Kindle version) can be found at Wipf and Stock Publishers, Amazon https://a.co/d/9su5F3o or wherever good books are sold.

New story

I remember telling myself, Wow, Eve! The big green snake was scary, but he really talked sense. I ate the fruit and I didn’t die. Anyway, God loves me so much I’m sure one piece of fruit is no big deal for him.

Shortly after we’d arrived in the park God told us, “Enjoy, celebrate, but don’t eat any fruit from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil or you’ll die.” (Adam and I referred to the tree as “the TKGE.”)

I felt so happy when I walked over to the vegetable garden, my bare feet sinking into the most, fresh-smelling soil. I asked Adam, “If God loves us, why would he deny us fruit that looks so good?”

Adam says, “I don’t know; he has his reasons, I guess. Maybe it’s a test. Anyway there’re so many other good trees.”

“Yeah, but I wonder if the TKGE fruit looks different. There must be something special about it.”

“Maybe, but I’m busy here with the garden, so let’s talk about it later.” (In those special days, guys grew and ate green, leafy vegetables.) . . .  To read more, click here:  https://jimhurd.com/2024/04/30/trouble-in-paradise/

Leave a comment on the website and share with others. Thanks.

                                   Windows on our beautiful world

This month’s puzzler

 (Thanks to Car Talk puzzler archives.) Three guys check into a motel in the middle of nowhere. They’re running from the law and they have to lay low for a night. They approach the front desk clerk and he tells them that one room will be $30. This is the cheapest motel ever. 

They are really strapped for cash so they decide to share one room. They each give the clerk $10 and then they go to the room. 

After they leave, the clerk realizes that he overcharged them. They were having a special on rooms, and the price was supposed to be $25, not $30. So, he gives the bellboy $5 and asks him to return this to the three guys, since he overcharged them. 

So the bellboy takes the $5, but as he’s heading to the room, he thinks to himself, “Well, there are three guys, and $5. They won’t be able to split this evenly, so I’m going to keep $2, and give them $3.” He says to them, “Here’s $3. You were overcharged for the room.” And they say, “Thank you very much.” He leaves, having pocketed the $2.

So here is the question. 

They each spent $10 to start off with. Then they each get back $1. So they each spent $9 on the room. And 9 times 3 is 27. Plus the $2 that the bellboy stole. That all equals $29. 

So, what happened to the other dollar? Since they originally spent $30?

(Answer will appear in next month’s WINGSPREAD ezine.)

Answer to last month’s puzzler: 

You recall the guy had two girlfriends—one in Brooklyn and one in the Bronx. So, which one should he visit? The trains to Brooklyn and the Bronx run equally often—every 10 minutes, so he figures if he randomly arrives at the station, he should have equal time with each girl. But that isn’t what happens. Nine out of ten times he ends up going to Brooklyn. So, what is happening with these ten-minute trains? 

And here is the answer. Yes, the trains ran equally often, every 10 minutes. That is true. But the schedule was such that the Bronx train would always arrive one minute after the Brooklyn train. So, when the guy would get to the station and go down the steps to the platform, unless he got in there during that one minute window between the Brooklyn train and the Bronx train, he would always take the Brooklyn train because it always arrived first. So he would get on whichever train arrived first. And that was almost always the Brooklyn train. 

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Wisdom

Who knew? It was Shakespeare who invented these common words: accommodation, all-knowing, amazement, countless, dexterously, dislocate, dwindle, frugal, indistinguishable, lackluster, laughable, premeditated, star-crossed

Some wise sayings to celebrate spring:

  1. When one door closes and another door opens, you are probably in prison.
  2. Age 60 might be the new 40, but 9:00 pm is the new midnight.
  3. The older I get, the earlier it gets late.
  4. When I say, “The other day,” I could be referring to any time between yesterday and 15 years ago.
  5. I had my patience tested. I’m negative.
  6. Remember, if you lose a sock in the dryer, it comes back as a Tupperware lid that doesn’t fit any of your containers.
  7. If you’re sitting in public and a stranger takes the seat next to you, just stare straight ahead and say, “Did you bring the money?”
  8. When you ask me what I am doing today, and I say “nothing,” it does not mean I am free. It means I am doing nothing.
  9. I finally got eight hours of sleep. It took me three days, but whatever.
  10. I run like the winded.
  11. I hate when a couple argues in public, and I missed the beginning and don’t know whose side I’m on.
  12. When someone asks what I did over the weekend, I squint and ask, “Why, what did you hear?”
  13. I don’t mean to interrupt people. I just randomly remember things and get really excited.
  14. When I ask for directions, please don’t use words like “east.”
  15. Sometimes, someone unexpected comes into your life out of nowhere, makes your heart race, and changes you forever. We call those people cops.

Wordplay — ideas for marketing signage.

  • Signage for an Electrician’s truck:
    Let us remove your shorts.
  • Signage for a curtain delivery truck:
    Blind man driving.
  • Signage for a Podiatrist’s office:
    Time wounds all heels.
  • Signage for a Septic Tank Truck:
    Yesterday’s Meals on Wheels
  • Signage for an Optometrist’s Office:
    If you don’t see what you’re looking for,
    You’ve come to the right place.
  • Signage for a Plumber’s truck:
    We repair what your husband fixed.
  • Don’t sleep with a drip. Call your plumber.
  • Signage for a Tire Repair Shop:
    Invite us to your next blowout.
  • Signage for a Maternity Room door:
    “Push. Push. Push.”
  • Signage for a Car Dealership:
    The best way to get back on your feet—miss a car payment.
  • Signage for a Muffler Shop:
    No appointment necessary. We hear you coming.
  • Signage for a Veterinarian’s waiting room:
    Be back in 5 minutes. Sit! Stay!
  • Signage for a Shoe repair store:
    We will heel you
    We will save your sole
    We will even dye for you
  • Signage for an Electric Company:
    We would be delighted if you send in your payment on time
    However, if you don’t, YOU will be de-lighted.
  • Signage for a Restaurant:
    Don’t stand there and be hungry; come on in and get fed up.
  • Signage for a Funeral Home:
    Drive carefully. We’ll wait.
  • Signage for a Propane Filling Station:
    Thank Heaven for little grills.
  • Signage for a Radiator Shop:
    Best place in town to take a leak.

My work here is done. . . .