A Few More Good Ones

"Sir, if you were my husband I would poison your drink."
                                  - Lady Astor to Winston Churchill
"Madam, if you were my wife I would drink it."
                                   - his reply


"When I read about the evils of drinking I gave up reading."
                                   - Henny Youngman


"My wife and I were happy for twenty years. Then we met."
                                   - Rodney Dangerfield


"The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind."
                                    -Humphrey Bogart


"I had some words with my wife, and she had some paragraphs with me."
                                     -Anonymous


"Some people ask for the secret of our long marriage. We take time to go to a restaurant two times a week. A little candlelight, dinner, soft music and dancing. She goes Tuesdays, I go Fridays."
                                      -Henny Youngman

And finally...

This exchange between Groucho Marx and a female contestant on his television show You Bet Your Life:

Groucho: "You have twenty-two children! Why do you have so many children? That's a big responsibility and a big burden."

Woman: "Well, because I love children, and I think that's our purpose here on earth, and I love my husband."

Groucho: "I love my cigar too, but I take it out of my mouth once in a while."

A Faraway Fable

And now for something completely different...

Picture if you will a tropical island, lost and forgotten in time as it lies alone, surrounded by an endless reach of blue-green ocean. Without burden or benefit of civilized advance the island remains as it has for centuries, uncharted and unknown. From horizon to horizon the sun arcs across the sky every day, blazing relentlessly.

            Once removed from the power and surf of the ocean, the beach of sparkling white sand gives way to plants, vines and trees of every shape and size that together hold the sun's heat and refuse to let it go. In there the place comes alive with the shrieks and chirps of birds and other creatures heard but not seen.

            Running through the middle of that jungle is a small river. Its brown, silty water moves slowly, but at least it moves. The fetid air all around does not. At a bend in the river is a sandy bank, and it is there every day that an old crocodile lays in the sun like a fallen log. With weathered skin and crooked white spikes jutting out of its mouth he shows his age. Robbed of his speed and quickness by uncounted years gone by, he is content now to live out his time in peace, knowing full well that on this island he has no challenge.

            One day everything changes when a young sailor is washed ashore, the sole survivor of a shipwreck on a reef miles away. Tumbling in on wave after wave he collapses on the soft warm sand, gasping and grateful to heaven that his life has been spared. He rests his head on the sand and his parched lips whisper, "I'm alive," before he closes his eyes and sleeps.

            In the days that follow he struggles but learns to survive on his own: finding bits of food, harnessing fire, building a shelter. He starts to regain his strength. As the days stretch on and it becomes clear that he is the only human soul on this island his thoughts grow bold. Fear and sadness at his plight slowly give way to the notion that, for the first time in his young life, he is, by natural order, king of all that he sees. 

            He explores the island and comes to know of the old crocodile, always lying there motionless on the river bank. But for the young man what was once fear soon becomes something else. It starts out as little more than a game – throwing a clump of mud at the animal and quickly ducking behind a tree. This done, of course, from the safety and distance of the other side of the river.  So he throws a stick. Then another. Soon he is stepping out into the open, standing at the water's edge and throwing stones at the animal's head. Every day he comes to the river and plays his game. Every day laughing, taunting, then turning his back and strutting away. Each time the croc sits and does nothing.

           

            Then one day the young man comes down to the river, only to find the sandy bank empty. He looks up and down the murky stretch of water.

            Nothing.          

            "Where are you?" he says softly to himself. His heart pounds and the sweat runs down his face as he scans the tangle of plants and trees around him.

            "Where are you?" he yells.

            The jungle falls silent.

            With hurried steps he retreats to the safety that he always finds on his side of the island.

            But he is compelled to return the next day, and the day after that. The crocodile is not there. By now a faint voice of triumph is ringing in the man's head. That croc must have known he'd met his master. Still, only a fool would test those dark and perilous waters. Better to simply claim victory and walk away.

            And walk away he does, tossing out of his mind the funny notion that somehow the jungle is watching him. He returns safely and dives into a lagoon just off the ocean. Wading in to the clear blue water the heat of the day washes off him as he floats on his back and stares up at the sun and the limitless sky. Minutes pass by unnoticed and he smiles. King of all that he sees.

            By the time he hears the rush of water and looks over it is too late. The force smashes into him and takes him under as a searing pain rips through his chest. He tries to fight but it doesn't last long. The last two things he sees are bony white teeth and clouds of red blood. His last thought is one of regret. Profound regret.

           

            When it's all over the old crocodile crawls up on the beach. Beneath the sound of breaking surf he slowly makes his way back to his favorite spot in the sun where he will rest once again.

            Long live the King.

-end-

An Open Letter To My Dad

In honor of Father's Day I thought I would post a letter written by my father, Clarence Stolt, in 1963 after the passing of his father.

An Open Letter to my Dad:

The phone seemed to jingle a little more nervously than usual when Carol called at the

office and said you had slept away peacefully.

It wasn't unexpected. We both put up a bold front in our last visit at the St. Paul V.A. Hospital 10 days ago, but inwardly we knew.  You made it clear that 85 was a lengthy life and you had no regrets in leaving.

I boarded the Hiawatha train the following day and found the quiet of a streamliner rolling northward an ideal place for reminiscing.  You had a full life, Dad. Coming over from Sweden in rugged pioneer tradition and starting a new life in northwestern Wisconsin was no easy task.  But it sure developed your initiative, independence and, best of all, the good old virtue of common sense which more than compensated for your meager schooling.  Never gave it much thought before but your working years must have been in excess of 60 years.  I don't think you were idle a day until you reached 75.  With limited means you saw that we three kids went to college, which is a splendid tribute to both you and Mother.  Remarkably good health blessed your life until that pesky hip accident. This, coupled with Mother's passing, dulled your zest for living a little, but you kept such thoughts pretty much to yourself.

Two old photographs come to mind.  The faded confirmation photo in which your eyes speak sheer devilment, and that picture of you in your Spanish-American war uniform displays a physique few servicemen boast today.  Not much fighting in that conflict, but those training camp conditions you mentioned on occasion didn't make me a bit envious.  Incidentally, I'm told you were the last of the Spanish-American vets in Pierce County.

By golly we had some great times together.  Those fishing trips on the St. Croix river:  (remember the time I cast your new rod into the depths of the Mississippi?); those leisurely car trips along Lake Pepin where as a youngster you did some commercial fishing; those trips to the Minnesota State Fair.  Oh yes, there were many more – the pheasant we snitched out of season; and how you enjoyed coming to Milwaukee to see the Braves perform.  Never could figure where you got the stamina to sit through those laborious doubleheaders.

Our Christmas gathering last December left the most pleasant memories.  You were feeling exceptionally chipper and I was amused by your comment that Kent Francis, my youngest, really warmed up to you on this visit.   I know how happy you were two years ago when he came along to carry on the family name.  Kent is a dynamic chap, a little too mischievous at times; I'm sure he takes after his "Gwam Pa."

Truthfully, Dad, I never heard anyone say a harsh word about you and my memory isn't good enough to recall all the compliments concerning the love, respect and help you gave your fellow man.  Typically, you never bothered to mention to me your recent generous gift to the local church.  You are certainly worthy of the Lord's promise: "Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard…the things which God hath prepared for those that love Him."

Thanks for everything, Dad. I know you are having a marvelous time now, and deservedly so (though I'd like to know how you explained about that pheasant incident). I won't say goodbye – just so long for a spell.

Sincerely,

Clarence