Doug Blough

Sometimes I have no specific subject I wish to address, but random, unconnected thoughts desperately seeking an outlet. Perhaps you’ve shared one or more of these intuitive observances and will slap yourself on the forehead and bellow, “He is so right! It’s funny ‘cause it’s true.” Then you’ll rub your forehead and gasp, “Ow!”

*I’ve never exited my car in a hurry without a favorite song playing on the radio. Likewise, I’ve never gotten back into my car when a favorite song wasn’t just ending. Bohemian Rhapsody is six minutes long, and all I ever get to hear is the fading, “Nothing really matters … to me.” There’s no hitting rewind to remedy that confounding, recurring timing.

*There’s no sadness quite like that last bite of ice cream. You swirl the spoon all around the carton, craving just one more partial bite but get nothing but lukewarm traces of cream. You despondently berate yourself for not leaving enough for the next night like planned, and you’re over your cholesterol budget for the week. A sad plight indeed.

*I see Myron Heny’s house was among the winners for best Christmas-lit. I did my usual Christmas decorating, stringing spaghetti noodles over the lampshades and placing decorative, festive balls in each litterbox.

I’ve gotten to know the Hall-of-Fame ref Heny better this summer, as we, along with Dave “Beem the Dream” Beemer, played golf several times. Beem’s superior experience — playing darn near daily — leaves us in the dust, but Myron and I are eerily similar in our scores. I usually best him by a stroke or two though, and boy do I brag to my friends about beating an 83-year-old on the links. I asked Beemer if his 92-year-old mother has any friends that might dare to take me on.

*My recollection skills are keen, and I have fond memories of Hansel and Gretel’s and “Grandpapa’s” nightclub next-door. It was owned by an old buddy, Butch Walters, who I’ve not seen or heard of since. Many a time back in the 80s, my Cody buddies and I would drive to Powell, have a bite to eat while enjoying the short skirt uniforms of the Gretels — then hop on over to Grandpapas to meet and pick up girls. That never seemed to work out so well.

*Do any kids play jacks anymore? How about pick-up-sticks and tiddly-winks? I’m sure in the age of video games and spoiling kids rotten, the old games of simplistic beauty have fallen into the retro pit. Not to brag, but I excelled at jacks, typically reaching my “tensies.” I also had no equal on a pogo stick.

*When navigating icy sidewalks these days — being of late middle-age; 69 being the new 52 — boy do I walk gingerly. Beemer is slowly healing from rotator cuff surgery from a horse accident, and he challenged me to try putting in my contacts not using both arms. I found it impossible.

Quite satisfied living alone, I’m self-aware enough to know I’m one embarrassing fall away from losing my precious independence. Further damage to my already-torn rotator cuff, broken hip or the all-important coccyx, and me and my dog’s lives of dysfunctional luxury ends. I fell two stories through a skylight onto concrete during a Powell roofing job in my 20s and I was back working in a month. Now a fall from my porch maps out my next year. Yikes!

*Continuing with nostalgia, what ever happened to Scott Hagel, my first Tribune editor in the early 90s? Hopefully he’s still ticking and it’s great to see another ex-editor CJ Baker is back on the job at the Trib where he belongs. And Chuck Hassler, whose bear-it-all columns I looked forward to each week. Hopefully he’s alive and well.

*I received my usual Christmas bonus from Bonner and company in the mail just in time to put a holiday smile on my weathered mug. These Trib folk sure know how to make a man feel appreciated after 30 years of columns. Long as I don’t slip on the ice, I’ll keep ‘em coming.