Sunday was the day selected for a memorial service. It was held in a wooded area near Mt. Shasta where the deceased had lived for many years.  Although some of our family attended the service, the missus and I did not. We were babysitting our great grandson, who will be two in August. Those in attendance at the service were aware of our situation and agreed this was a valid excuse for our absence. However, I probably would not have attended even though I had great respect and affection for the deceased.

She  was a live wire…and I intend to remember her that way. No amount of prayers or hand holding would alter that fact. And of course memorial services are for the living. Folks gather and discuss, but that’s it. If one has vivid memories of those have shucked off their mortal coil, they are best revisited alone and in quiet moments thereafter. So big Murray Clyde,  Little Bert  and I walked down to the grove to conduct  our reflections  there.

Although a hot day, it was still pleasant in early morning. I reclined in a hammock while Clyde checked out the perimeter for cats, and then plopped down beside me on the newly mown grass. Bert , b ringing up the rear finally joined our discussion group.

A large Monarch butterfly flew about, but not being a believer in reincarnation, I didn’t see it as an omen or a sign that the late lady was hovering nearby. I asked Bert what dogs do when one of their brethren passes on. He reflected for a moment, and then replied, “Not much. We can’t reflect…or so we are told. We notice when a familiar bowl is absent from the dinner scene…and we may miss a particular bark in the middle of the night…but other than that, we just move on.”

He seemed very much on point, and I wondered why the human race makes such a fuss…the flowers, the songs and the recitals. Compared to our four footed friends, human grieving seems much ado about something, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Clyde must have read my thoughts. “We enjoy the company of other dogs or we bite them. There is little time wasted in our companionship. If we visit with other dogs, it is more curiosity than compassion. When they die, we don’t morn.”

“Well, now, I have it on good authority that you morn your masters when they are gone,” I said. “You have bedside or graveside vigils, refuse to eat and carry on something awful!”

Little Bert looked amused and replied, “Such antics are interpreted by humans, not dogs. It makes for good reading in novels…but it is likely such conduct reflects loss of food rather than companionship.”

I didn’t buy his comment. “I prefer to think you guys will miss me as I will miss you if you go first. We have bonded. Our relationship knows no bounds. We may not conduct memorial services…but we will feel the pain of loss. ” Both dogs rolled their eyes but reserved comment.

Murray Clyde rose to his feet, sniffed the air and put his nose on my wristwatch. I got the message and the three of us headed back to the house for lunch.  Such talks are good for the appetite.

* * * * * * *

Several months ago, the County wide TRAX service was put out to bid. We were contacted by a bidder who, if awarded the contract, would have taken over one of the empty buildings we manage. Alas, the County decided to stay with the current provider. The moral to the story is that we bemoan the cost of government, per se, yet we lurk about, with hat in hand, looking for a City or County entity as a tenant. It would be nice to have it both ways.

* * * *

Our Downtown Red Bluff Business Association is promoting “Hawaiian Days” as a theme for sidewalk sales August 6^th and 7^th. They are urging merchants to dress accordingly. I’m sure this is a plus for retail trade…but if they think I am going to wear a grass skirt, they’ve got another think coming!

* * * * *

Ah! Just what we need…a new Friday Daily News column! The Editor has come by with contrition written all over his handsome face and asked me to resume my I Say column in my treasured spot? No… not bloody likely. Instead there will appear a column titled “COUPON QUEEN”. Uh huh. Just what the doctor ordered for the ailing newspaper.

* * * * *

Last week’s quiz went unanswered. Summer travel… or perhaps  our readers are lost in the horse latitudes? Whatever. We asked about the creator of the “Blue Book” which is a guide to automobile resale value. Les Kelley is the clever fellow who, in the 1920’s, published this helpful guide. He also created one for the Real Estate industry. And the Masonic Vesper Lodge #84 resides on the top floor of their own building in the 800 block of Main. They donated the clock and chimes to the Cone & Kimball Plaza.

This week’s quiz: Mark Twain, who lost money in bad investments, wrote, “If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he will not bite you”. How did he conclude his sage advice? If a church planned to bus its parishioners to its service, what could they call it?

* * * * *

A contestant on a T.V. game show, for $50,000, was asked to name two of Santa’s reindeer.

“Rudolph and Olive”, he replied. A groan went up in the audience. The game show host shuffled uneasily and asked how the contestant came up with that answer.

“Easy,” the guy sang. “Rudoph the red-nosed reindeer , had a very shiny nose, and if you ever saw it, you would even say it glows. Olive, the other reindeer…”

(To respondto this website: rminchandmurray@hotmail.com)

In the Purity Store last week, I met English teacher Bob Pepper who stated he was solidly behind my project for a new community theatre. Well, there is no project actually…just a lot of talk between the Editor and myself about the town’s need for some such venture.

A practical, reasonable, Chamber of Commerce concept would be a civic auditorium for conventions, meetings, square dancing and perhaps, as an afterthought, music and drama. My wild, implausible and far out suggestion would be this: We get some money…any money will do as long as there is lots of it, and we buy the old three story Victorian at 1111 Washington. It was built by Leo McCoy in 1901 and very well built, I might add. Anyway, we get this great mansion and we alter the interior into a theatre- in- the- round with slope tiered seating! It could be used for the art and foreign movie set, community concerts, local Little Theatre groups, John Birch Society meetings, ghost story telling and other eccentric gatherings. Or, it could be an awful flop and run up a monstrous deficit. So, let’s forget the whole thing…or shall we?

* * * * * **

A clipping from the Ess Eff Chronicle states that one Dr. Stanke of Phoenix has decided that the old remedy of booze for snake bite may be all right after all. In the interest of good journalism, I must report that Dr. Stanke is, in real life, the father-in-law of our own Dr. William Martin, famed tennis buff and staunch teetotaler.

* * * * **

Oh, what an error last week! I reported that our local young man, Paul Rutala, was a straight A student at Stanford…when actually he is only straight A this semester. Total up his 3 years there so far, and he is only an A minus student. Hardly worth mentioning.

* * * * * *

I guess the reason that Mr. Larimer, Sports Editor of the Daily News, and I have never met, is that we shop in different sections of the Super Market. I buy the packaged products and he goes for the bottled.

Robert Minch

Vala Lalaguna dropped off a special edition of the S.F. Chronicle devoted to the late Herb Caen. She assumed I would enjoy this remembrance, and she was certainly right.

I could devote a whole issue of I Say to recounting the life of the Sacammena kid that made good in the big City for over 60 years. I will do so in more detail in the Passing Parade section of this blog, but here is a paean to that 3 dot journalist who set an example which none have been able to follow nor emulate.

If one is not into newspaper columns, it would be easy to dismiss columnists as just journeymen hacks whose efforts seldom pass the test of time. Even Caen himself recognized that his Sunday prose pieces were never as popular as his 1000 word columns during the week.

I subscribed to the Chron early on and read his “Bagdad by The Bay” at lunchtime for fifty  years until his demise in 1997. In so doing I experienced, vicariously, the life of a sophisticated bon vivant in a city as fascinating as any on earth.

Herb Caen and I corresponded…but then he answered all his mail, personally. I have several examples on the walls of our office. One reads “I loved your letter! Thanks so much for writing. I agree with you, KJAZ (the local jazz station at the time) has been too much back patting. What happened to the good old station we all knew and loved? All best, Herb.”

Another, dated 1976, “Dear Robert Minch from Red Bluff. You wrote exactly what I felt about the Goodman show (he had introduced a half hour show featuring Benny Goodman) I loved it too! Thanks for the tip on Jack Sheldon’s maneuver, I missed it (I had mentioned that trumpet player Sheldon, during the show, had changed places with the trombone player so that he, Jack, would be behind Benny and get more TV exposure when Benny soloed). The Goodman book (Herb was writing a book about him) won’t be out this fall after all…someone didn’t coordinate the photos in time for printing. Darn! Thanks for writing, Herb.”

And, then, after all that intimate correspondence, Sydney Lindauer, “The Farmer’s Wife”, had the gall to tell me that she and her son once had lunch with Herb Caen!

In conclusion, the closest I ever got to emulating Herb was that we were both drummers, loved jazz and shared the same birthday, the 3^rd of April. Other than that, he was untouchable when it came to writing, wine, women and song. He was certainly one of a kind.

* * * * * *

Speaking of Ess Eff, one of the greatest films of all time was set in the City by the Bay. I’m speaking of “The Maltese Falcon” of course, but I’ve just come across some startling news. At the end of the film, what became of Sam Spade? We assume he lit another cigarette and waited for his next case. However, the last page of the novel by Dashiell Hammett, has Spade and his secretary Effie talking about Miles Archer’s widow. Then there is a knock on the door…and there she is, and Hammett gives Spade this last line: “I told Effie to show her in and a cold chill ran up my spine”.  Wow! How about that?

* * **  **

Great writer, Ian McEwan, in his new novel, wrote the following line: “He mistrusted anyone that wore a baseball cap off the baseball field.” Sir, I wear a baseball cap and have never set foot on a ball diamond! Humph!

* * ** * * *

Seeing a person of advanced age, tottering along, you might assume he was in his cups or just decrepit. However, he may have tender feet, and his gait is affected exponentially. Unless he wears a sign saying his dogs are barking, give him the benefit of the doubt.

* * * **  *

I thought last week’s quiz would garner few responses, but L. Brown and J. Yingling produced correct answers instanter! wOhNiClEe became “once in awhile”, 1T3456 became “Tea for Two”, HOROBOD became “Robin Hood” and GET IT, GET, GET, GET IT became “forget it” Too easy? How about ,  SHOOT     SHOOT,  VAD  ERS, and busines?

* * * * **

A dude ranch visitor is walking around the corral and strikes up a conversation with one of the old hands. “How long you been working here?” the dude asks. The old hand replies 25 years. “Ever had an accident?” The old hand says no. Dude presses him on the subject and the old timer finally admits he got bit on the hand by a horse one time.

“Aha!” says the dude, “wasn’t that an accident?’

Old timer says, “Nope. He bit me on purpose.”

(To respond to this website: rminchandmurray@hotmail.com)

Vala Lalaguna dropped off a special edition of the S.F. Chronicle devoted to the late Herb Caen. She assumed I would enjoy this remembrance, and she was certainly right.

I could devote a whole issue of I Say to recounting the life of the Sacammena kid that made good in the big City for over 60 years. I will do so in more detail in the Passing Parade section of this blog, but here is a paean to that 3 dot journalist who set an example which none have been able to follow nor emulate.

If one is not into newspaper columns, it would be easy to dismiss columnists as just journeymen hacks whose efforts seldom pass the test of time. Even Caen himself recognized that his Sunday prose pieces were never as popular as his 1000 word columns during the week.

I subscribed to the Chron early on and read his “Bagdad by The Bay” at lunchtime for fifty  years until his demise in 1997. In so doing I experienced, vicariously, the life of a sophisticated bon vivant in a city as fascinating as any on earth.

Herb Caen and I corresponded…but then he answered all his mail, personally. I have several examples on the walls of our office. One reads “I loved your letter! Thanks so much for writing. I agree with you, KJAZ (the local jazz station at the time) has been too much back patting. What happened to the good old station we all knew and loved? All best, Herb.”

Another, dated 1976, “Dear Robert Minch from Red Bluff. You wrote exactly what I felt about the Goodman show (he had introduced a half hour show featuring Benny Goodman) I loved it too! Thanks for the tip on Jack Sheldon’s maneuver, I missed it (I had mentioned that trumpet player Sheldon, during the show, had changed places with the trombone player so that he, Jack, would be behind Benny and get more TV exposure when Benny soloed). The Goodman book (Herb was writing a book about him) won’t be out this fall after all…someone didn’t coordinate the photos in time for printing. Darn! Thanks for writing, Herb.”

And, then, after all that intimate correspondence, Sydney Lindauer, “The Farmer’s Wife”, had the gall to tell me that she and her son once had lunch with Herb Caen!

In conclusion, the closest I ever got to emulating Herb was that we were both drummers, loved jazz and shared the same birthday, the 3^rd of April. Other than that, he was untouchable when it came to writing, wine, women and song. He was certainly one of a kind.

* * * * * *

Speaking of Ess Eff, one of the greatest films of all time was set in the City by the Bay. I’m speaking of “The Maltese Falcon” of course, but I’ve just come across some startling news. At the end of the film, what became of Sam Spade? We assume he lit another cigarette and waited for his next case. However, the last page of the novel by Dashiell Hammett, has Spade and his secretary Effie talking about Miles Archer’s widow. Then there is a knock on the door…and there she is, and Hammett gives Spade this last line: “I told Effie to show her in and a cold chill ran up my spine”.  Wow! How about that?

* * **  **

Great writer, Ian McEwan, in his new novel, wrote the following line: “He mistrusted anyone that wore a baseball cap off the baseball field.” Sir, I wear a baseball cap and have never set foot on a ball diamond! Humph!

* * ** * * *

Seeing a person of advanced age, tottering along, you might assume he was in his cups or just decrepit. However, he may have tender feet, and his gait is affected exponentially. Unless he wears a sign saying his dogs are barking, give him the benefit of the doubt.

* * * **  *

I thought last week’s quiz would garner few responses, but L. Brown and J. Yingling produced correct answers instanter! wOhNiClEe became “once in awhile”, 1T3456 became “Tea for Two”, HOROBOD became “Robin Hood” and GET IT, GET, GET, GET IT became “forget it” Too easy? How about ,  SHOOT     SHOOT,  VAD  ERS, and busines?

* * * * **

A dude ranch visitor is walking around the corral and strikes up a conversation with one of the old hands. “How long you been working here?” the dude asks. The old hand replies 25 years. “Ever had an accident?” The old hand says no. Dude presses him on the subject and the old timer finally admits he got bit on the hand by a horse one time.

“Aha!” says the dude, “wasn’t that an accident?’

Old timer says, “Nope. He bit me on purpose.”

(To respond to this website: rminchandmurray@hotmail.com)

Pulitzer Prize winner Herb Caen, prolific columnist for the S.F. Examiner and the SF Chronicle, was born in Sacramento in1916 and died in his Bagdad by The Bay in 1997…and many think that San Francisco died with him. He chronicled an era when people dressed up to go downtown. He once wrote of a famous author, “He doesn’t write that well to dress that poorly.”He was dapper and hung out with the prominent haberdashers of the time. Hell, he hung out with everybody! From bootblacks to bootleggers, the swells and the down and outers of skid row. If you lived in “The City” and did not recognize him when he strolled the hills and the back alleys, then you were blind. He, more than any person put the personality into Ess Eff…and least he did when we had a few bucks and could often make the trip via the ferry and later the bridges with a station wagon full of kids.

He wrote six columns a day, nearly 1000 words each, for 58 years and claimed to have never missed a deadline. Has The City changed since his demise? “Who knows?”said Barnaby Conrad, former matador, writer and barkeep, “Herb’s not here to tell us!”

He two finger typed on his “Loyal Royal” and never used a word processor, computer or cell phone.  He was a tennis player and baseball filbert, but never lived to see the new ballpark. When we would go to the City to watch tennis matches, Caen could usually be spotted in the crowd.

Herb was a powerful public figure and had an enormous influence on The City and his readers. He was a major wit and unwavering liberal who could be charming, outspoken and, at times, disagreeable. He invented words such as “beatnik”, sent “Caengrats” to some people, and awarded “beaucaens” to others, dubbed Berkeley “Bezerkely”, put Chico and its Velveeta cheese on the map…and said of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, “Well, it has to end somewhere!” He wrote of the St. Francis Hotel and the celebrities pausing under the famous lobby clock so often that we decided to switch from my father’s Sir Francis Drake Hotel to the stately and historic St. Francis, and preferred to stay in the old section rather than the new tower. After all, that’s where bandleader Artie Shaw stayed when courting Lana Turner and many others beauties.

With all his ability, charm and grace, he apparently could be cruel in person or in print, and some of his contemporaries thought that fame had gone to his head. And yet, when it became common knowledge that he was ill with lung cancer, The City turned out and the mayor proclaimed it “Herb Caen Day” in his honor. That must count for something…butHoweveHowe his columns and his books live on, and that is his legacy.

VERSE FOR A CERTAIN DOG

Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,

Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.

All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise.

(For heaven’s sake, stop worrying that shoe!)

You look about, and all you see is fair;

This mighty globe was made for you alone.

Of all the thunderous ages, you’re the heir.

(Get off the pillow with that dirty bone!)

A skeptic world you face with steady gaze;

High in young pride you hold you’re noble head,

Gayly you meet the rush of roaring days.

(Must you eat puppy biscuits on the bed?)

Lancelike your courage, gleaming swift and strong,

Yours like the white rapture of a winged soul,

Yours is a spirit like a Mayday song.

(God help you, if you break the goldfish bowl!)

“Whatever is, is good”…your gracious creed.

You wear your joy of living like a crown.

Love lights your simplest act, your every deed.

(Drop it, I tell you…put that kitten down!)

You are God’s kindest gift of all…a friend.

Your shinning loyalty unflecked by doubt,

You ask but leave to follow to the end.

(Couldn’t you wait until I took you out?)              Dorothy Parker 1893- 1967

Richard Rayner, in the latest issue of the New Yorker, writes that the late respected biographer, Stephen Ambrose, before publishing a string of #1 bestsellers, including “Band of Brothers”, and “D Day”, had made his name chronicling the life of Dwight D. Eisenhower, and how Ambrose said his life had been transformed by getting to know the former President after spending “hundreds and hundreds of hours” interviewing him over a five year period before Eisenhower’s death in 1969.  However, access to Eisenhower was tightly controlled in his retirement years and his activities were meticulously documented by his executive assistant Robert L. Schulz. These records show that Ambrose interviewed Eisenhower only 3 times for a total of 5 hours… and that the two men were never alone together.  In short the alleged “hundreds and hundreds of hours” of interviews was a bit of self aggrandizement for the benefit of the writer. Such fabrications were meant to bolster the degree of confidentiality he had elicited from his subject. Eisenhower’s son John said that Ambrose had a fondness for embellishment, and had a tendency to sacrifice fact to narrative panache. Why is this important to his readers? Because if Ambrose used artistic license in this instance, did he perhaps also exaggerate other aspects of the famous persons’ life for dramatic effect and the selling of his books? As most biographies are published long after the subject’s demise, who is to say what is fact and what is fiction? Thus the “authorized” biography tends to stand approved as written, while the Kitty Kelly “unauthorized” tabloid type will always raise  eyebrows…which brings us to the delicate subject of the self published books, once referred to as Vanity Press offerings.

If a writer of columns in a newspaper, for example, decides to collect said columns in book form, he may be asking for trouble. As weekly columns are quickly consigned to the trash heap, biased reporting’s and insights may be quickly forgotten.  But once collected and bound for posterity, the writer may unwittingly have cast his leanings in stone. For the writer who vividly bares his soul, his book may be cause for embarrassment or libel suit. If, on the other hand, the writer repeatedly writes innocuous pap, then he has nothing to fear…and may enjoy subsequent book signing events to his heart’s content.

* * * * **

A closely guarded secret has been finally disclosed, and it is now common knowledge that the missus received a hip replacement courtesy of Dr. Borgsmiller one month ago today. As her gait and temperament is rapidly improving, I am allowed to disclose my own recent medical condition. As it is fashionable to use medical shorthand these days, be advised I have been diagnosed as having “S. F.”  aka “skinny feet”, or so says Podiatrist M. Martin. My feet had become tender after prolonged activity in the barn cleaning horse stalls, and she said, over the years, the souls of my feet have lost their padding. Unfortunately, not all physical feats (sorry) are  hereditary. My father was able to walk barefoot through a star thistle field. I shudder just thinking about it.

All is not lost, however. Dr. Martin as has supplied me with artificial padding which will allow me to continue my appointed rounds. Readers may scoff at my discomfort, but remember the cowboy adage: No foot, no horse.

* * **  * *

Betsy, wife of the intrepid Word Merchant C. Larimer, reports that Cliff suffered a stroke and seizure, and had to be transported 180 miles from Bowman to Bismarck, North Dakota. She says he is cranky, depressed and could use some cheering up. If you care to cheer him up by lying to him that you prefer his writing to mine, try llazyl@supernet.com,

* * * * *

Sources say a transsexual is referred to a “tranny”. At a costume party in El Aye, one such showed up in a Dale Evans outfit and called herself “Tranny Oakley”. Hello?

* * * * *

Last week’s quiz asked the name of the Phantom of the Opera, the dog with the ring around his eye in the Our Gang series and Popeye’s four nephews. J. Angelo was first in with, in order, Erik, Pete, Peepeye, Pipeye, Poopeye and Pupeye. However, a lively debate ensued via other responders. My source said Erik’s last name was Claudin. And yet it appears the author, Gaston Leroux, did not supply his character with a last name.

This week’s quiz: Each of these items, spelled in this fashion, conveys a meaning or description. For example, “T RN” would translate “No U Turn”. Get it? How about: “wOhNiClEe”, “1T3456″, “HOROBOD” and “GET IT, GET IT, GET IT, GET IT.” Don’t despair; the solutions are right under your nose.

* * * * * *

A man went to an Optician’s office and said, “I keep seeing spots before my eyes.”

The receptionist asked, “Have you seen a doctor?”

The man replied, “No, just spots.”

(To respond to this website: rminchandmurray@hotmail.com)

John Keats, 1795-1821, penned his  famous “Ode On A Grecian Urn” in 1819.  It is lengthy, but concludes:

“When old age shall this generation  waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,

‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty…that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’”

To which Parker, our Algonquin wit, replied,

“Byron and Shelley and Keats

Were a trio of lyrical treats.

The forehead of Shelley was cluttered with curls,

And Keats never was a descendant of earls,

And Byron walked out with a number of girls,

But it didn’t impair the poetic feats

Of Byron and Shelley,

Of Bryon and Shelley,

Of Byron and Shelley and Keats.”

Dorothy Parker, 1893- 1967.

The United States is losing this war. Japan is not going to wait two or three years for us to get ready. Those 12 ships lost in the naval battle last week are a serious loss. The reason given for the loss is that Japan had more ships in the battle. The reason they had more is that they are only interested in the Pacific Ocean while we have our boats scattered all over the Atlantic and Pacific. Some are going in convoys to Ireland, others taking food and supplies to England and North Africa. Three changes are necessary now or we are not going to remain a free country.

The first is for us to realize we have one major enemy, Japan; get all the men, materials, ships and planes into the Pacific area; attack Japan, and defend our Pacific coast. England and Russia will have to do the best they can with Germany for the time being.

The second thing, all defense work should be placed under the direction of the United States army. This would remove all defense work from the domination of racketeers and would stop all union troubles immediately. Any man who started dissension or slowed down work could be transferred immediately to the fighting front at $21.00 per month. Very few would have to be transferred after they realized that the army would stand for no foolishness.

The third thing needed is to stop all nonsense in connection with the wartime operation of our government. Money spent for fan dancers and coordinators of badminton under the guise of public defense hurts the morale of our people who, now that they are paying income tax, are interested in where their money is going. I do not believe the immediate seriousness of this war is realized yet by those who are responsible for still scattering our men and ships around. The English and Dutch have lost or had captured most of their men, subs, planes and several of their ships in 3 short months. The Japanese could establish a base in Mexico  and endanger our entire coast. The pitiful little army of Mexico is incapable of even slowing up an invading army.

* * * **

President Roosevelt was married on St. Patrick’s Day and says he has no trouble remembering his wedding anniversary. I’ll bet the President has no difficulty remembering that he is married, either. And Walter Winchell must have had a hard time filling up his column yesterday when he gave us the astonishing news that “Girls wear much less clothing than men even in the bitterest weather.”

Dave Minch 1900-1964

(In 1973 I wrote of one of our dogs and his encounter with a porcupine)

Tyler, the St. Bernard (we call him by his last name when he has been bad) had a face full of porcupine quills. His muzzle was shrouded in quills like frost on an Eskimo’s parka. He said that it didn’t hurt, and furthermore, he was going back to the creek bed and finish the job. “Oh no you don’t,” I said, “its Dr. Bob for you, you jerk!”

I called Dr. Stouffer. It was 10 at night. “He said, “What’s up?”

I said, “You mean, what’s in. It’s porcupine time down south.”

“Oh God,” he moaned, “not again!”

When we arrived at the clinic and dragged Toby into an exam room, the missus wondered aloud how we would get the very muddy 200 pounder on to the table and then make him hold still. “We will call AAA for a wrecker if necessary,” I muttered, “and then get his attention with a two by four if required!”

With much grunting and heaving, we managed to get the big fellow on the exam table. Doctor Bob then gave him a shot big enough to knock out a horse…which he is, and then went to work pulling out the quills.

An hour and half later, we had filled up 4 pans that contained hundreds of quills. It was too late for an accurate count, and the good doctor promised not to charge by the quill.

A few days later, the Saint was as good as new…and thinking of raising hell once again…and I was thinking of raising hamsters.

Edwin Arlington Robinson was a turn of the century poet who won 3 Pulitzer Prizes for his poems. However, his bio, if you would care to look it up on Google, suggests a life of failure with little success. And yet his poem Miniver Cheevy, has a certain charm.

“Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, grew lean while he assailed the seasons;

He wept that he was ever born, and he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old when swords were bright and steeds were prancing;

The vision of a warrior bold would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what he was not, and dreamed, and rested from his labors;

He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, and Priam’s neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown that made so many a name so fragrant;

He mourned Romance, now on the town, and Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici, albeit he had never seen one;

He would have sinned incessantly could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace and eyed a khaki suit with loathing;

He missed the medieval grace of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought, but sore annoyed was he without it;

Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, and thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, was born too late, scratched his head and kept on thinking;

Miniver coughed, and called it fate, and kept on drinking.”

Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)