Dim Sum...

 

 ...which is of course a little of this and a little of that.

Warning: Do not attempt to find any cohesive theme or point to these seemingly unrelated tidbits. They seem unrelated because they are unrelated in every way but one: I thunk 'em all up.

Wordle Woes 

I start off every morning with a loss. I am down one by 7 am each day. It's very humbling and not a little depressing.

The reason for this is Wordle, the enchanting word puzzle published each morning by the New York Times. I discovered Wordle about a year ago and have become an avid fan. I know I'm not alone. The game is elegant in its simplicity. No clues. No help. Just five blank spaces that require filling to make a common five-letter word. The only help you can muster is your own knowledge of the English language and the way letters work together.

I solve Wordle virtually every day. You are given six tries and I get the answer usually by the fourth try. Sometimes I need a fifth try. Very rarely do I have to go to the sixth try. Quite often I get it by the third try. I've got a number of second try wins and once, amazingly, I got it on the first try. The word was ALOFT. What a sweet morning that was! Good, strong coffee and a first-line Wordle victory. People, it doesn't get better than that.

So where are these losses coming from? Why the depression?

You can blame Nan. Blame TLOTH (The Lady of Two Harbors).

On whichever freakin' row I solve Wordle, Nan will solve it one row earlier. You can set your watch by it, although that would be a weird way to set your watch. It's 7:00 and I am down one. If we happen to be playing golf that day, you can bet that I'll be suffering another defeat by 2:00. That's two major losses and the day has just begun. Even for a man of my diminished ego, that's tough to take.

Of course the rub here is that I'm supposed to be the word person in this relationship. Nan is definitely the numbers person, without question. But words were supposed to be my territory, given my 31 years as an English teacher. I mean if TLOTH rules the words and the numbers, well, what the hell is left?

Commas!

A Buddy Poem

We were recently honored to host Nan's sister-in-law, Letty, for a few days over Christmas. While the weather didn't offer much chance to enjoy the outdoors, we tried to fill the hours with happy memories of days gone by and seasonal joy. Also there was vodka. 

One night as Letty entered her bedroom she let us know that Buddy had evidently snuck into her room and introduced himself to her by peeing on the (formerly) blue shag rug, this despite the fact that Letty had arrived with all kinds of Christmas toys and treats for the l'il rascal.

We apologized profusely and Letty, in her usual kindly way, told us not to worry about it. I decided to make it up to Letty by writing a poem to commemorate the event. In all modesty I believe the poem captures the true meaning of Buddy's Christmas. It's called Ho Ho Ho.

'Twas two days before Christmas and what did we see?

Ol' Buddy, quite pleased, having just had a pee!

He pranced into Letty's room without a care

And streamed out his urine as if on a dare.

“Why you little scamp!” said Nan in a rage.

“It's high time you started to act your true age.”

“But Mom,” said sweet Buddy, “you must understand,

That incident just wasn't something I'd planned.

The shag rug felt just like the grass does to me,

And as for its color, these cute eyes don't see

The difference between all your blues and your greens

Which may explain why I just pooped on Dad's jeans.”

 

Believe me, it was a Hallmark kind of moment.

Napping

If I'm a great napper, it's because of this man:

This is my dad, Sam Getman. It's one of the rare photographs of him not napping. My dad was one of Dorchester's great nappers. Heck, his napping skills might have placed him in the top 10 in all of Boston. Here he is around 1962 seated at our kitchen table at 47 Esmond Street, paying monthly bills. Shortly after this picture was taken, he got up from the kitchen table, headed into the master bedroom, took off his shirt and pants, placed himself crossways on the bed (going side to side instead of top to bottom the way most humans do it) and got in his standard afternoon/early evening nap. He performed this sleepy ritual every working day. My brother Marvin and I knew not to disturb him during his nap time. Whatever mayhem we were up to in that apartment had to be QUIET mayhem, which is, of course, a very difficult category of mayhem. We were not always successful with the quiet part of the mayhem and would hear a loud complaint coming from the master bedroom. That was the signal to go back to our model building or stamp collecting or there would be big trouble at 47 Esmond Street.

My own napping career probably began at Temple University around the fall of 1964. It was then that I realized that on most days I was finished with classes by noon. I could then come back to the dorm, grab one of the books I had been assigned, lie down comfortably on my single unmade bed, and be asleep before I reached the end of the chapter heading.

Boy, did I love college.

I was no less a legendary napper during my married/working life, although the opportunities were rarer and the naps were shorter. Shorter maybe but more intense. One other major difference was that I stopped requiring any kind of bed to facilitate my napping. A chair, a car, a doctor's office, my second period class, dinner out, dinner in...all of these situations were fair game for my power napping. All I would need was 15 minutes and I could complete the napping equivalent of a trip to Saturn and back. I would wake up, wipe the drool off my face, flutter my eyes, and try desperately to remember where I was.

And my name.

Of course now, in retirement, the opportunities for napping are numerous. The urgency to nap I felt during my professional life is gone, having been replaced by a comfortkdl59abf...

Sorry, I must have dozed off there. Anyway, you get the idea.

Thanks, Sam.

Two Golf Clubs  

No, that is NOT my Native American name. It happens to be the number of golf clubs Nan and I will be members of beginning this June. For those keeping track, that is one more golf club affiliation than I currently enjoy. 

Pictured above is the quaint, unassuming clubhouse of the 100+ year old Northport Golf Club in Northport, Maine. I believe the photo was taken last July. Of course I'm joking; the photo was taken last May during the gala season opening scramble. OK, OK, I'll stop. Anyway, Nan and I will be joining this delightful 9-holer when we arrive in Stockton Springs in late May/June. We've played this course a number of times and have really enjoyed the simple yet challenging layout and the hospitality offered by the members and staff. The operation at Northport is kind of the polar opposite of the golf club operation down here in Destin. Here the golf operation is very, well, corporate. It's tightly run with tee times every 9 minutes or so, online booking and billing, pyramids of range balls ready for practice, cart girls selling equal measures of alcoholic beverages and sexual fantasies, starters, rangers, and greeters. At Northport you kinda just show up. Grab a cup of coffee and head out. No starter. No formalities. Hook up with someone on the first tee and off you go. It will be fun to play this old school course five or six months a year.

Our second course will be down here in Destin. Because they offer a six-month membership that pretty much coincides with our calendar presence down here, we'll be joining the lovely Indian Bayou golf club starting next October. We've enjoyed our time at Regatta Bay and look forward to many fun rounds at the Bayou.

TLOTH is probably already licking her chops.

Just the thought of more losses makes me...sleepy.

Ain't life grand!