Three years ago, when our roof was pounded to pieces by a violent hail storm, our agent had an adjuster out right away and we had a substantial check covering our expenses  in our hands immediately. I thought this was the normal way of doing business. This morning I learned that Jaqui,  her roof similarly damaged during the same storm, received only 250 dollars in damages and had to have her roof extensively patched rather than replaced.  Even so, she was out-of-pocket a large sum of money as a result. In my judgment, this was not only a financial disaster, but an insult thrown at her by her insurer as well. After all, she’d been paying premiums for over 20 years.

As of right now, Jaqui has trees down, gutters down, a patio in tatters, and a large hole in her roof that is covered over with a temporary patch. Yesterday, when her adjuster finally arrived, he hardly glanced at her roof, refused at first even to use his ladder to climb up, and after a short conversation with the roofer who was on hand to offer expert advice, announced to Jaqui that there was nothing that they were going to do.

He told the roofer that if she didn’t get her roof replaced this time, they would pull her insurance policy. After all, when they paid her the 250 dollars last time they expected her to replace the roof. Maybe there were a few other words exchanged after this bombshell that I’m not reporting.

I simply don’t know what people are going to do in the face of these kinds of gorilla tactics. Maybe this adjuster is lucky that Jaqui has a lot of self control. I can imagine some women who manage ranches on their own who might have been somewhat more aggressive at this point in the confrontation.

I’d start a “Save Jaqui’s Roof Fund” except that she’s an independent lady and would never agree. I may start a “Homeowner’s Defense Fund” for cases where certain companies refuse to honor their commitments.

“You may not think of 1960 as being quite in the digital age, but there were signs that it was coming. Mag tape makes its first print appearance in 1960, as does software, according to the OED (though Merriam-Webster claims to have a citation from 1958). The OED also dates both computerese and computerize to 1960; M-W, again, claims a slightly earlier appearance for the verb. The mainframe was still a few years away and the personal computer may not even have been a twinkle in its inventor’s eye at this point, but bionics, COBOL, and magnetic disk all first enjoyed the limelight of the printed word in 1960.”

I was most surprised by the word software, though I suppose it had been a term bandied about as slang at least a little while before it appeared in print. I seem to recall that we thought of punched paper tape feeding instructions into the machine at ten bytes per second as soft ware ( two words). After all, the soft paper was always tearing and we had to continually patch it with Scotch Tape. We also had kooks rather than geeks. Anyone who was certifiably eccentric or admitted to being a mathematician was treated to mild contempt from a general public who thought that My Friend Irma was better than Shakespeare.

The bit about slang intrigued me. In an age in which Lucy and Ricky couldn’t be shown in a bedroom unless there were twin beds, I suppose new slang that would get past the censors was necessary. Here is some of what Mr. Hargraves had to say.

“Perhaps the most interesting of the words first appearing in print in 1960 are the slang words. They make a strong argument that in the word world, the conditions of birth play a defining role in one’s future, and that social mobility for words, if it exists, operates on a glacial time scale. New slang words in 1960 are still slang words today: cockamamie, klutz, kook, and the British phrasal verb sod off. To our ear, none of these words sounds either new or ancient today, which is pretty much what you look for in a 50-year-old. Is kook an exception? In our circle it tends to be used much more by the over-70 crowd than the under-30s, and that gives it a bit of an older-generation patina.”

I especially liked sod off, an expression which still finds a lot of play on the BBC where it has grown so mild that it is likely to trip off the tongue of a ten-year-old who is irritated with his mom. Oddly enough, I haven’t heard any of my friends in Australia using the term. Maybe they can tell me if there’s a special, down-under substitute.

One thing I promise myself  is that I will curb my tendency to use the word kook. I still feel like I’m part of the younger generation.

Callie, our orphaned  girl from Hammond, Louisiana, has finished high school and is spending the summer working for her guardian, Morgan. Callie’s dog, Boudreaux, a black, curly-haired mutt, seems unusually listless. Wondering why her dog is sick, she takes a sample of the pet food to Morgan’s laboratory where she works in one of the water quality labs. When she sneaks in the pet food sample for analysis, she discovers a horrifying secret. She decides to take action on her own, not wanting to involve Morgan or her lawyer friend, Noel Webster.

Callie, who is headstrong and independent,  is not to be deterred by the evil manager of a pet food plant near New Orleans.  She runs into dire trouble as she  uncovers a secret that may disturb pet owners everywhere.

In our case, fact. I’ve lost 27 pounds, my wife reached her ideal weight at 112 pounds, and our good friend, the tennis coach, has lost 25 pounds. Did we eat lettuce leaves and celery sticks slathered with yummy, non-fat yogurt? No!

We learned that taste is everything–lots and lots of sparkling good taste that is so satisfying to the palate that eating larger amounts of food just doesn’t happen. Case in point, our typical Sunday night meal. This was so good that I wanted to share the details with you and assure you that this is a perfectly good way to diet.

First of all, I shucked some fresh, salty oysters with my trusty oyster-lead and my grandfather’s hand made knife. Just four apiece, but served with really stinging-hot, high-quality horseradish tamed with a few drops of fresh lemon juice. We smacked our lips over the shellfish and took a few sips of the Three Tree wine that I had chilled for this purpose.

My wife unrolled the paper around our whole, smoked whitefish and separated the meat from the bones while the coach sliced up portions of Porter cheese, some Cedar Grove, peppery goat cheese, and broke off small chunks of something that tasted like good Havarti  from Buckaroo Cowgirl Creamery (I kid you not).  The crackers, or flat bread, were crispy, seed-encrusted  bars that wouldn’t intruded on the delicate taste of the smoked whitefish. A dish of tart green olives was available to cleanse the palate between cheese.

My wife’s small salad added a bit of bulk to the dinner. She likes nuts and a few currants over halved cherry tomatoes from our garden. This mixture is bedded in the torn leaves of butternut lettuce. Champagne dressing with a hint of Spanish olive oil really blends these tastes together.

I’d planned on serving my dessert specialty which is a ripe peach-half heated in the microwave, covered with a tablespoon of sour cream, and laced with agave nectar which I also use instead of sugar for baking bread–the glycemic index is much lower than regular sugar or honey. However, we were so stuffed by our tasty, yet small meal that we had to put off dessert until the following day. I decided to have one last bit of Porter cheese as dessert.

Which brings to mind a question I’d like to ask. What exactly is Porter cheese?

This particular burger is dressed with both mustard and mayonnaise, lightly grilled onions, thin slices of moderately hot jalapeno peppers, and a few leaves of crunchy lettuce that cushion a flavorful slab of ground meat served between the two halves of a toasted bun. I could have ordered this burger in a dozen different variation, but I like it in its default configuration, as modern terminology would classify it. It’s the refined version of the burger that I enjoyed in Josie’s way back in the 1950′s when Ginny Smith  smiled and served me a few more fries than I was strictly entitled to.  In that day and time, that was the way the burger came. No one asked how you wanted it dressed.

In Josie’s the local radio station blasted away, numbing our ears with a mindless stew of unfaithful lovers  and little Nash Ramblers. The smoke made my eyes water, and the perfumed hair spray that glued sculpted domes of hair to the tops of girl’s heads made me sneeze. Nevertheless, over all that bedlam, we talked and dreamed of many things that we might do with our lives. Our imaginations were lively because we hadn’t been shown very much. Making decisions loomed more important than selecting between choices, of which we had few. Korea was an immediate and haunting past and the Russians had declared that they would bury us.

I am from the age of “Our Town.” I had read Samuel Clemens and knew what Huck Finn was talking about.  I understood that we ought to be scared when the Cuban Missile Crisis broke. I was too cynical to embrace the Age of Aquarius in which all religions were to coalesce and the individual mind freed from ignorance and delusion. I saw too many individual journeys begin, not with a new consciousness, but with a drug-induced confidence that somehow  Spirit would heal the people of many nations and many tongues and that a new race of super-conscious human truth-seekers would rule the earth. Humbug, but not without some merit. I do have some idealism left in me. For many, the shock of embracing the aftermath of the war in Vietnam overturned the idealistic notion of individually seeking a “true” path in life.

What I like to call the “Age of Gregarious” was born after Vietnam. In spite of the rhetoric about individual rights and choices, people flocked to the safety that they were told lay in belonging to the herd and associating with others of our own kind (the dictionary’s words, not mine). When the Internet hit it big, people were primed to plunge into the ultimate, plastic existence, the new Tower of Babble. Safe at last among their own kind. Unidentifiable among the infinite choices. Lulled by the deceptive attraction of anarchy.

Back in current time, I watched students, one couple in particular, drinking their iced tea and eating their sandwiches, eyes glued to the TV set hanging in one corner. They had spent considerable time at the counter trying to decide exactly how they wanted their sandwich delivered.  On the screen, a ten year old boy was explaining to an audience of adults why they didn’t need to be afraid of a tank filled with the floating parts of a manikin. “They’re not real body parts; it’s a magic trick,” the boy says, and relief passes across the faces of the men and women waiting for this precocious child to explain to them why they should feel safe.

Relief seemed to pass across the faces of the two students. Their heads nodded in understanding. The evil of the unknown had been averted by the child hero. It seemed that I, alone, wondered why none of the adults walked over to the tank and fished out a wooden limb. There was a dimly illuminated metaphor here. Could it be that their relief was about the youngest, least experienced human in the room making decisions so that they could be left to make choices among colors of shirts and styles of running shoes? Could the perception be that the judgment of the freshest and least cynical of the crowd would be the most trustworthy to follow?

I wondered how long these people would last in Afghanistan. Would they Google their rights as soldiers if the Sergeant yelled at them to get their heads down? Thank goodness we’ll have a group of wiser young men and women who won’t be taken in by the inverted values often portrayed on TV. They will return from overseas with the wisdom bought from making hard decisions when there are very few choices.  They probably won’t be so impressed with the numbers of choices offered at the Mall; they might be more concerned about the crime rate. They’ll probably order plain coffee and enjoy the burger as it comes from the kitchen. Sergeant, please keep them safe.

And I remembered the appointment that I had later this morning with an insurance adjuster. I was hoping that  he remembered the recent hail storm and would agree that the roof needs repair. Of course, that was beyond reasonable expectations.

For years I was troubled by the fact that I couldn’t remember the word capers. I would wind up having to say, “Those little green balls that go with the anchovies on the salad or pizza.”  There are several other words, but I can’t remember what they are, or won’t until I reach out for them at awkward moments and act confused, which is what younger persons expect anyway. At least capers is an innocuous  subject that doesn’t come up very often. Anyway, my wife always knows what I mean .

A couple of months ago, I’m not exactly sure when, my wife decided that we should do something about this little problem. She was kind enough to understand that I hadn’t developed selective hearing, which is what most husbands suffer from about the time they want to leave for the golf course. Then, too, I pointed out that there were a few things that she was forgetting, things like where the car was parked at the library or whether or not we had guests for supper.

Sixteen pills every day. This is the recommended regimen published by a number of reputable physicians and the reasonable sorts of brain-health enthusiasts. Nothing extreme. Small doses of things like fish oil that help keep that ubiquitous MSG from killing off too many brain cells.

Each morning I remember to fill two small bowls with the pills we will take with our meals during the day. I feel better–really I do. I know how subjective such pronouncements are, but I did remember capers without having to find my crib sheet which I keep filed under “little green balls.”

I  even remember the time my wife’s flight gets in and what day it’s on. I bet I remember to put fuel in the tank before I start out on the drive to the airport. My wife called me from Ketchikan this morning and reminded me that I need to drop by the Post Office where a check is supposed to be waiting to take to the bank. I told her not to worry, that I remembered and would soon be on my way.

In fact, I put off taking pill #9 in order to speed up this entire process and get to the bank before all the cookies are eaten and the coffee goes stale. I am entering the post office, key in hand, when I realize that something completely unexpected has happened. I can’t remember my post box number.

You can make a loaf of excellent bread by dipping out 3 cups of flour ( like unbleached but who cares) and putting this aside. Don’t bother to be too precise because you’ll learn to adjust the liquid after a few loaves.

Put 2/3 cup of warm water in a microwaveable bowl, add a pinch of salt, half a stick of butter, 1/4 cup of agave nectar (the cheapest), and a couple of tablespoons of flax meal if you want healthy stuff. Don’t use flax seed as this will go right through your system without doing you a bit of good.

Heat this up in the microwave a bit until the butter is just melting or real soft, add an egg, and stir this stuff up. Best thing is to check the temperature at this point and bring the bowl of liquid up to about 118 degrees F.  Pour into a mixer with a regular spade blade (no dough hooks please) and start mixing.

Add a tablespoon of dry yeast (don’t use the little packages, get a cheaper tin of yeast), mix some more, then add all except a few tablespoons of flour  a serving-spoonful at at time until the whole thing is a rather firm, yet sticky mess. Add a teaspoon of water if it gets too dry. Scrape it out using a spatula onto the small mound of flour which you should have spread out on a cutting board. Now, don’t knead this too much because you don’t need to (ah, there’s a pun). Just kind of push it together and slap it around rather carelessly and roughly, taking up most of the dry flour you had on the board. Butter up that loaf pan real well and push the dough into the bottom of the pan, distributing it evenly. If you want a thicker crust, wet your hand and slap a bit of water on it. Put the pan with dough in a warm place. I use a couple of cheap, foil turkey-roasting pans turned top-to-top over the loaf pan and placed on my warmer at the back of the stove. If you got it right, you should begin heating the oven right away because in about 20 minutes your going to need to start baking it. Wait until the loaf rises and starts to peek over the lip of the pan (which you better have included in the buttering process.)

Bake at 375 for 50  minutes on a middle shelf in the oven. Take it out, dump it out on a rack immediately, and wait five minutes before you cut a hefty slice off one end, slather it with a thick layer of butter, savor the flavor, and wonder why in the world people seem to think bread-making takes hard labor and hours of time.

While arguing over either religion or politics is unlikely to change any opinions, if forced into the situation, I insist on arguing only about religion and never politics. For one thing, there are no new candidates likely to be standing for election in the area of religion. With politics, you have to deal with beliefs often disguised as facts. In religion you have postulates and no one admits to theories.

There is another reason to avoid  arguing over politics.  It’s like a bunch of race drivers arguing over the best line to drive around the race course. Since two cars can’t occupy the same space at the same time, it’s best to agree that the object of the race is first and foremost to get around the track. Competition for that lower spot coming out of the curve is secondary to making it around the curve. We see, all too frequently, the resulting violent elimination when two drivers insist on putting their cars into the same space at the same time. Yeah, we all want our children to grow up healthy and safely, no matter anything else. Focus on that. Don’t play to the excitement of the crowd. It isn’t actually a race if no one finishes.

The three elements that define human discourse might be loosely categorized as: the Absolute, the Relative, and the Provisional. If you analyze any conversation, you can generally come to the conclusion that it’s mostly about religion if there are a lot of references to absolutes(or postulatory ideas); you will conclude that politics is being discussed if the entire discourse seems to flap about on relative grounds; and you know that what’s being discussed is both evolutionary and useful (and possibly educational) if the context of the language is in the provisional.

Thus, political discourse termed in absolutes is basically a religious argument (and needs to be recognized as such) while any other kind of political dialogue is uselessly mired in relativism and can be safely ignored.

Neither religion nor politics belong in the realm of the provisional. We all, as a fractured political body, continue to repeat past mistakes, don’t we? I mean, we build six lane roads to replace two lane roads instead of dealing with the question of organizing ourselves so that we don’t need this kind of transportation mechanism. I rest my case.

All the truly useful and important questions will be resolved provisionally–no more angels on the head of a pin. Questions like, what does it mean to be human? We’re going to change a lot in the next century. Circumstance will drive us to it. There is no way to reject this future. For instance, our genes will change as we learn therapies that survival demands. Other, equally appalling (according to some)  things will happen that we must adapt to. Get on board the learning curve or get eliminated.

Getting back to the beginning of all of this: maybe it’s best not to argue politics because candidates and their policies are all relative, and don’t argue the religious part hoping for change because nothing alters a presumption of natural order. Observe and decide for yourself. That’s all you can do. It’s the provisional way and is, in fact, the very essence of your future. Astronaut Neil Armstrong may have made a statement wiser and more important than he realized at the time he stepped on the moon for the first time. “One small step for mankind” is a very provisional statement.

When I sit out in the moonlight, I don’t hear those whispering voices urging me to do this or follow up on that. I have time to listen to the crickets rather than the ghosts of my parents advising me on a practical career. When the wind stirs the leaves in the old Ash tree above my head I have time to think about sailing alongside dolphins rather than filling out insurance or tax forms. When the smell of dry leaves means that Fall will soon be in the air, I am reminded of all the promises I made myself and how few I have kept. How strange to think that we keep our promises to others but we regularly violate those we make to ourselves.

And those whispering voices. Things promised but not done. I want to scream at my father and tell him that I never promised I would be a good tennis player. It was his voice speaking for me. I never did play tennis, and one more failure has been tallied against me. Nor did I do many things that he promised I would do. Somewhere, in all of that, I got lost.

It used to be that people looked up at the night skies and imagined the shapes of things in the sky by looking at the dark spaces between the stars. Now, we live by connecting dots. We live on those lines that we draw between the brightspots. Those dots and lines are paths that others chose for us. Settle back in your chair and contemplate the dark regions. In other words, fill in the voids. It’s where we live.

As all us older versions of homo sapiens know, we shrink as we get older. Unfortunately, this is usually in height rather than in girth. I was once nearly 5’10″ and now am but a mere 5’6″ tall. At the same time, I had a 32″ waist that has grown somewhat until it is a modest 41″.

Okay, I’m working on it! Walking two miles a day, eating fewer carbs, and all that.

The thing is, I take steps that are too long. I jar my joints. My knees suffer. I often place my foot down in midair, almost as if I’ve forgotten where the ground is. Of course, I’m thinking, my legs did use to be much longer, and here my brain is behaving as I were 4″ taller. I watch other men. They seem to be shuffling, head slightly forward, shoulders bent. I want to stop them and tell them that they are responding the wrong way to this perplexing problem. The solution is to imagine that you’re walking downhill and bend your back leg ever so slightly–putting the spring back into your step, so to speak. John Cleese had the right of it, even if he was just trying to be funny. Remember how he walked? Something like a slightly drunken duck?

Try it. Young women will smile at you, assuming you’ve reached the harmless age of senility. Try to look smug. After doing this no more than twenty minutes or so, you will find that you are standing straighter, pounding the pavement less, and generally looking less old. (I deliberately avoided saying you will look younger because you wont.)