Grey Hair-And Other Myths

Grey hair is a myth.

One of those urban stories people tell you to make you feel bad about yourself so you buy some product or other,

or sit around contemplating split ends

while they go off and get all the prizes in the world they are working so hard to make youth-oriented.


And get ready for this blazing burst of the obvious:

the ones creating all this grey thing,

and there aren’t really as many as you think,

can’t keep up.

With wisdom,


a big heart

(actually found at all ages)

since we “oldies” don’t have to work as hard as they do to do what they are doing-

been there, done that-

and have time to consider the real world,

and the implications on others of what we do.

Instead of chasing the unimportant.

So what can we panthers- forget the grey-

do about this?

  1. hand them a lollipop. perhaps not so good when a group of them get together to use Daddy’s money to buy the company you are working for.
  2. Stand above it.

As in:

either dye the hair and play the game,

or mentally dye the hair and play your own game.

How does this work?

Those of us writing blogs,

or larger things,

know you are any age you feel.

And can be any person you feel.

I recognize that the social media spend their lives “exposing” people who claim they are twenty and actually have grey hair.

Let them.

If your heart, soul, spirit, joie de vivre want to walk on a wall,

eat nothing but ice cream for a day,

go to an all-night party and not get home till 6 am,

take the consequences for it,

then just DO IT.

As long as none of the friends or family suffers

(hey, you don’t have to really tell everyone what you are doing, do you?)

And if they do catch you walking on a wall, eating ice cream, going to a party,

Call it premature senility.

As long as they have a label you are safe.

Just watch out that they don’t decide to have you committed for the inheritance.

Tie it up so if they try the dog gets it all.

So what, exactly is the real problem with grey?

A society ruled by finances and computers-

Where the ones coming up think the older are worthless because it gives them a chance?

And when was it ever different?-

(“trust no one over thirty”-

“Soylent Green”)

but now, unfortunately, we have the means for a small handful to be truly injurious of others.

And invasive.

(And you wonder why we can’t get good political candidates?)

There are MAJOR exceptions to this scenario, however,

and here, a HUGE vote of admiration for the best of the modern best,

including the younger members of my direct family,

who not only work full-time, go to school, take care of a child,

they also work in the community.

Helping the homeless,

and the hungry.

These are wonderful young people, who would never consider grey hair even worth consideration,

because they know what is important in life.

And they certainly aren’t the only ones out there.

So why are we even mentioning g*** hair?

Only good matters in life.

Hair doesn’t fall into that category.

This topic was proposed by Ramana of the Friday Loose Bloggers Consortium.

For other- no two ever alike- takes on the topic, check out the eight other members of the FLBC-

Ashok, Gaelikaa, Maxi of Maxi’s Comments, Old Fossil, Pravin of Business to the Buddah, Padmum of This and That, Here and There, Ramana of Ramana’s Musings, and Shackman of Shackman-Speaks-

and see what they have to say.

copyright 2015

And Gutenberg Lived Here: Halloween in Gutenberg Land

Germans love  putting on costumes,

Painting faces,

Drinking – (bigtime)

And since Carnival,

the “Fifth season” time when they usually do all this,

starts on the eleventh of November.

(Eleven, German ELF, is the short version of the slogan of the French revolution,

egalite, liberte, fraternite,)

with the formation of the military companies

or corporations, as they are called-

hey, German carnival is nothing if not organized-

and goes until the bigger than the Macy’s parade Rose Monday blow out,

followed by two days of clean-up,

and confession,

and eating herring for repentance,

there was, obviously, a huge gap,

theoretically, at least,

between Ash Wednesday,

and the eleventh of November-

time that can be filled by long walks in the woods,

and fishing,

and boating,

You get the idea.

But come October,

and the harvest in,

and the wine in barrels,

and the last wine festival over,

it gets preeeeetttty boring over here.

So boring, in fact, that

I wasn’t really surprised when,

a couple of years ago,


probably by watching reruns of Rosanne, or Home Improvement, which are big over here-

along with Little House on the Prairie and Bonanza-

discovered Halloween.

Yes, Halloween.

Trick or treating,


usually with 50’s style Bill Haley and co music,

and a lot of grilling.

(And drinking of blood-red drinks etc)

Of course, first they had to do a national campaign to cleanse the holiday.

Two weeks of historical programs of where Halloween,

Celtic Halloween,

the druidic holiday of carrying around carved-out turnips,

with disgustingly hideous faces and a candle in them,

really came from.

(And here I’d love to hear whether there is really an Irishman out there anywhere who has ever gone door to door dressed as the bride of Frankenstein and collecting candy. Except in New York,of course.)


the campaign for the “Irish-based” sixth season,

was then followed by a concerted mass swarming to the houses of those in their area known to be American.

And since I do a lot of gospel singing here…

The first time, they caught me totally out flat.-

After handing out the few peppermint hard candies we had in the house, I had to hand them bananas and apples,

and was thinking about if I would get attacked for offering carrots,

when one of the kids-

a quarter of the British quartet of brothers,

aged 16-19 year old,

from down the block,

looked at me in total disdain,

from under a Jack Sparrow hat,

and intoned

“And we thought you were COOOOOOL.”

Last week I bought five large bags of marzipan-plum minis,

(almond powdered sugar paste wafers with plum jam on top and chocolate around it)

And 2 of mini-snickers.

And THIS year, they have to say the magic words:

trick or treat.

And hey,  if that ain’t cool, I don’t know what is.

copyright 2015

And Gutenberg Lived Here: Bread Rage

Germans have a thing about bread.

And proud they are of the fact.

365 kinds of bread,

so goes the advertisement,

one for each day.

Every corner has a small bakery.

Our little village has four.

And they all survive.

Hard rolls for breakfast, usually with cheese or luncheon meat.

Ten o’clock “snail noodles” (cinnamon rolls) to quote one of my favorite shows here “Adelheid and her murderers.”

Twelve o’clock thickened soups, or vegetables in white sauce.

Then four o’clock is heavy pastry time-

and here they really bring out the big guns:

crumb cake with vanilla pudding-

black forest cake with heavy cream on the side and butter cream in the middle.

Even at funerals you get served cake-

yeast braid with rock salt-   to show the seriousness of the situation.

And for supper-

two slices of bread.


(hint:  for a healthy long life here, don’t ever serve a German avocado with fresh lemon and chili spices for supper)

(My Harold is the exception- but hey, once, in Canada, he ate alligator McNuggets.)

The typical German, however, is just that: typical.

And the funniest thing, for me, is that most Germans can’t even begin to understand that there can be a culture without a continuous flow of bread.

The fact that I once smeared a piece of hard cheese with berry jam, rolled it up and ate it, nearly got me kicked out by The Mother-In-Law for being undisciplined-

one piece of bread, butter, one piece of cheese, if you please, and don’t even THINK about tea instead of coffee.

(we drag our tea back from Tescos in London-and if you want a laugh some time, try to take 1280 tea bags through customs.)

The thing is, that bread is so much a part of the fabric of this wheat, rye, spelt based whole-grain six-grain evening protein bread culture, that they take our lawless lack of bread in America as a sign of everything they dislike about us.

A discussion that starts with “Oh, you’re an American, I spent a vacation, (or a half-year, or a year there )

rapidly proceeds through the mental vacation pictures of the national parks

to: “I don’t know how you all survive. The bread there is absolutely awful. That white, slimy, wiggly colorless BENDABLE stuff you crush in one hand and it doesn’t spring back- how can you all survive? Maybe that’s why you ….”

And off they go.

With every prejudice they have ever heard or read about us.

And there definitely are a lot of them.

And if you think road rage, or gas-line rage is bad…

You have to have experienced BREAD RAGE to believe it…

Panis angelicus it definitely ain’t.

And Gutenberg Lived Here: Are They REALLY Still Trying To Smoke Bananas?

I got a call yesterday,

“please call back to set up a time you could set a discussion on drugs.”





This was a pastor I have worked for a couple of times over the years-

usually youth concerts,

so I knew this discussion was going to be, if anything, unusual.

And this time he definitely didn’t let me down.

It appears a group of his young soon to be confirmed, were using the time before their Bible lessons started to discuss all the “cool”  things they had heard from older kids at school.

Among other things, the fact that you can smoke banana peels.

And since he really isn’t up on the modern drug culture.


Weren’t bananas the second tree in the Garden, after the apple, which was actually a pomegranate…

He thought someone from Berkeley…



Where did that come from?

Well, wasn’t I from near there?

(A Methodist university where we could get thrown out for drinking, thank you very much.)

Hey, over here “California” is surfing, flower children, Ronald Reagan, and Berkeley.

He seemed almost a little disappointed.

And by now a  whole lot desperate.

But surely I had perhaps experimented with mood altering substances?

Or known someone who had.

They are trained to talk that way.

And it would be in the best interests of the kids…

Here, at the moment, the English term “kids” for anyone under eighteen-

or under thirty, depending on the age of the speaker,

is de rigueur,

since the German terms sound like something out of old 1930’s films.

And since pastors of the two official, supported by government-collected taxes,


Catholic and Lutheran,

spend a lot of their time trying to be hip…

(the handbook for pastors says you have to…

and if I am asked to sing Sister Act or the Blues Brothers, (or even old man river) as gospel, or for a wedding, one more time, I may…. )

So anyway, knowing all the above,

and having a real sense of sympathy for pastors here,

who don’t always get to preach what they want to,

I concentrated,


then gave up and gave it my best shot.


The fact that, as far as I know, from READING in the late sixties, you needed to eat about fifteen pounds of bananas, then scrape the peels, then smoke the dried goo to get…well, more sick than high, but…

And my mind was wandering off on the thought that if this is all this man has to deal with, as opposed to what pastor friends in California, and the midwest, are dealing with….

(We’re in the suburbs here. The three downtown missions have their own share of problems, mostly hungry, no place to sleep, quite a lot of alcoholism-  money donations always welcome)

So I tried to close the conversation with the fact that I really didn’t know anything more, and was just mentioning that I did have a great recipe for banana nut bread,

(that only uses two bananas)

when his voice suddenly changed.

To cheerful.

Tinged with a sigh of relief.

Followed by a meditative pause.

And then the worried sounding question,

which made both Harald and I laugh for about ten minutes after he hung up,

about, whether I had ever heard of something called devil’s food cake.

I’ll send him the recipe for angel food with raspberry sauce next week.

copyright Dunnasead.Co 2015

The Ornriest Bulk Buying Ever

My family once bought a rubber dinghy-



A six seater.

Called Moby Duck.

Yes, I know-

how original.

What do you expect from a family of English teachers?

(the truth is, after I took it out once, I wanted to call it Lassie,

because it never wanted to come home)

Moby was built in,

and a pure product of,

northern california.

My parents lived at that time in the giant redwoods near Calaveras.

Actually, we all lived there at one time.

in a small cabin we built by hand as a family, as a place for my parents to live in the summer vacation time, and us as a family to meet for family-get-togethers.

And since it was hot hot hot up there,

and the drinking water came from a storage reservoir,

where you could also launch boats,

if they weren’t motorized,

we spent a lot of time wrangling Moby,

and plastic blow-up palm-tree island swim rings,

jugs of iced tea,

a radio,

a flare gun,

(in case of emergency,)

into and out of the water-

adding air to mushy parts so we didn’t go under,

deflating to transport,

trying to not get hit in the head by the paddles-

like something out of a Marx brothers movie.

Duck soup?

But all in all, I guess you could say Moby was a friend,

And a foe,

A place to dive from,

To rest in the sun,

read a book in,

patch, repair, wash,

and through it all,

including the always trying to find a friend to help load,

or drive while you steadied it in the truck,

I would have to say Moby was

just plain

the onriest

most difficult,

and bulkiest

bulk buy

we ever made.

Except for the half a centner of cheese the head of a religious community who lived next door to us wanted us to buy.

Or my uncle’s two dromedary camels,

or the special sale on half a tank car of oil, to oil and rock our driveway, when the oil came two days early and the rock a week later.

(Have you ever had to clean dogs, cats, and neighbors children with turpentine?)

but that’s another story.

This theme was suggested by Maria for the Friday Loose Bloggers Consortium, where Ashok, Gaelikka, Maxi of Maxi’s Comments, Padmum, of This And That, Here And There, Pravin, of Business to the Buddha,  Ramana, of Ramana’s Musings, and Shackman, of Shackman-Speaks tell wonderful stories, each in their own inimitable style. Check us out.

Copyright Dunnasead.Co 2015 All rights reserved

And A Bridge Image Flows Through It

What is it about bridges that we put them,

especially the rickety ones,

in every book or film we make?

The Bridge of San Louis Rey, The Bridge over the River Kwai,

A Bridge Too Far.

Literature, and filmed literature, is full of it.

And what about Indiana Jones?

Rickety bridges hanging in the jungle,

steps missing,

ragged vines as hand-holds.

Is it because they fit into the nature,

symbolic for the imminent dangers in our lives,

or just because they are a perfect topos to move the action along while exacting many an “ooh”, or an “oh no”,

or a few trillion dollars

from us?

And then there are the glorious bridges.

Like the moving stone monuments in Harry Potter,

Or the bridges lovers symbolically take to new freedom,

Or where humans meet angels,

and now angelic family members,

on their way to heaven.

To show us the solidity of the past.

And the glories of moving forward to the future.

And then there are the iconic bridges-

San Francisco, Brooklyn, Firth

So you don’t forget where you are, and the writers don’t have to write it into the script.

And then there is the bridge that is played in a monumental number of films as a way of showing couth,


societal status,

and breeding.

Do I need to really mention the Marx brothers’ Animal Crackers?

Oh, and then there are the familiar bridges:

Lloyd, Beau…


But seriously, with regard to bridges,

of all the interesting things I have discovered since living over here in Germany,

the bridge house is high on the list.

Small houses, packed several stories high on both sides of a bridge.

Collect a little toll from the ships,

Fish out the window,

Empty your chamber pot into the fast flowing stream.

Hang out a long pole with a hook,

or use a pulley system, and you can have anything delivered to the house.

Perfect modern living

From the middle ages onward.

And all without leaving the livingroom.

Actually, since I live in a village about twelve minutes from a super modern half-

or third, depending on whose statistics you use-

of a million inhabitant town,

Assuming, of course, there is no road repair going on,

Or the Gutenberg marathon run,

Or the carnival parade.

Saturday shopping traffic jam-

Let’s just say I live relatively close to a town with an Isis and Osiris temple,

Gutenberg print museum,

roman garrisons,

and a ring wall.

with guarded gates in the four corners,

set up in Roman times to keep the barbarians out,

and in medieval times the Archbishop-

they are a pig-headed lot, these Mainzer.

Unfortunately, that still hasn’t solved the problems of the modern times.

Like too many people.

And a constant influx from our Hessian friends right across the river,

who, since they are protestant, as opposed to the Catholic lot here where we are,

have a jealously viewed  tendency to not follow the local rules and close on the Catholic holidays.

Which means that,

high mass over,

two-thirds of our city drives, runs, marches, or takes a train,

depending on whether it is carless free bridge day or not,

and high-tails it to the other side of the river to spend their free day,

All Saints, the first of November,

in protestant commercial ecstasy.

Much to the chagrin of our local shopkeepers, who would cheerfully commit mayhem, did they not live in direct shadow of the Cathedral.

And whoever says the recent collapse of the bridge between the two states of Hessen-

the health spa and financial area where Wiesbaden and Frankfurt are-

and the Rhineland Palatinate-

the wine and castles state where we live,

right at a time when a million commercially desirable,

but humanly just too darned many,

people come across it for Carnival,

was an accident,

is talking through his filed off bridge pillars.

And Gutenberg Lived Here: All Hail Water Soluble Packaging

Germans, in their search for the perfect, ecological package,

and please don’t get me wrong-

there’s nothing wrong in what they are doing,

but still-

recently they have gone just a tiny bit too far-

at least for my taste,

and invented something that is slowly driving me up the wall:

Water soluble packaging for cleaning products.

Now, I have been through a lot over here, ecologically speaking:

paper plates made out of wheat bread.

(they had those in the middle ages, guys. A large slab of bread-

about the size of a modern plate, called trenchers then,

and good for holding meat or sopping up gravy.)

which suddenly,

with the unexpected  rise in allergy symptoms,

had to be changed to potato,

or corn flour plates.

And, then of course, came the march of the cones-

bottle sized containers-

out of baked waffle batter-

to fill with yoghurt.

Or smeary liquid floor cleaning soap.

It avoids plastic packaging, but…


The smear soap cone has a rather large tendency to not last all the way to your apartment.

But at least is naturally biodegradable.

If you don’t mind not using your car seat for a while.

Because the shopping bags are cotton

Or paper.

Which brings me to the next ecological advancement:

the ever-recurring battle of the shopping bag.

Bring your own,

out of one hundred percent cotton,

or be scorned by neighbors, ecology freaks, and the store personnel,

who somehow just can’t seem to remember where the plastic, or paper, ones are.

(I once had an offer of the loan,

until tomorrow, as most Germans shop daily,

of a woven straw carrier bag

in a bright third world print,

from my local bio shop)

(bio shop: fruits, veg, fresh grain they grind for you, chickens and geese wandering in the background, getting ready to be dinner for a special occasion.)

And since you have to pre-order, so they know how many to hatch….

And I’m not a big fan of calling my dinner by name…


for years, our thanksgiving dinner,

due to long work hours,

and no day off over here,

was black bread with peanut butter and cranberry jelly.

Easy to carry in your little special carrier packet-

one of the thousands of kinds of plastic reusables you “have” to have over here to be on the up and up with the environmentalist police-

Some of which are actually quite good ideas,

like the plastic reusable half-a-shoebox size boxes

with lots of small compartments-

perfect for packing lunches.

The smaller version of which is perfect for snacks-

And then there are the banana,

or apple,

shaped ones-

for carrying fruit.

Milk carriers,

egg carriers,

water bottles (Germans drink almost exclusively seltzer water)

Microwavable noodle cookers,

instead of those plastic throw-away  cups for Asian noodle soups so popular over here,

Salad carriers with small indentations for plastic silverware,

and a small integrated container for salad dressing.

And, of course, the one thing you really have to have:

the super large size plastic carrier for all the plastic carriers you need during the day.

Multiply by four, and you get about an hour of dishwashing at night.

More if you use environmentally correct dish soap.

Quick, somebody remind me how much good i am doing for the environment.

And… despite all the above hoo-ha…

And people who try to insist I take a bike to work…

And the carless Sundays…

The latest step in the environmentally aware consumer evolutionary chain,

over here, at least,

and the one that to me, is just plain the end of the hemp sisal specially grown and bio- replaceable rope,


as mentioned above,

the water soluble cleaning preparation.

In small packets made of something that looks and feels like gelatine.

And probably is.


and aye, here’s the rub,

isn’t always.

As the old style is still on the market.

At least for a while.

So what is the problem?

Well, picture that you take your little packet of cleaning liquid,

toss it into the sink,

or the toilet,

or bathtub,

and it just sits there.

Defying you.

Since it is actually made of…

ta da….


So you have to roll up your sleeves,

and fish it out of the water,

get out the shears…

You get the picture.

So what it the answer?

A local trouble-shooter column suggested you wet your finger,

just a bit,

and test the packaging before you throw.

So does anyone know how long it takes for blue cleaning liquid to wear off the hands of a

correctly environmentally protecting,



And Gutenberg Lived Here: Sunday in Germany

Sunday, as I have often written in past blogs, is a big deal here in Germany.

For the early risers, for example, we have the possibility of running:

(through the fields collecting things.)

And in an area on the edge of the town, with nothing but cash crop fields behind us, and, in season the possibility of collecting a little white asparagus-

resale value up to twenty dollars the pound…

Some runners have gps bio-rhythm step counters on,

Others rucksacks.

Then there are the dog lovers-

Out every day early morning and late night.

And congregating for upwards of a half hour-

even in the worst ice and snow-

to exchange the local news.

(We get it for free by breakfasting on the balcony, since the soccer stadium echos everything being said for miles, whether we want it or not.)

The most interesting of these are the three o’clock elderly ladies with dogs, (the ELD) who gather to drink coffee at a bench next to the wayside cross pointing the way to Drais-

and if you have ever ridden a bicycle, the first were called Draysiner, a sort of bicycle without pedals you sit on and move yourself forward by scooting your feet. They are actually faster than a bicycle, and were first made in Drais.

Thus, this Roman, medieval and still being used in modern days, path to Drais has always been a stopping place to view the city, and the hills, and check out the situation and share gossip before heading for one of the houses inside the Mainz walls.

To catch the 3 pm gossip, since you don’t want to get caught dawdling over cake during the week- what would the neighbors say…. you can, of course, even in winter, use the three o’clock time to hang the hand wash out on the balcony.

(On really icy days, you have to fake it by admiring the view)

That, then is the early morning crowd.

Then there are the 10, 10:30, 11,  Sunday-go- to-church crowd-

Actually not so many here as in the states.

For although the giant cathedral downtown is always filled on Sunday,

since they have a huge standard mass with all the trimmings-

something called Mainz liturgy- that was set sometime in the middle ages,

colorful historical robes,

swiss guards like at the Vatican showing you to your seat,

good music, ie a real, monstrous organ, with special registers for angels, the pope, and the kaiser that shake the walls,

and priests who are trained like opera singers to intone,

in the small local churches-

one minister and small church building given by either the state-run catholic church, or the state-run protestant church, for each three thousand registered members (you don’t register, you are registered at birth, and have to file papers to leave, if you don’t like it)

except for the Polish immigrants, or the Italians, or Spanish, all with masses in their own language,

only about thirty of the three thousand registered Christians go on Sunday.

The rest are sleeping in.

Or, as one of the state cabinet members says,

she has a regular Sunday morning thanksgiving service at home- drink milk coffee, eat fresh croissants, read the newspaper, and listen to Mozart.

I guess she gives thanks to the national opera house.

Oh, and one final and interesting fact for the religious part of Sunday-

or, in the following cases, not Sunday-

Mainz has been known, since the middle ages, as “Little Jerusalem”, so we have a huge and very beautiful new temple.

We also have a very large and architecturally fascinating looking mosque,

A large Kingdom Hall, for the Jehova’s Witnesses, who baptize each summer in the Mainz 05 soccer stadium,


a few Baptists and Adventists and Mormons,

all of the above with FILLED services,

And a very large and extremely interesting international Druid lodge.

Not to mention the nature worshipers,

agnostics, who meet one night a week in a local pub,



And the largest of the religious groups: the members of the “Companies-”

the carnival societies,

who, since they are tightly linked to the Catholic Church-

often hold their meetings in a pub after church on Sunday morning.

Yup, life is definitely not boring here.

And especially on Sunday morning.

To see what we do here Sunday afternoons, tune in next Sunday.

copyright 2015  All rights reserved

Be Kind To Your Web-footed Friends

I have a lot of web-footed friends in my life-

first, and foremost, of course, being querquedula querquedula L,

the wonderful cute  waddling beasts that quack me up.

(and leave a lot of duck surprise on the ground as they waddle their way to the pond in our area for their early morning swim and all you can eat worm buffet-   champaign extra)

Then there are their human counterparts-

minus duck surprise, thank heavens.

  1. querquedula sporticus L: the neighbor who wears only a white ribbed jersey undershirt and under shorts as he walks his rounds and stops in front of our house to do his exercises. believe it or not, we live in a fairly decent neighborhood.  blessed be those that can still laugh after a house fell on them.
  2. his wife, querquedula prosperous L, member of the daughters of the duck revolution, who never leaves the house, and who watches that the curtains are white enough and the cars and garbage cans are mathematically lined up, because it could pull her property values down.
  3. politicus von querquedula-  knows all the statistics for every military action since the time of Caesar’s bello Gallico, replays the entre constantly.
  4. politicus von querquedula activus- always marching and writing something
  5. Ludvig van drake who holds lectures. Did you know the average glow-worm population has reached the …
  6. Gyro Gearless always inventing something and expects you to take part. not so bad actually. Just watch out he doesn’t borrow your bicycle to power his experiment.
  7. Querquedula querquedula Daisy- wears clothes out of the ducks of Hazard and can’t find her way to the ladies room without someone from the group going along to hold her hand.
  8. Pontificus von querquedula, who knows the world is going to hell in a handbasket and can’t wait to tell you how.
  9. Querquedula querquedula Tilly- always off to save someone or something. does yoga in her backyard-with forty friends, looks in your garbage to see if you are vegetarian, and always is off to someplace- like the salad bar at Wendys, the two dollar film special, the fifty percent off sale at the yard-goods store, the save the whales foundation… and insists you come along.
  10. And…at place number ten, and so frequent you can’t live without them….web freaks. Who talk power, bytes, a web site you just have to see.

Now to see if any of them have read my webpage.

Family Size

This blog was suggested by Maria for the Friday Loose Bloggers Consortium.

Since our goal is to show as many standpoints as possible in life, I’ve done my ten finger warm-ups, and am ready to type.

Here goes.

Family size could be a study of the number of members  a family should have.

Since this is a more than a hot topic in our modern society, I’ve said all I’m going to say on this.

It could also be a study of clan meetings-

no, not that kind-

personally, I am a firm believer in the fact that the only thing sheets should be used for is bedding-

no, what I really meant here is:

there are so many Irish clans

(and Scots, and Welsh)

who make a huge attempt to keep track of everyone,

(bet you didn’t know that, according to Irish central in Chicago, America was discovered by the Irish)

link ancestral trees, have cultural- and sports events-

and here, a mighty thanks to all the great chiropractor and dentists,

who probably wouldn’t have as much work if not for Gaelic football, rugby, or the throwing of whatever that giant telephone pole is called,

that clan, and family size, really do start to count.

then there is the question of the other family size

as in-

is a particular box of cornflakes big enough for a family of four for a week, a family of three for three weeks, a family with teens until tomorrow.

And price, of course.

If a box of corn flakes for four costs twice the price of the box for ten from a cheaper company and less quality, when do the two boxes pass the bathtub with a hole that leaks water and was last seen half way between the train depots of Kansas and Albuquerque.

And why on earth are we eating cornflakes.

Is it a question of cornsumption

cornsumers corncern for better nutrition.

Or just part of the new program for corn math?

So many questions, so little time.