Too Hot For Baseball.

in Sundries

It’s angry hot, here in Chicago. Even by the lake. But wait, just months ago it was cruel cool, like forty below, and snow after snow rerouted the roads, and even Coda The Puppy has been known to balk at this city’s extreme climate scheme.

He, the puppy, should be chillin’ in his doggie daycare sneak joint, but for some idiot reason, any walking of a dog in temperatures too high or too low is frowned upon by insurance providers, so outs and abouts are verboten during those arbitrarily decided times. Well, where is my buddy to pee?

So in the heat he hangs with me, while sweet Snz parks her fine butt in close proximity to a pottery wheel. She enjoys the tactile after a mind bending week of chronicling current court cases concerning product liability.

Then after she fashions a vase or finger bowl, she’ll travel further up the North Shore to the Village Of Well-Coiffed. Some haircare in her old hometown, as a flock of family affairs are on the venue for the Fourth.

It’s Doctor Dad’s retirement stars and bars, and sons and daughter, nieces and nephews, grandchildren and cousins, colleagues and associates, are to garner some frequent flyer miles while having a high time at this paterfamilias fête.

Now, as an orphan, I find all this a touch overwhelming. Yet I’m quick to admit that the person being honored is truly deserving. He is a fine man, a good father, and a highly successful doctor.

And while all of this is to go on, another milestone takes place. SNZ’s Mom turns eighty. Her daughter and sons jointly purchased an understatedly elegant wristwatch to mark the occasion.

But what question did they have for the orphan with the eighth grade formal education? It was about the inscription.

“To Mom with love.” To comma, or not? That is the question.


I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

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