As coronavirus information came dribbling in, I found myself wishing.
I wished it would go away. I wished my life would return to normal. I wished none of my family or friends would fall victim to it.
Did my wishing make it come true? As of this writing, apparently not.
Should I have prayed for it to end? No, that would have been hypocritical. So, I will continue to wish, because the song promises “Wishing…will make it so.”
When the virus ceases to be a murderous vector…remember that I wished it to go away. If your pastor claimed his prayer did so, then mother pin a rose on him…and perhaps one on the ever popular prayer chains of your choice which have worked in their mysterious way.
A friend asked, knowing that I was an officer and a gentleman during the Korean Conflict, why I don’t tout the benefits of the military. I ticked off a couple of reasons.
Class distinction by rank and officers displaying their “floral” aggrandizement awards across their chest seems like so much puffery.
Having, without my consent, signs at our county borders proclaiming “We honor our veterans.” What does that mean? That some counties do not?
I object to being offered a discount at a store just by my being a vet, because I was merely drafted and it was not my choice to be in the Army. When there, I did whatever I could to delay going to Korea.
The military is virtually excluded from criticism and right up there with homage to flag, mother and country.
M. Oldham has weighed in to cheer us up.
“In another month or so we can determine what a person’s real hair color is”
Realtor pitch to a prospective house buyer: “Can you see yourself quarantined in this house?”
Note from your cleaning lady: “I will be working from home for the near future, so here are your instructions as to what to do in your own home.”
“Santa Claus had the right idea: Visit people only once a year,” Victor Borge
“With my luck, if I bought a cemetery, people would stop dying,” Rodney Dangerfield.
Last week I extolled the virtues of, and the satisfaction from, the use of a salve named “Weed Out Pain” subtitled “CBD Rub.” I erroneously stated it was an extract from cannabis designed to alleviate minor aches and pains. However, it is not extracted from cannabis and therefore here follows a correct description from one of our experts up Manton way, the home of the apple, the grape and contempt of those who attempt to regulate their way of life.
“Hemp is any cannabis plant with less than 0.3% THC. There are now strains bred particularly for CBD and there are varying ratios of THC/CBD in different strains. It’s all an emerging science and I don’t pretend to know everything about it. The reason the (Board of Supervisors) has extended their moratorium on industrial hemp cultivation in the county is because the Ag Department can’t tell cannabis with THC from cannabis without. The THC doesn’t appear in the plant until just before harvest. In other words, if I had my 6 THC-rich strains in the garden, I could lie about it and say they were hemp until the last few weeks and Code Enforcement couldn’t prove it otherwise. So, instead of allowing hemp production with some people actually growing the Devil Weed, they decided to throw the baby out with the bathwater. There are now strains that are certified to be hemp, but all of this is too confusing for the county.”
And the supervisors.
We have received adorable photos from daughter Maralyn of her family’s two new English bulldog pups, plus photos of Luke, son Brandon’s grandson age one month, but more of Luke next week.
The pups are cute and playful as you would expect, and have been named Boyd Crowder and Raylan Givens after those great TV series characters years ago in Justified.
I had suggested my name for the pups. My first name is “Robert” (no longer “Bobby” and never “Bob”) and my middle name is “Dallas,” named after a long-dead uncle. However, Maralyn and her family named them more appropriately as photos and videos indicate of the feisty pair. I thought they might be named after me because today is my birthday. Did I mention that? By the way, I share the date with Marlon Brando, Washington Irving, Eddie Murphy, Doris Day, Herb Caen and, of course, Saralu Gonsalves.
My birthday is memorable only in that, at 91, I will have become the oldest living Minch. My grandmother, Essie, lived to be 90, however she was a Sutton and only a Minch by marriage.
While on the subject, it is somewhat ironic that birthdays of the elderly are still celebrated, for the day only indicates that they are closer to their demise than a year ago.
Not the best of news.
Speaking of birthdays, when I was 21, my father gave me a subscription to Time magazine, and I have renewed every year since. However, I shall not renew again. In an effort to be contemporary and stem falling subscriptions, they have appealed to the younger generation to which I can no longer relate.
Their latest issue lists “100 Women of the Year” and is subtitled “A Century Redefined.” I can understand selections like Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Eleanor Roosevelt, Virginia Woolf, Babe Dickerson, Amelia Earhart, Queen Elizabeth II, Rachel Carson, Indira Gandhi and J.K. Rowling, but when they included Madonna in their list, I throw in the towel. Her name is as inappropriate as Don Polson being named the most unbiased columnist of the year, or Les Wolfe the most prescient of letters to the editor writers.
“Be suspicious of any doctor who tries to take your temperature with his finger,” David Letterman
“Never go to a doctor whose office plants have died,” Erma Bombeck
Robert Minch is a lifelong resident of Red Bluff, former columnist for the Corning Daily Observer and Meat Industry magazine and author of the “The Knocking Pen.” He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.