I have been ill for over 24 hours. Not sure what I have, but I do. So, I thought I should come up with a list of things not to say to your husband when he is sick. Not that my wife would, but she does have a sense of humor.

1. You are such a stereotypical man.

2. So, do you want a greasy hamburger or something?

3. Are you really sick are you just trying to get out of work?

4. You are just so sensitive and fragile.

5. Oh, about Sunday’s communion you threw up . . . do you think you are harboring something against someone?

6. I don’t know which is more pitiful: You when you are sick or our dog when she is in heat.

7. You wouldn’t have time to feel sorry for yourself if you were female and had kids.

8. Good thing you’re not one of the horses . . . I’d have to put you down.

9. If you’re going to throw up, could you go outside? I just cleaned the bathroom.

10. I’m not laughing at you, honey . . . *giggle* . . . I’m uh . . . *snort* . . . HA, HA, HA . . .

*sigh*

1. You have a Starbucks tattoo on your chest.

2. There are twenty-plus Starbucks mugs in your kitchen cabinet.

3. You would rather be shot than skip yours.

4. Your lips and tongue are permanently stained “espresso bean brown.”

5. You find yourself standing in front of Starbucks at 5am in your pajamas.

6. Driving continual circles around Starbucks is more fun than a merry-go-round.

7. Starbuck employees are at the top of your Christmas list.

8. You buy all your friends and relatives Starbucks’ gift cards, but somehow manage to forget placing them in their Christmas cards.

9. You name your children after specialty coffees.

10. You refuse to leave Starbucks while chaining yourself to the espresso machine.

Walking down the street in Spain to the local bodega is usually a pleasure. This time, there was a moderate amount of apprehension. This was my first solo flight. I am booted out of the nest and am expected to fly or . . .  Why does there always have to be an ‘or’? I mean, would it upset some vast eternal plan if there was not an ‘or’ in every situation?

Anyway, with my Spanish an inferior quality of nonexistence, I am armed to the teeth for the bodega. We are going to have BLT’s and all I have to remember is one little word, ‘lechuga’ (lettuce). That’s it. No mas. A simple task for a college educated man.

Quickening my pace downhill, I find myself repeating the word over and over in my head. “Lechuga.” Lechuga.” “Lechuga.” When the transition from psyche to vocal takes place, I am not sure. Audibly I find myself saying, “Lechuga.” Lechuga.” “Lechuga.”

Talking to myself in public does not bother me (I hold to this solemn practice to this day), but saying ‘lettuce’ repeatedly might give people bizarre impressions of thus lanky blonde gringo.

Stepping into the tiny bodega whets my appetite as hundreds of foreign aromas greet me. The store is large enough to hold 8-10 people semi-comfortably, so I stuff myself in with the other 15 sardines. Barely over six foot, I nevertheless tower above the Spaniards.

I patiently wait my turn, while two women (as opposed to ‘ladies’) entering after me continually move me forward with their grocery bolsos. Either that or they were trying to bag my backside for a foreign takeout. I move forward under duress, giving body hugs to all in front of me.

Finally my turn, the man behind the counter asks, “¿Que quieres?”

My moment has arrived. With all the confidence I can muster, I blurt out, “Luchega.” Somewhere within a block-and-one-half, ‘lechuga’ turned into ‘luchega’. The buzzing gossip of the three million other customers goes silent as all the Lilliputians stare up at me.

The owner looks dumbfounded. “¿Que?”

I gulp. There was an immediate expulsion from my armpit sweat glands. “Luchega?” I scarcely utter.

Knowing business would slow to a crawl (or even cease for the day) the owner begins to point and ask at the same time, “¿Esto?” “This?” “¿Eso?” “That?” I never have seen so many things in one microscopic store so fast.

My self-confidence is bolstering to new lows. I would rather be bobbing for anchovies. However, it is as if I have started a new game show and everyone wants to play. There were so many “¿Estos?” and “¿Esos?” and little fingers pointing in different directions, I become faint and nauseous.

Finally, the now sweaty proprietor claps his hands and exclaims, “Lechuga!” The room goes silent. As if shown a cue card, everyone in the room simultaneously throws their hands into the air and cheers to congratulate the winner of the grand prize.

Everyone but me.

I wish I was home having a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch.

Those concerned about healthy living are aware that a glass of red wine per day is supposedly good for you. I have never been much of a wine connoisseur, but I have had my opportunities to taste wines.

I was a mere 18 years of age when my high school principal’s daughter offered my first taste of wine. Taking a big gulp, I nearly stained the carpet of her home. Later I wondered if she was jealous of my music ability and was trying to burn my throat or attempting to get me drunk to take advantage of me.

One year later, I was to sing in a church out-of-state. I stayed with a family who also attended another church during an early morning service. The church had communion and I walked to the front and knelt. The pastor served me a wafer and then the cup. Little did I know it was wine. Littler did I realize how good the acoustics were in this church while I coughed with abandon.

Several years pass and I find myself in Spain. This farm boy was trying to get used to seafood and was struggling like a hooked swordfish. I was eating as a guest of a pastor and I thought I had better have “a little wine for my stomach.” Wise choice as I found the wine better than the food.

Several months later, I found myself eating with some neighbors. The proud man bragged about his vino from the campo (country). I could barely swallow small sips. Having downed a couple of glasses himself, he looked at my glass and said, “If you don’t like it, throw it on the floor!”

Now, many years later, Vicky and I are shopping in a grocery to stop for a bottle of wine for our health and dinner. I was amazed at the variety of wines and even more, the names. A sampling is:

Smashed Grapes- It reminds me of Lucy in a vat stomping and falling.

Manyana- A sic spelling of a sick Spanish wine?

Jacob’s Creek- It may not sound weird, but when I first read the label, the bottle was slightly turned and all I saw was Cob’s Creek. Not so inviting.

3 Blind Moose- Apparently someone already drank too much.

JackaRoo- Yep, it’s your Australian version with a bit of a hop.

Little Boomey- A Southern Australian wine that comes back at you or back up on you.

Yellow Tail- I have never had it, but I did have pink eye once.

Dancing Bull- Vicky did not like the name, but I told her I would try to learn the steps if she liked.

Fat Bastard- I really do not want to go there, but I do know a few.

Red Bicyclette- I had one as a kid, but I slipped off the pedal so often it doesn’t sound appealing.

Barefoot- There’s just something about someone else’s feet in my drink that makes me want to upchuck.

There was one in Chinese that looked out of place. I still can’t figure how to open it with chopsticks.

Franciscan- NOW I KNOW what they do when they are all secluded.

Funky Llama- This one intrigues me. I picture a potion that causes me to create new dances.

Sandeman- Creates images of grit, stuff in my eyes, and cats in sandboxes.

Little Penguin- Just a little sip will cause one to waddle.

Bin- Don’t know for sure, but this may be for the wino. Bin there, done that.

Well, thank you for checking in with the latest in wines. Check back next time when we be discussing the possible names for the morning gunk in your eyes left by the Sandeman . . . or Sandman. Whatever.

Last summer Vicky and I worked at putting an electric wire around the horse pasture. Actually, she nailed in insulators and put up the wire, while I repaired fence and played with wiring the electric box.

There are two three four things I prefer not to mess with: auto mechanics, plumbing, electricity and work in general. Thus, my amateur status as an electrician is still intact.

Finding used wire for the job, I hook it up and turn it on. Well, not immediately . . . I ask Vicky if she wants to let go first. After all, she might get shocked, but I would be the one lying on the ground.

Connecting the power, there is a lot of popping. Some of the wire is bad and needs to be cut off. Doing so, I hook it up again and try it. Still popping. All the wire is bad. Not having other insulated wire, I rig temporary, non-insulated wire from the power source to the fence.

Now is the time I wish I had bought the electric wire tester. Vicky suggests I toss on a barn cat. Mean ol’ Vicky! I decide to touch it myself. Ouch. Yup, it works. I work my way around the fence with the same result. Success.

Before bed, I strip off my shirt and shoes and walk back out to the fence in my jeans carrying a glass of wine. Just because I want to, I touch the electric wire one more time.

One would assume I would have considered the fact I am not wearing shoes. Oooohhh noooooo!! OUCH! The voltage throws me back as I yell . . . plus I am now wearing my glass of wine.

Buy me books and buy me books and all I do is eat the covers.

Addendum: Two days later I come home and touch it again. Yup . . . still hurts. What can I say? I just cannot resist.

I like to visit my doctor. He’s a pretty nice guy. We get along well, make each other laugh, and he chides me when necessary. (He has been chiding a lot lately.)

Upon one such visit, he walks into the room and I do my best Chinese impression.

“Ahh . . . most honorable Doctor. Welcome.”

He laughs and takes a seat.

“I’ll bet most of your patients greet you similarly, don’t they Doctor?”

“I don’t think so, Tim.”

“Well, surely your wife greets you like that when you get home.” There is a definite twinkle in my eye.

“No, Tim, she says, ‘Wipe you *@#%! feet when you come into the house.’”

We laugh easily.

“That doesn’t sound very honorable, Sir.”

“Tim, does you wife say that?”

“I don’t know, Doctor. You have never been over to my house.”

“Well, Tim, it’s time for your annual physical.”

Blast him! He always gets the last laugh.

(This is a work of fiction I am currently writing for book form. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s vivid imagination or are used ficititiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental . . . until proven otherwise.)

Asking people to take part in church services seemed like a good idea to me. This way that could take a little bit of ownership and be proud to be a member of Corn County Community Church. And it was a good idea . . . until the day I asked Clyde to pray.

“Hey Clyde, would you mind leading us in prayer at the beginning of church next Sunday?”

“Not a problem, Pastor. I’ll be praying about it all this week and come up with somethin’ quite proper.”

That should have been my first clue that some form of catastrophe was about to happen.

‘Next Sunday’ came far too fast and I am feeling mighty low, apprehensive and nauseated. What was I thinking? Clyde is a nice man and all, but he can get a second wind faster than a newborn calf catches its first breath.

Regrets get me nowhere and it is time to begin the service.

“This morning I have asked Clyde to lead us in prayer.” I may be wrong, but I think I hear six groans, two gasps, and Erma collapsing in her pew. Not a good start.

“Dear Father in Heaven to whom we cometh at this very moment on this bright and lovely sunny Sunday morning at Corn County Community Church . . .”

Oh my, I think he is going to God a weather report.

“. . . Today we rememberest all those less fortunate than ourselves . . .”

The less fortunate are those within hearing distance. . . . I hadn’t realized there are 783 cedar boards that make up the a frame ceiling of the sanctuary.

“. . . and we rememberest all the missionaries in Thy foreign lands. First we remember the Thomas family in Argentina . . .”

I didn’t realize we had 73 missionaries in our denomination. Nor can I figure how Clyde memorized them all in alphabetical order by country.

Clyde continues to drone on. “. . . And we want to lift up all our farmers in prayer . . .”

In the congregation, Dave has fallen asleep as his head snaps back like a wide open Pez dispenser. Dillon has been steadily snoring for five minutes. Weezie’s head is nodding and jerking while the Lilly family has all leaned in together. A lovely sight.

“. . . and we asketh Thee for protection when we leave this place of worship and drivest ourselves home in our chariots . . .”

Clyde always was a strong King James man.

“. . . And Lord I recall what my great uncle Herbert once toldest me about prayer . . .”

Lord Jesus, come quickly!

“. . . In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost we prayest, Amen.”

Those of us still awake all shout a unified “Amen” lest Clyde take off for an encore performance or wishes to add a few addendums.

With so little time left, we cut the song service down to two hymns and I preach for seven minutes. There isn’t even enough time to tell a good joke.

How is anyone going to get saved this way?

When people list those with excellent memories, I do not make the bottom twenty. As a young teen, I could remember baseball statistics and songs I sang and played on trumpet, but rarely much beyond sports or music.

Now past fifty, I often forget my home and cellular phone numbers. This seems somewhat natural due to speed dials, but nonetheless is embarrassing when it is asked for by a bank official, doctor, or . . . I forget who else asks.

Seldom can I remember my street address, but then again, I have had my share of addresses in my lifetime. Besides, I can find my way home . . . usually without a map.

At work they laugh because I tend to forget the schedule I made or the store telephone number I keep looking for. Then again, they also laugh because I sometimes try to staple papers with the computer mouse (when extremely tired).

One morning I darted out my office door only to stop and smile at everyone. I quickly retreated because I had already forgotten my mission for said darting from office door.  They laugh knowing I probably forgot where I put my glasses, keys or other essential life forms.

Vicky and I talk about her memory and family history of thyroid issues. She explains one side affect of a wacky thyroid is loss of memory.

I think about this for a while and say, “That sounds vaguely familiar, but I do not know why.” She looks at me with that cute, wry little smile of hers. Suddenly it dawns on me this is not the first time we have had this conversation.

Lowering my head I mumble, “Oh yeah. I have a thyroid problem, don’t I?  I keep forgetting.”

Day 7

A few more fish were caught last night.

Two ducks make an enjoyable webfoot landing on the lake 35-feet in front of me. The fogs, birds, loons and insects sing joyfully in chorus. The sun makes a grand entrance for the first time today (since I have been up). Despite my continual failings, blunders and shortcomings, God really does love me.

Appreciation for nature has been studiously enhanced in my being. Respect for nature of all kinds has been elevated (except for mosquitoes, crows and kamikaze caterpillars).  However, a tree hugger I will never become.

Jeff was missing this morning. Two vehicles hit the roads, while others walk paths. Someone found him on the road to town. If left unattended, he would have arrived by next week in time for Thursday’s lunch special.

We spent most of the afternoon playing dice, imitating Norwegians, and poking fun at one another. They decide on one more fishing expedition before we pack up and eat a late fish supper. The meal will also include lasagna and other items to fill the lack in fish.

I am glad to leave tomorrow, but miss all illustrations I have been given this week.

Day 6

It is a cloudy day. Many of the men have left to fish in nearby Meander Lake. I will probably just meander around here.

Isaiah 40:25-26 still speaks o me. Enjoying details as I do, this one is phenomenal:

Stars Visible in the Night Sky

(numbers rounded for symmetry)

Downtown New York City                                          30

Urban                                                                         300

Rural                                                                       3,000

With binoculars                                                  30,000

With a small telescope                               3,000,000

With a large telescope                      30,000,000,000

I find myself kicking back, drinking Chai, looking out upon the lake, meditating and dreaming. The birds are singing, baby squirrels are playing, the water is shimmering, and the breeze is rustling through the trees. The only way to make the setting better is to be with the one you love.

The distant howling heard daily comes from 19 huskies used for sledding in the winter. Their barking comes at feeding time, consistently give at 4:16, 5:07, 4:52, 4:34, or thereabouts.

The campgrounds are run and prowled by two brownish Dobermans, Abbey and Buckley. Abbey loves everybody, seeking attention, petting and treats. Buckley is a tad standoffish. I appeared to be on his good side when I reached out to pet him. He raised his leg and peed. I mistakenly found his bad side. They are fun to watch as they stalk the little chipmunks. The chipmunks tease them constantly, leading them on chases and empty pursuits.

Ken, Travis and I struck off fishing. Ken is older, Travis is younger.  Both are interesting to listen to. Their stories range from reading, traveling and experience. The conversations made the trip very worth while. Good thing, as Ken alone caught one small walleye. I forgot my friend’s advice to keep my eye on the bobber.

We are still taking about the fishing. It is about all one can do. There was further talk of mutiny and leaving a day early.

It has been a cold spring in N. Minnesota. The spawning apparently took place late and the fish are comatose. I remember feeling that way after spawning once.

The guys in our cabin closed out the night playing dice and naming all television western series over 20 years old. They recalled sixty-two with much laughing. There are several entertainers in the room so I need not to chime in . . . often.