Abe
In that "Dear Abe" speaks as George Zidbeck's alter ego, know that both share the same background. For those interested, H. (Honorable) Abe refers you to earlier issues wherein Mr. Zidbeck wrote monthly under the pen name of Country Squire from Feb. 2010 thru April 2013. (See Archives)
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Dear Abe
by George Zidbeck
Dear Readers: When I switched from a Squire's Observations to giving advice, I cautioned that my 'counsel' might not follow options offered by serious, licensed counselors. Therefore, please present me with off-the-wall problem areas that allow me to speak with whimsy and with my tongue stuck in my cheek. The Squire and I do share one trait, both of us agreeing that ya gotta laugh. And no analgesic exceeds the benefits flowing from shared joy.
You and I stand at the beginning of a learning curve. I'm hopeful that the months ahead will entertain us – both of us accepting the countless foibles that flow from the consequences of human follies. I thus encourage you to freely splash in Abe's community pool where wit and mirth might counterbalance disappointment and despair.
Although the slocoastjournal.com has a readership far beyond California's coastal/mid-state zone, my focus, generally, is anchored where I live. And yet, humor has no fixed boundaries. Thus, whether you dismount from a pony to enter a Mongolian yurt or yodel from the rampart of a Rhine castle, let me hear from you and share your troubles away as the song goes….
Questions
A guy in Kansas writes, "Your May column prompts me to ask one question. What qualifications do you have, other than bluster, that I should consider before asking your advice?
ABE: Any person who uses the word "bluster" when questioning my credentials automatically disqualifies him/herself from benefitting by one of my learned and studious responses.
TB from AZ informs, "My wife will visit a sick relative out of state soon, and be out of town for likely two weeks — the longest separation we'll have had in our marriage. She's been the cook all that time. Our tight budget doesn't stretch enough for my eating out, and I can't do much except boil eggs and make simple sandwiches. A cute neighbor lady has offered to have me over for dinner while my wife is away. What's the harm of my having hot meals a few evenings while my wife is out of town?
ABE: Why no harm at all. You just go right now to your wife and tell her what you're now telling me. You two have a comfortable marriage, right? So, give her first chance to answer your question. I'll yield to her judgment. I'm betting she loads up the fridge with a couple of dozen eggs, four loaves of bread, four pounds of bologna, and two large jars of mayo. Maybe even some chocolate-chip cookies. And the whole kaboodle should be gone when she returns. Oh, and maybe consider taking a laxative the day before she returns home, and have a gargantuan appetite for the first meal she prepares.
Anonymous in CA informs "I'm not an early morning person. Never was, and never expect to be. And yet Fate has somehow affixed me with early daytime shifts. You got any idea that'll help me jump out of bed and not have to make a mad dash to get to work on time?
ABE: I've had that same problem. I'll share the one technique that sometimes worked well for me. My favorite treat is ice-cream, but I didn't want to overindulge on a regular basis. That's when I stocked "Eskimo pies" in the freezer. If I got out of bed on the first alarm and prepared myself for work in a timely fashion, I rewarded myself with one of those treats for my breakfast.
An Oregon woman, CW, writes, "I have an uncle in his 80's who proudly proclaims that he has a lady friend who told him he 'has the glint.' My coy uncle will not enlighten me as to what that phrase means. I've asked some of my friends of both sexes, but they shrug their shoulders. I'll be forever grateful if you can explain that word and put it into context."
ABE: Very simple my dear. It's that enticing eye sparkle that doesn't require suave or fanciful language to say 'come hither.' The look is enough to bring a potential quarry within firing range. The glint is age and gender free by the way. However, I suspect today's younger generation has replaced that term in that I haven't heard that word for quite some time. PS: I envy your uncle. I've never had the glint.
Excuse me! The Old Country Squire here. Yeah, yeah, I announced my retirement from the Slo Coast Journal, but I had an observation this month that compels me to have Abe step aside for a moment.
A couple of days ago – looking out the dining room window – I noticed a flurry of activity taking place across the NW fence line. Estimated distance on a straight line – about 90 yards. Initially I believed I witnessed a large raptor struggling with a large quarry. I knew that the prey had to be something other than a gopher or squirrel. I quickly snatched a pair of binoculars on the window sill and zeroed in for a closer look.
The first up-close look offered a fan of tail feathers – suggesting a tom turkey, but I couldn't be sure. Turkeys aren't raptors, and the struggle gave no suggestion of a tiff between two toms. Within seconds, I spotted a doe racing down slope and heading for the bird or fowl – forcing it to back off momentarily. Of course the doe's intrusion only complicated my understanding of the action.
Still, the opening of the scene allowed me to see that indeed, a hen turkey had created the flap. But, the feathered antagonist didn't retreat far, and exhibited a desire to return to the attack. Quickly however, the doe advanced closer, and then the turkey backed off and moved away. (I later wondered if the hen and her brood inadvertently passed close to where the fawn lay still until startled upright by the feathered troupe, permitting the turkey mom to see the fawn as a danger to her brood. Just a guess.)
When the doe turned, it moved to the spot of the original flurried action and began nudging the ground. With the eyeglasses I soon spotted the head of a recently born fawn. Continuously licking the fawn must've stimulated the baby deer to stand up, and within two minutes followed its mother who returned uphill.
I then took the spotting eyepiece outside and walked in the direction I had last seen the hen turkey, and although not seeing it right away, I heard it give the clucking sound that let its young know where she stood. And, within a minute spotted a few chicks running around her area.
An interesting drama for sure. Such an event had never been presented during my decades long residence in San Luis Obispo County. All ended well, and a lesson attached: Don't mess with mamas.
Okay, Abe, go back to where you were. Sorry for stepping into your turf.
ABE: All right, Squire Z, but this time only. From hereon, please refrain from jumping into my column. I never/ever bothered you even on a few occasions when I had good reasons.
Joe B. in the San Joaquin Valley says he just turned 30 and found a gray hair in his comb recently, and is worried about aging too quickly. He feels that his "best days are behind him."
ABE: One solitary gray hair at 30 signifies nothing. Your days before finding that one 'silver' strand must've been magnificently fulfilling if you're going to throw in the towel now. Here's what I want you to do. When you have a couple of days off, come to the Mid-State Coast of San Luis Obispo County– anywhere from Pismo Beach to Cambria. Walk the streets, stomp the sandy shores, stroll the sidewalks, and take note of all the men and women who have full heads and beards of gray hair. Jot down the animated number who smile or laugh. A goodly number are going to be in their fifties, sixties, seventies or more. Tell them that their lives are over. Double-dare ya!
I had a couple of more problems followed by my suggestions, but the Squire hasn't left me enough room. Don't let that stop you from sending me a question for down the road….
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