Isn't this what all retired grandpas do, sit on the living room floor playing with scissors, tape, and paper? It's true, you really do revert back to being a child.

January 18, 2021 - Monday morning

21 degrees/cloudy skies/calm winds

Pentoga Road

Even in my more mature years, I enjoy playing with scissors, paper, and tape.

As any good elementary teacher (or parent) can tell you, tape in the wrong hands of a child is disastrous. Mom always said it was too expensive to waste and if I wanted two pieces of paper stuck together at home, she concocted paste made from flour and water.

But at school, I got to use real paste, the kind bought at the store, the good stuff.

How I loved the old fashioned paste that came in a squatty glass jar, the white thick stuff that smelled so good that I could barely keep from scraping my tongue across its surface as soon as the teacher turned her back. 

I mean, c'mon, was I the only one who used to enjoy licking a goodly gob of paste stuck to the end of a popsicle stick? I looked at it as a mid morning snack before snack time. 

Mrs. McDonald, my first grade teacher, told us that if we ate paste, it would glue our insides together and we'd have to go to the hospital and get shots with barbed needles before having an operation to get the insides of our tummy unstuck. My white haired, matronly, but fun loving teacher, would end her admonitions by making squishy sounds as she tore apart unseen stomach contents in mid air.

I well remember one evening when I was (as Mom used to say) "bound up." 

I sat on the porcelain throne, pants down around my ankles, swinging my legs in harmony while looking down at the cracked linoleum on the floor. 

I was worried, darn worried.

C'mon, please? 

I strained until I thought my eyeballs were going to fly out of my six year old head and bounce off the wall over the adjacent bathtub.

Veins popped from my forehead and there was no mistaking that Mrs. McDonald was right. My insides really were stuck together. I pictured the morning's Cheerios and afternoon's peanut butter and pickle sandwiches as one big ball in my tummy. I was going to have to go to the hospital where I'd get a lot of shots with barbed hook needles and have an operation. Mom and Dad would be mad. I'd be grounded for life, and worse, I'd never get to use paste again.

I was in one of the deepest, darkest, moments of my life, when suddenly, my tummy gurgled. Oh, if only... My legs swung faster and faster, I held my breath and pushed so hard that I almost fell off the stool.

Suddenly, it happened. I wouldn't have to go to the hospital and have an operation. Mom and Dad would never know of my transgression.

It was then I made a silent promise to never ever never eat another gob of paste again in my life.

That self made promise held true for at least a day or maybe less. As I said, you can't beat a big ol' gob of  white, sticky, paste, gooped on the end of a popsicle stick in first grade art class.

Onto another, but similar subject...

As six year olds, we had to use baby scissors. Sure, they cut paper, but I quickly discovered mine were capable of scraping varnish from the edge of my desk when Mrs. McDonald wasn't looking.

What I didn't realize was that Mrs. McDonald had eyes in the back of her head.

I was severally cautioned several times to stop, but I never let a good warning deter me from an important scraping project. 

Mrs. McDonald stood me up, right there in front of all the other boys and girls, firmly held my left arm, and gave me a swat on my backside. 

I've never been the same since as it's obvious that my self esteem and delicate ego were perceptibly damaged.  As any good modern day, snotty nosed, politically correct, millennial parent, will tell you, I was ruined for life because of such abuse. 

Let's face facts. If it weren't for paste that came in a squatty jar and rounded baby scissors, I might have grown up to do something worthwhile, like become a teacher. 

Well, despite eating paste and having to use rounded baby scissors, all combined with inerds that were stuck together for life and a swat on the butt, I convinced Sargie to let me use big boy scissors and tape yesterday. The bulldog was cut into pieces and made ready to saw. 

We took a short late-morning drive to town and enjoyed the scenery on our way back home. Sargie and I are lucky in that we live a short distance from what is proclaimed as one of the most beautiful roads in the Upper Peninsula, Pentoga Trail, NOT to be confused with Pentoga Road.

Pentoga Trail runs alongside one of our local lakes where upscale homes run in the many hundreds of thousands of dollars or more. A former US Congressman, along with a few doctors as well as some prominent business people, some from out of state, dwell on Pentoga Trail. 

Pentoga Road? We're kind of treated like the red headed step child of the area by those who live on the other side of the tracks. 

At any rate, up further, well away from those expensive lake shore properties, Pentoga Trail winds through some desolate and beautiful woods for several miles before reaching the lake. It's hard not to take pictures.

Sargie Pants and I watched the good Dr. Reverend Pat conduct his church service, via streaming video, from Westminster Presbyterian Church in California yesterday afternoon. Pat was just getting to a great story of Hannah and her son, Samuel, of the Old Testament fame, when the internet went out. 

The rest of the afternoon was a lazy one, mostly gabbing and watching tv. We enjoyed the AKC championships where a whippet dog won.

Sargie and I were very entertained watching a figure skating competition on ABC. The skating was okay, but the best part was the, and I can't make this up, cardboard cutout fake crowd in the stands. Look closely and you'll even see a dog or two.

Lord Almighty. Fake applause coupled with a cardboard cutout crowd? Even at my age, I'd almost rather eat paste than watch such nonsense. It did provide a good laugh though.

Macrea called later and we watched Hambone (via Facetime on the left) at his skating lesson. The boy does pretty well, but seems to spend an inordinate amount of time on his backside. I'll have to hand it to Hambone. The boy may occasionally crash, but he gets back up and continues on without a complaint.

 

I enjoyed the best steak last night that I've had in a long time. A Porter House cut, it was so tender and juicy that I not only ate the steak, but gnawed any small bits of meat from the bone after. Sargie made huge salads to go with, so it was a very full Tommy P who went to bed last night.

If the sun ever comes up, I'll go for my walk first thing this morning. Later, there'll be a bowl to work on in the shop and bulldog to saw. No doubt, we'll go for our ride and I wouldn't be surprised if we bee bop over to Iron Mountain later today. I need to pick up a couple of things at Home Depot.

Time to get this day started.

After all, a man's work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road...