Idle American: The man in the middle

Too much is expected of us, we folks of a certain age, whether man or woman.

Society yawns as we strive to avoid violent foul-ups in the fast lane; we weep, choking on the dust of the younger set, some of whom are eager to push us toward side roads.

Sometimes, side roads can be found. I find my heart warmed upon discovering farm-to-market exit markers. I’m usually ready to exit, if only to take double dips of fresh country air, and perhaps see frolicking ponies horsing around and cows meandering.

My mind wanders, this time to a long-ago Tarzan tale. It is a late Friday afternoon. He is swinging weakly from vine to vine, hopeful to have enough juice to make the tree house leap. Arriving, he crawls into a corner, whimpering his request for a cup of warm milk. Fetching it, Jane asks, “Tarzan, what’s the matter with you? You are not yourself.”

To which he answers, “Jane, you don’t understand; it’s a jungle out there.”

It’s a jungle in the here and now, too, in our concrete world. Long since admitting my foibles, I again apologize for citing personal experiences, the only kind I’ve had.

Take one disastrous scenario last Thursday, when I turned our kitchen into a war zone. I know that cooking is a household chore that doesn’t come natural for some of us. However, I’ve been a 24/7 caregiver for my wife across the last few years, so I know that it’s part of the deal. It is my lot to prepare “three squares” daily. Often, time constraints - paired with my kitchen klutziness - make it hazardous.

Here lately, my wife doesn’t ask what’s cooking, instead, what’s thawing.

Zombies could prepare better meals. Yet, our house still stands, and we both are vertical and ventilating. When my cooking is complimented, it is only after repeated wheedlings. It’ll never get past the first rounds of the county fair.

Anyway, around 5:30 p.m., thoughts of meat loaf led to salivation. It would have been wise to first determine that ingredients were in place. Alas, my mind is too often in the shallows when depth is needed.

I advised Brenda and our neighbors that it might be as late as 7:30 p.m. until dinner. If we dine later, we’re all subjected to indigestion before ingestion (John, world’s best neighbor and married to a co-equal, has provided yard care for years, so we offer food from time to time as a timid exchange).

Groans ensued when I couldn’t find green peppers. Cindy, next door, avoids cooking, and laughed when I asked to borrow one. “I have ground black pepper only,” she grinned, adding that she’ll always share if requests are limited to salt, sugar and maybe an egg. She recommended that I request a Google

substitute.

Then, my Apple watch reacted to the pea scuffle, signaling that I may have fallen, and that help was on the way. (Frozen peas, left by accident on the counter, wouldn’t loosen, so I fist-banged the bag. Greasy fingers delayed my hitting the don’t come button just as an AT&T woman returned my

call placed earlier about a cell phone issue.

She hoped I was having a good day, and I responded that it was one of the worst. I barely got the 9-1-1 call-off button pushed that was worsening our day. (I didn’t want an Apple watch, but our daughters insisted, knowing that it would alert 9-1-1, perhaps not thinking that my banging away on frozen food might produce the same results.) Further, I told her that I was making monthly payments on the watch, with pay-out scheduled in 2029. I hadn’t wanted an Apple watch in the first place, but our daughters insisted in case of a fall.

Happy ending! The meat loaf was good, despite the silence of 75% of us.

Even with this merry mess, much is right with our world.

Perhaps I should have drained the grease the meat loaf cooked in.

Dr. and Mrs. Newbury live in the Metroplex. He is a past president of Howard Payne University and Western Texas College. email, newbury@speakerdoc.com. Phone; 817-692-5625.