America’s Language is not Confusing?

I was born in America, so I don’t see the problem with the language. But someone visiting from a foreign country, trying to learn American for the first time, might find it difficult. Even something as simple as adding a short ending to a word can be confusing for a newcomer.

Take a word like ginger. Ginger is a noun—a thing—the name of a spice.

“That’s it, right?”

Um, not quite. Let’s look at it more, closely.

I contend the American language is simple—verbs for action and nouns to take the action.

Besides, it’s not really our problem. All languages trace back to Adam and Eve and the generations of their family.

Eve hit Adam. He probably deserved it, according to my wife.

Everything was simple and straight forward. They had many base words to choose from: car, house, and potty. Most people got these and everyone was happy. 

Then someone decided we needed to spice things up, add some variety. I guess it was hard to talk about the neighbors, over the back fence, without more descriptive words, and “Oy Vey” was way overused.

We had perfectly good words back in the day; we were communicating effectively; we understood each other.

“So why add endings.”

I suppose plural endings were needed as we humans must be able to describe multiples of things. It probably started when Adam kept bringing home only one egg for breakfast from the grocery.

“I took your list. It said EGG. I did what you said—get egg!”

Despite the plural issue, things were pretty good for a couple of millennium. Then, somebody, probably an out of work Olde English teacher, decided we needed something more, and so the ly endings was created. It means nothing by itself, but add it to a base word and BLAM, a word explodes with meanings.

Daniel Webster probably started rubbing his hands together at the thought of having words with more than one meaning; he could sell Edition 2 of his dictionary.

Let’s look at an example of this new ly ending: If you are bad, it means you are not nice. Add ly and it means you are acting, well, badly—not nice— in action. Very clear. The pattern was set.

Okay, Mr. foreigner, isn’t that easy; let’s try it on our word ginger. I’ll start.

“Hi, I’m Ginger.”

Now isn’t that’s silly. Ginger is the name of a spice not the name of a person.

If that’s not confusing enough, add the ly and you get the word—gingerly—meaning softly. According to the pattern, it should mean spicy-like, though.

“No, you tricked me because you used the word ginger as a woman’s name.” The foreigner clasped his arms tightly across his chest.

“No, I was referring to the dog we named Ginger.”

“Because of the dogs color?”

“No, because my wife wouldn’t let me name her, Woof. I go for the basics in naming pets, and it was better than the name I really felt the animal deserved for turning my slippers into a doggie dodo station.

It’s claimed that the ly ending was invented by an heir of the original Adam. The ending was well accepted and the Adam’s family got a lot of fan mail requesting other endings—and some beginnings. Adam and his family went on to invent many more endings and finally turned it into a business. It was decided, to be professional, they needed a theme song for their new venture. They decided to kept it simple. They would just sing, “The Adam’s Family,” over and over, and all of them would snap their fingers.

“Will it take a long time to learn your language?” He looked at his watch. “Are there a lot of endings?” 

Dear, foreigner, we need to talk!



BEWARE Men at Work—In the Grocery

When we men are little, the grocery is often our first excursion into the big and bold world away from home. We learn about colors from food labels, that the price of beef is always too high, and that some mothers make poor fashion choices, repeatedly. 

It is where we learn there is home behavior and public behavior. Fortunately, home behavior comes with private immunity from prosecution. You can even threaten to cut your brother’s head off, leaving nothing but a bloody stump, and all you will get is the standard mothers reply: “You two had better not get on my nerves!”

At home you can scream, and shout, and jump, and play. You can even walk on the furniture, if mom isn’t looking. Pretty much any behavior is acceptable, including talking about gross things at the dinner table.

   “Mom, my friend’s Billy’s eyeball fell out in school, today!”

   “Umm, that’s interesting.”

However, when in public, your other face had better show.

   “Such nice polite, children you have. Is the one on the bottom, turning blue, ever going to breathe, again?”

The grocery is also where boys learn one of the most important lessons of their lives—when a woman talks, a man had better listen.

   “You two boys had better listen to me! You think I talk just to hear my own voice echo across this store? I brought you into this world—”

As it turns out, this early childhood training has very practical applications for the modern husband of today.

   “Put that back! We don’t need it and can’t afford it this week, anyway.”

   “But, honey—”

As grown-ups, and husbands, we men are eligible for a better responses about our grocery choices than the quick, testy replies we got from our mothers. After all, our situation has been upgraded from that of dependent child—which we could do nothing about but be born—to that of full life partner and major financial backer of the relationship.

   “It’s because I said so, and I’m the wife!”


I think the problem is women just don’t understand, adult men. They are too used to settling nonsense issues between siblings. “Turn your brother right side up, and put him back under the cart where you got him from. No, no, only one of you can get in there at a time!”

Since Adam’s time, men have been hunters and gatherers. We need a mission. Send us out to find something—anything. Do this, and we will be happy and contented.

My wife and I once lived in Northfield, Minnesota, a small college town in the upper Midwest. Their motto was “Colleges, Cows, and Contentment.” That’s contentment because those Scandinavian and French-Canadian women just naturally knew to send their men out into the aisles in search of supplies; they even made a game of it. All the husbands in town were very happy—their wives told me so. Some took to dressing up as old-time fur trappers and pony express riders. Some even carried muskets. Saturday mornings these burly guys would buy coffee and beans and set up a campsite in aisle 4. They called it a Rendezvous. It was quite popular until the shooting contests got black powder all over the eggs.

If it worked in Minnesota, why couldn’t it work were I live, now? I knew I had to do something. The next Saturday morning I decided to stand for all men, in all grocery stores, everywhere. I stood tall, right in front of the cart. I let out a cry—

   “Please,” I decide the gentle approach might be better. “Give me something to do.” I made a pleading gesture while hanging onto the cart and swaying back and forth. “I can’t just hang around behind you and this cart that always turns left. I’m tired of looking like I know what I’m doing when I’m just squinting at soup labels.” Other guy’s heads turned our way. Nods of approval followed.

   “Ok? We need milk. Wait, not so fast, not just any milk—“

Argh! This is where a lecture followed about the benefits of the selected milk, or milk-like product, followed by instructions on size, quantity, and price (and price variations) allowed. A stern reminder was added to ensure a swift return with said item.

I knew everything was going to be ok when my wife tore off the bottom portion of the grocery list and handed it to me. I couldn’t believe it. My wife had put in me in charge of a portion of the list.

   “Don’t goof around. Are you listening to me? Go straight there, and come straight back. Stay where I can see you.”

   “I am your husband, not your child.” A little smirk appeared on my face.

   “We’ll see. If you do well, I’ll give you more.” A little thrill ran through me.

I know what straight there and back means. It means, if I duck down behind the stand alone meat counter, she can’t see me. I saw Fred coming the other way.

He waved and crawled towards me. “You looking for milk? It’s way over on the other side of the store. If you make a right turn over there, you’ll end up by the food demonstrator. It’s good today—bourbon turkey—on a pretzel stick. Bob and Ed are there, too, behind the cheese counter.”

   “Ok, see ya.”

   “Remember, keep low.”

I duck waddled a few more feet behind the chicken counter and was about to make a run for it when this big guy, in a full buckskin outfit, appeared at the end of an aisle.

   “What are you men doing sneaking around like kids?” His voice seemed to fill the store. “You are grown men, with an important and well respected job to do.” His arms where full of groceries.

All the guys within earshot immediately circled this leather-clad stranger. “Do you know that the cowboys on the prairie, the trappers up north, and the Continental Army all had men in your position—outriders. They protected the troops and their food supply from side attacks. They shot game and brought in needed supplies—right through enemy lines.” Several of the men straightened a little. “You are in the same position with your wife’s cart. You go out and find supplies; you talk to the other men to learn of impending dangers; you ensure only safe food gets to your family. Try bringing her a turkey on a stick, once; see the surprise on her face. Walk tall men. Check all the aisles for purse snatchers and specials. Watch for side attacks on her cart. Carry as many supplies as you can back to her cart. Your strength will build.”

As he spoke, we were mesmerized. His voice was soft but firm. He had the smell of old buffalo about him. Suddenly, there was a crash behind us and we all jerked around to see some mom’s cart go sideways as a speeding college student pushed through. When we turned back, the stranger was gone. Only a few strands of leather fringe were on the floor. We each grabbed one and put it in our shirt pocket. A knowing look passed among us.

As I looked around, I thought I saw the shadow of a fringed cuff on a far wall. In the distance I heard several men explaining what had happened to their wives. They seemed more settled—sure about themselves.

Saturdays are different now at Kroger’s. We men all walk taller and weekly specials are our byword. If anyone asks about the difference in us, we tell them, from the end of an aisle, or from way across the store, “I am not just with my wife—I am—The Outrider.”

It’s Spring—Garage Sale Savings Time

Not everyone loves spring, but I do. It heralds the end of winter. Winter is okay for some; it’s the librarian’s friend. More books are taken out over heavy snow periods than any other time of the year. Maybe moms need something to take their minds off the kiddies running through the house at full-bored speed. 

On the other hand, when it’s still dark out at 8 o’clock in the morning, seniors feel no necessity to rise early and often read until the middle of the night—nobody gets up till noon, anyway. I’m not suggesting seniors lay in till lunch; it’s just that the start of sleep time, plus 8 hours, equals noon. But then spring hits, all the darkness of long winter nights is forgiven and folks concentrate the newness of Spring— the bright yellows blossoms of the daffodils and the brilliant purple of the—the purple flowers. More importantly, it’s sunny at 7 o’clock in the morning. Some are up so early, they can wave at their morning newspaper person.

Unfortunately, many see it as the start of long hours of lawn care and property maintenance. But, I see springs as it really is—endless hours of happily drifting with wind, on a sea of asphalt—garage sailing. Technically, it’s not garage sale time until the first sign goes up. Then everybody says it’s too early to start that, but once that first sign goes up, everybody follows the lead.

I admit, I may have jumped the gun a year or two ago when I posted a garage sale sign, along a main thoroughfare, pointing to some rich guy’s house. I watched from a distance and counted cars, on a purely scientific basis—I might write a paper someday about how many come out for the first day of garage sale season. I know, I know, it wasn’t the right thing to do. But, on the good side, after nine doorbell rings that Saturday morning, the owners garage door went up, and two people came away with some nice things.

Not sure about other parts of the country, but here in Ohio signs don’t go up until Thursday. It’s rare that they last past Saturday. It’s not wasted time though; Sunday through Wednesday is preparation time. It’s time to scour over maps to determine the best areas and then redline them. Find books of all the street names. Determine the best times to start. Watch the weather; save your gas for cruising when it’s sunny. Chat with locals at McDonalds to see if they know of any whole-neighborhood garage sales. These can be the best one’s.

That’s how I used to do it, too. Now I use an app on my IPad that takes me directly to any garage sale in the area—isn’t technology grand. It lets me zone in on the rich neighborhoods first—that’s where the good junk is. I crosscheck it against the recently sold houses. These are the best, as they are lame duck owners. They have broken their ties to the area, are ready to move on, and generally are desperate to move everything, at any price. I sometimes drive by houses on Wednesday night, after they put out their signs, to see what’s going on in their garages. If it looks like they are readying themselves for a garage sale, I park, way up the street, and casually walk by.

“Are you having a garage sale?”

“Tomorrow, why you asking? No early sales.”

“No, I understand. I’m going to have one, too. But, too soon for us anyway; it will have to wait until next week.” I like to look sad and pitiful here. “We may be moving in with our—kids—you know.” This one really gets them. I shuffle my feet a little and look down, too. “Not sure how to price things?” If he’s hesitant, I drag one leg a little and rub the knee in front of his wife. They are always more sympathetic.

“Hum, you don’t say. You got it ready to go?” He knows more stuff brings more people. There is a pause, and then comes the offer. “Well, look around in here a little. Maybe you can bring some of your stuff down. Add to the sale. If nothing else, you can see how we priced our stuff.”

It’s only a matter of time before I mention how my grandson, granddaughter, or niece would really like a couple of things they have for sale. Grandkids can be of any age, so you can make this work for almost anything you want.

When I drag the stuff to my car, I realize I have broken out in a sweat. The thrill of the hunt and the double thrill of an invite to an early sale has me giddy. I drive away confident I have done them a great service—less stuff for them to sell, tomorrow.

If some of you are upset by seniors getting there first, all I can say is that it will be your time, soon enough. Learn the technics now while you are young. A good fall down the basement stairs, now, can create a real limp later—you’ll have a leg up on your competitors. Meanwhile, enjoy your springtime!

Feeding Birds is Chasing Squirrels

Maybe it’s being over 65 that makes me want to protect the birds on my back deck. Or maybe it’s just the American Way of helping the underdog. My wife say I need to get off the Ipad and do something. I do. I exercise my rights to chase squirrels away, and any large bird, or flock of birds, that try to take over.

In the cold Dayton, Ohio winters, I feel a sympathy for the little Dayton Flyers, so I put out a mix of sunflower seed and small bird feed. The bright red cardinals really appreciate it. The little slate coloured junkos and the brown cowbirds hop about and feed with joy.

Everyone is happy until the squirrels come. The problem is that squirrels don’t just come and have a snack, they bring empty shopping bags and seem to think their cheeks also need to be filled to overflowing to return home triumphant. What’s worse; they eat with their mouth open—no manners. Like a teenager, they love to spit everywhere and the deck is becoming an empty-hull factory. When it rains the shells congeal into a toe stubbing mass just in the blind spot in my peripheral vision. Add some snow on top of this trip hazard, a pair of rubber soled slippers, an old guy trying to walk over it carefully, and you get an unplanned dump of bird food—all over the deck—to the squirrels delight.

Most of the time the birds share when they come to feed, and there is a kind of paradise banquet at Miller’s Backyard Birdery Bonanza. But, squirrels are not the only pests; there are bird pests, too, like the large boat tailed grackles. They seem to fly in from nowhere and bring their whole families including; cousins, aunts, uncles, second cousins, and even some birds that are mostly black but just want to fit in. In all, they are about a thousand strong. Well, according to my wife, it’s closer to 20, but give-or-take 50; they come, and come, and come. When they stop by, the deck changes from calm to a writhing sea of dark, shimmering blue tails, with endless squawking, and beak clicking maneuvers pirates would be proud of. Each one is torn between quickly eating or protecting their private seed stash. Unwanted selections get flicked everywhere.

Fortunately, a stern wrap on the window sends them skyward. However, I have learned that they are persistent and will quickly return. This forces the Protector to appear. He throws open the screen door and runs madly out hollering insane phrases. This gets them to the nearest tree or circling overhead, but only loud, vigorous, and extended clapping will send them winging off to someone else’s feedlot—the noisier the better.

Clapping doesn’t work on all pests, though. That’s why I have my trusty Red Rider BB gun at he ready, too. It’s not for the birds, but those pesky, eat-everything-in-site squirrels, they need a little nudge, from time to time. Reach out and touch someone has a new meaning from my back deck.

My wife thinks I need to quite antagonizing the squirrels. She may be right, too. I got a letter, recently, from our Neighborhood Snitch committee suggesting my behavior was very disturbing to several of the neighbors. My wife said she told me so, “They don’t like your BB gun.”

But I had the last laugh. They could care less about my squirrel control methods. They were tired of some crazy, old guy slamming doors and stomping about his back porch making noise, hollering,”Shoo, Shoo,” and clapping loudly. Apparently, it sets off every dog and cat in a six-block area—just like when a weather calamity is about to hit. Several people have complained they can’t get their wives out of their basements for weeks, because they can’t hear the All Clear signal when underground.

On the positive side, I did get a bottle of wine left on my front porch. The note said, “Thanks! Quietest two weeks of my life.”


Keurig — THE coffee Maker


I think most of us will agree that our mornings don’t start until after our first cup of coffee. For me, any kind of coffee is acceptable—as long as it is not burnt—and even that can be made acceptable by dunking a lowcal donut or cookie in it. 

Two years ago, I decided I was probably missing out on some new convenience I didn’t even know about, nor had ever missed, so I upgraded from a $19 automatic drip coffee maker to THE Keurig machine. 

I can’t even pronounce it, so it must be good. And it has turned out to be a boon for the  coffee bean industry, as it converts us from just plain java drinkers and into coffee Connoisseurs. Is it my imagination or do connoisseur and Keurig both have the very fancy “EU” in the middle of them? I wonder if that is because EU is the abbreviation for the European Union—the old world—where fancy-schmancy comes from.

I have to admit; I like this machine. The coffee, tea, and various latte formulas are all premixed in little, individual, disposable, plastic containers (K-cups). That’s all there is to it. Just drop a K-Cup into the unit with ease (no one refers to it as a coffee maker—it’s a machine or a unit). A minute later, you have coffee.

No bother or mess. No need to measure out coffee, dispose of grounds or fool with messy filters; just sit back and let that wonderful smell fill the air, while you enjoy your first cup in the morning. Simplicity and sophistication in one unit. And my status as a person gets upgraded, as well—to Connoisseur. 

With all this in mind, I must tell you of a devastating incident that started my morning.  In case things go badly, I am including a copy of the conversation for posterity, or the police, whichever comes first. This is all true—mostly.

There was a single loud knock the door. It shook the doorframe. I looked out the kitchen window and saw a plain, black Keurig delivery van in the driveway. A small K-Cup logo was discreetly etched into the glass on vehicle’s windscreen.

   “Morning sir, Keurig Special Agent Jethro Givbson here and this is Agent Anton DeSoto. May we come in? Take us to the machine.” He flashed some sort of official looking badge; a K-Cup was emblazoned in the middle.

   “Are you here to let me try some new special coffee or froo froo latte mix?” They pushed past and into the kitchen.

   “No, sir! We are here to check out the unit. It seems you have not registered it and there is an issue about abusing the machine.”

   “This is crazy! You can’t abuse a coffee maker.” I moved in front on my Keurig. 

   “Coffee maker? Is that how you refer to our unit, sir? Anton please write a chit fining this man $15 for derogatory coffee industry remarks? Normally, we just have you pop a fiver into our bad words can, but we’ve come a long way and couldn’t bring it with us on the plane.”

   “Long way— Where are you from?”

The tall one, in a pressed, grey jump suit, moved in close and whispered. “The EU, sir. I thought you could tell from our accent.”

With one large muscular arm, he moved me aside. “I’ll have to ask you to keep clear of the unit, sir. It knows we’re here and wants a check up.”

   “Are you kidding?”

   “We never kid, sir.” Givbson attached a set of long leads in the back of the unit and set up a miniature oscilloscope and recording device on the counter. Anton took pictures and asked lots of questions.

   “You always keep the machine on this messy counter? It’s pretty near your daily post. It could overheat the unit. Glue fumes from your mail could enter the brew cycle. You don’t expect us to be responsible for that do you, sir?”

   “Hey! This is my coffee mak— err, unit. I bought and paid for it, and I can do anything I want with it, and put it wherever.”

 From the bedroom my wife heard the commotion and wanted to know what was going on. “Nothing dear. Just a couple of guys from Keurig telling me where to put it.”

   “Best she doesn’t come out here, sir. We treat it like a crime scene.”

I groaned. “Crime scene? There is no such thing for a coffee pot.”

   “Coffee pot, really, sir? Apparently, you didn’t read all the Menu screens on your unit. Under terms and conditions screen eleven down and three over—”

   “Over? There are no “over” screens on that unit.”

   “If you hold your finger on the brew light and menu button simultaneously, then quickly push the small and large cup-size buttons at the same time, just once—the menu goes black. Then you can scroll it sideways. As described in the operating package that would have been sent to you, had you bothered to register, sir.”

   “Gee, I didn’t realize—”

   “They never do, eh Anton.”

   “My tests are done. It says you operate this unit often without a K-Cup in it. You just run hot water through it to make tea. Is that right, sir?” A disgusted look came over a weathered face. 

   “Well, I like tea sometimes, so I just throw a teaspoon in my cup—”

   “We sell tea K-Cups, you know! Are you like a cheapskate or something? Are you perverted?” He unplugged my machine and put it under his arm. Coffee spilled on the counter from the drip tray. “More…more violations. This unit is going back to the factory for a full check up.”

I followed him to the van. “What am I supposed to do for coffee? How will I get my unit back?”

As the van started, Anton snapped my picture one last time, rolled down the window, and handed me a plain, blank, white business card. “I’m sorry, sir.”

As they drove away, I turned it over. On the back was a big circle with a wide red line across it like a Ghost Busters logo. Inside was one single word, in beautiful gold and black raised lettering—Connoisseur. 





No Beans About It!

   Once in a while, my wife claims it’s frequently, I fall asleep during our evening TV time together. She doesn’t mind though, as it places my beloved controller back under her power and in her hands. She claims that when my lower lip goes slack, it’s girl-power time, and she can take the controller at-will!

   For the record, I am not sleeping—I am dozing. Sleeping is snoring, twisting, and wiggling about, while dozing is more like going the the refreshment stand at half time. It prepares you for the rest of a long show, and gives one strength to make it down the hall to the bedroom, for the real sleep period. It also provides enough energy to allow one to not sleep in their clothes again. 

   I tell her, I am listening intently but giving my precious eyelids a break. The eye lid is what keeps us humans from starring at the sun, full force, and closes down the brain link periodically to prevent snapshot overload—like when looking at Walmart people photos. It’s important to protect those babies, shut them down, and give them the rest they deserve.

   This whole pre-sleep thing seems to being getting out of hand lately, though, because we have a running battle of whether to wake/arouse me, with her eye lids OPEN command, or let me continue to energize. 

   I say it’s not right to unenergize me to tell me, “It’s time for bed.” Let me alone! My wife says she does it because she sleeps better when I’m in bed with her. This is nice, but insincere, as her body tells the real story when my cold feet hit her warm legs. I’m sure it is an unintended spasm, on her part, but her leg does seem to rocket out to protect her temperature stable spot. She doesn’t see the problem, but I am suspicious as her kicks are getting stronger and are moving up my thigh—I fear the inevitable.

   I have taken to solving the problem though, as any retired engineer would, by preheating my feet. I place a buckwheat-hull bag in the microwave, for precisely two minutes, and then put it at the bottom of the bed, on my side. The heat warms my feet and her heart. 

   However, here is a little life lesson. Anything that was heated in the microwave for supper, let’s just pick baked beans, that might drip, seem to transfer their essence to a foot warmer. Eventually, said transferee will waft out from under the covers. So, if you see our kitchen light on at midnight, you’ll know we just had to have a another plate of beans before going back to bed.

Morning Scare Hair


There is a certain warmth about the morning when the first light of day streams across the bedroom, making shadow ripples on the tossed covers. I rise up to greet the day and I can see myself stretching in the mirror. Hello mirror-me. Weren’t you here yesterday, too? It’s nice to see you back today, but you have to do something about that hair. 

The house is littered with mirrors so mirror-me follows me from to room. It’s ok when he is on my right side, or is it his left, never sure, but the other side is a scary-hairy-day indicator, if there ever was one.

How can sleep take such good care of one side and leave the other side alone? It must be that nighttime stylist at work. Remind me to tip her. Yet The other side seems to be preparing for a part in a Dracula movie, “Watch out kids, see the old man, he’s a scary-hairy-do Dad. That’s it, now scream! Oh, the site of it! The horror! My eyes are burning!” 

If mirror-me would take better care of himself I’d be fine in the mornings. He looks like his left side got caught in a pillow tufting machine, and they had to yank him loose. I’ll bet it’s the dry air of winter. Mirror-me just shock his head up and down in agreement. 

I stood in the bathroom and tried to explain the situation to mirror-me but that only lead to my wife calling the “Crazy Farm,” to see if they have an opening. That doesn’t scare me anymore; I know she has it on speed dial.

Perhaps one of the reflecting surfaces in the kitchen will be more helpful. Either that or I’ll have to get the clippers out. I wonder if that’s why so many older guys have short hair? If I wake up tomorrow and find my hair shortened, I’ll know something is going on in our bedroom? Is that scissors I hear being sharpened? Mirror me’s eyes just got big—

Be a Millionare: Blog for Fun and Profit – Hah

The advertisement said that if I started blogging, I would probably become rich, and I would get lots of new friends. Who wouldn’t want friends with money. If I can get rich from blogging, then how much more must people be making from reading somebody else’s nonsense—oops, blogs. I’m beginning to like this blogging thing, already.

All I have to do is write something—anything. I’m waiting. The page is still blank. My wife suggested I could do the dishes, to get some inspiration, or bring in the trash cans, change the oil— Wow! All of a sudden my mind is a firmament of ideas.

Maybe it’s not the writing itself that brings in the blog-money, perhaps it’s from an indirect source—a therapeutic effect? For example, if it keeps me from going to a shrink, it will be like “money in my pocket.” So, okay I’ll blog.

I have decided to pick a subject, logically (I am an engineer), and I think Daniel Webster would be proud. Thumb the pages.  Let the page-breeze fan my face; then stop! 

I forgot. I am a Ipad user now with only an electronic dictionary. No pages to fan. Therefore, I need an electronic method to select a subject to blog about at random. Something that will be totally new and unusual. I have it. I’ll go to the “T” section of my digital dictionary. My name, Terry, starts with T—this will work. My first name has five letters, so I’ll drop down to the fifth word —TARRY. Argh, defeated before I start!

The best advice and fastest way to learn is to follow the professionals, “get thee a teacher.” I’ll go and read some other blogs, then I’ll know what to write about.

I’m back. I have learned how to properly brew my tea, start a PinInterest site, and have verified that there is little, if any, money in reading blogs.

Maybe, I should pay someone to teach me to blog. But that’s negative-direction cashflow—not my plan. I’m funny, I could write humor pieces. Everybody needs a good, daily laugh. It’s also therapeutic (Thank goodness for autocorrect. You wouldn’t believe how I’ve massacred that word). My wife agrees with humor. She says the way I twitch when I sleep in my chair is hilarious, and my clothes choices some morning would make Walmart people snicker. Okay, dear, I get it.

Out West, in the old frontier, real men challenged the elements to get rich during the California gold rush. But few found enough gold to get back home again. Those who did well were the people who supplied the products the miners needed to find their fortunes. That’s what I will do, be a supplier for bloggers. I shall provide editing service, criticism, whatever support items bloggers need to help themselves get rich.

Forthwith, I now officially start my service. And with the speed of the internet I now have my first official customer. This is exciting!

“What can I do for you Miss? Anything, anything at all.”

“I just need one thing—What should I write about?”