Tag: your daily word prompt

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Mouser

There was a mouse aboard. The Cap’n was indifferent. My wife and mother in law adamant; it had to go. On this point, they would not capitulate. Traps got set; the cheese disappears. Then the Cap’n becomes upset – mouse droppings have appeared on his chart table and Captain’s Digest.
The mouse must have found its way aboard by chance at Spinney’s yard while Psyche was on the hard for some repairs. But no matter how the lading had occurred, it had to go. As the human servant of the best mouser in the cove, aka the Grey Menace – Clancy J Bümps, I was informed by the Cap’n that seaman Bümps was to report aboard at 0800 hours for mouse patrol.
By lucky chance, seaman Bümps was napping when I grabbed him, tossed him in the seabag, and shanghaied him for duty aboard the good ketch Psyche.
I did not have him salute the colors as he came aboard, nor did I have him request permission to come aboard. I took him to the fo’castle right off. Like a typical sea lawyer, he complained that the press-gang had illegally detained him. He demanded his liberty. I allowed him to go on deck. The waters of the cove surrounded us. Seaman Bümps went below on mousing duty – grumble you may but go you shall.
Over the following days, we discovered that it was an invasion of mice. Seaman Bümps was promoted to Master at Arms Bümps and now received a daily ration of hard cheddar from the Cap’ns own hand. Their once frosty relationship warming.
The Grey Menace could now also clamber up the companionway to the deck. Finding a spot on the foredeck, he could comfortably nap in the sun between hunting expeditions. The day came when all the mice were gone, and new orders were cut for duty ashore. No seabag was needed. The little brat had cozied up to the Cap’n. He was now used to rowing about the cove in the skiff.
Like any sailor just ashore, his walk had a sure roll to it; the first catnip toot of shore leave left him lying on the couch in a stupor, and he had many tales to tell the land-loving cats.
Home is the sailor from the sea.

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BOHICA

“Don’t worry; it will all work out.” if you hear those words run like hell for the exit. It’s a guarantee that soon, you will be fetlock deep in the oozy brown stuff. I first learned this in the Navy. Winding up in the deep end was so frequent that whenever we heard the words “Don’t worry; it will all work out.” we automatically responded with a term suited to the situation – BOHICA – Bend Over Here It Comes Again.
Thanks to this early education, I was alert whenever I heard the magic words register on my consciousness. My lips would curl into a smile. I would whisper the magic precept of the seven p’s – Prior Proper Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance. Then I would rush to the documentation to fill myself with all the knowledge I could find. True, you’d be farctate – stuffed to the gills – with data. Most of those around you will only know what was in the scanty briefing document. You, on the other hand, will dole out fascinating tidbits they need to know. You’ll be frantically researching what gives on the ground. But your peers will assume that your command of the situation is masterful.

Just remember these things:
1.) Don’t worry. It’ll all work out.” equals big trouble
2.) BOHICA – bend over here it comes again
3.) Prior Proper Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance

Have you got that? Don’t worry; it’ll all work out!

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One Trick Pony

You may be familiar with the Paul Simon song One Trick Pony. The individual in it has one talent. But it’s so good; it’s all he needs. Most of the rest of us are jealous of the virtuosity. We have a jagged handful of lesser abilities, nothing so flagrant that people oh and ah when we get up—just everyday people working hard to do well.

After a while, you realize that it does no good to get wound up and bellicose about the one trick. I think it was Edison who said that invention was ninety-nine perspiration and one percent inspiration. So you settle down to getting all your more minor talents working cooperatively to make a more considerable talent.

It’s true. Your path in life will not be one of relaxing in country comfort on the porch glider. You’ll be sitting at your desk at six AM pounding out a short story, poem, or song. In the background, you’ll be listening to your favorite one-trick pony sing. But, your interest and attention will be on your achievements as they slowly rack up.

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WASP

I would have loved to join the Establishment. They did not want me.

At a certain point in my life, I had begun to follow the advice of a close and very successful friend, and instead of taking swings at the world, I attempted to swing in coordination with the world.

I relegated the guitar and engineer boots to a closet. I did look good in tweed jackets, blue button-down shirts, regimental striped ties, and khaki slacks. Despite learning about good single malt Scotch, brandy, and wine, something was missing. A professor, meaning well, took me aside and explained that anthropology was a gentleman’s profession. And my peers did not consider me a gentleman. He advised that I just be myself.

Just myself, huh? Out came the guitar, and in an evening, I wrote a satirical piece called the High Society Rag about the situation.

“Well, I met myself the prettiest gal, lord I had ever seen. And she took me to meet her folks in the country club scene. Well, they liked me at very first sight and loved the way I sang. But they took violent exception to the class from which I came.”

 “I wasn’t white, liberal, or middle class – spelled WASP.

White liberal and middle class spelled WASP.

My Club affiliations were not the best -I wasn’t in the Rittenhouse, and if that were not enough for the upper crust – I wasn’t even middle class.”

In an impromptu fashion, my rag unwound the entire club hierarchy, DAR, class hierarchy, my peers, and my professors. I did my best to remind everyone that wasps were insects. The composition itself certainly wasn’t much. In my Greenwich Village days: you weren’t considered capable unless you could punch out a satire, protest song, or ballad a day. All three were best. Our pieces didn’t have to be fine art – just pungent.

In no time, I mapped out an entire anthropology folk opera. Three additional songs were written rapidly, including the overture. I would trundle out the guitar on request and perform the magnum opus at parties.

 I no longer wanted to be part of the Establishment; I was having too much fun lampooning it. The reaction among the snobs was gratifying. I had learned how to tie knots in the devil’s tail.

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Veritas

My best friend Bill had a favorite phrase that would pop up anytime he’d have to think his way out of some idiot situation he’d into which he’d fallen. He’d have to “cogitate my veritabilities.”
The cogitation would typically be accompanied by smoking a tobacco cigarette rather than a joint when he needed a rational plan. Unlike me, in those days, he was not a habitual nicotine addict. So the tobacco was a focusing device.
The Saddlery owners had seen some of Bill’s artwork and decided that the sometimes stock clerk was the ideal person to do the new show cards for the store. Bill was not over-eager, even though they were going to pay for the art. At issue was the supervision of the project. Having been informed that Bill tended to rather sumptuous female illustrations and unusual postures in his art, the owners had taken the precaution of placing Mr. Harris, his supervisor, in overall charge of the project. Mr. Harris, a Deacon of his church, was a fair but strict boss – not what Bill wanted as a boss on an art project. Bill was heard to mutter, ” can’t catch a cold, oh no, had to catch pneumonia instead!”
The project proceeded with preliminary drawings of the Saddlery’s products in use by pleased customers. Mr. Harris allowed Bill enough artistic freedom that some humor crept into the illustrations. The final designs were quickly approved, and Bill began painting the show cards.

The showcards were ready for the spring open house held each year in the downstairs showroom. Bill placed the showcards on easels for viewing by guests circulating among the tables of food and drink. In the back was a showcard with an equestrian performing before a crowd in the viewing stands. Off in the corner was a miniature band providing musical accompaniment. Barely visible among the tiny musicians were a pair involved in suspiciously sexual activities. The flutist seemed to be having difficulty with the embouchure of the instrument she was attempting to play while the trombonist was wildly gyrating. That part of the illustration was so small that you’d have to look very closely to notice. But Mr. Harris eventually saw the grins and heard some of the guests’ laughs. The remainder of the evening, he stood in front of that showcard glaring at Bill.
The next day Bill and me – me because Mr. Harris “knew” that anything Bill was involved in had me as a coconspirator – were assigned to straighten up the storage area behind the old bank vault. The Saddlery storages snaked through several buildings and basements, including sites appearing on no plans. The vault was just that, the sealed vault of a bank that failed in one of the 19th century’s panics. Being exiles to that storage area meant days in dim 40-watt bulb territory. But being adaptable youth, we found a storage room with a skylight to the street and many saddle blankets to rest upon. Bill stretched out, lit a cigarette, and exclaimed that he would spend some time cogitating his veritabilities.

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Sufficient

“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”
It’s not like I’d ever have picked this and other semi-Biblical quotes growing up in New York City. So, people who don’t know much of my history wonder about the odd turn of phrases that I use. These verbal seasonings came from coastal Maine.
I was frequently the recipient of lectures from my father-in-law – the Cap’n. These sayings were used as capstones on discussions as though just saying ” sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof” was enough proof that whatever I had suggested was sheer idiocy, and the Cap’ns utterances Gospel. It seemed as though I could never win an argument or discussion.
By and large, it was the Cap’n making the pronouncement. But, they could slip out of the mouths of my wife, who was a faithful daughter, my mother-in-law, or another family member.
Soon, I absorbed and began to use these sayings. No longer a tyro, I could spout, “The harvest is past, the summer ended, and we are not saved,” along with the best of them.

Spring on the coast was time to haul Cap’ns 34-foot ketch, Psyche. An older wooden boat that was always behind in maintenance. Like many of us, confidence can spread into areas beyond our abilities. The Cap’n “knew” everything about seamanship. But, he had some dubious ideas on boat repair.
I’d seen him drive caulk into the leaking planks of a clinker-built hull that needed refastening; the caulk rapidly opened the seam wider. That and other mistakes lead me to begin questioning his grip on boat repair.

It came to a head one spring when we hauled Psyche out for repairs. There wasn’t a ripple on the cove that morning, and the water was like a sheet of glass. I got to scraping the bottom right away while the Cap’n and the boatyard owner inspected the hull. The Cap’n was alerted that a through the hull fitting needed replacement, and he decided that this was a job we could handle. Off we went in a hectic search for a replacement.

Our search sent us to all the marine part stores in the area before winding up at a marine salvage spot that he favored. There he found the right mixture of availability and price in a used, through the hull fitting that fit his budget and his mindset.
I balked. While not old enough to have been used by Noah, it certainly looked to be of 1940’s vintage. The Captain insisted that it was good enough for a few years of service. Considering his answer, I thought about the cold waters off Sequin that we frequented. The faulty marine radio that you had to slap to get it to work and the family’s safety on cruises.
So, considering all this, I readied my response to the Captain in Biblical terms he so frequently used: “Well, You can sin in haste, and repent at leisure then.”
Yes, there were repercussions for my impertinence, but the sour look on his face was worth it all, and we bought a brand new fitting.

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Protean

Proteus was known for his ability to escape by changing his shape or appearance. It’s a handy skill to have when you need it. On the other hand being Protean to conceal your lack of conviction can brand you as shallow. 

During undergrad at Boston University, I had a friend, well, more like a drinking buddy, who was complacent about being everything to everyone. The complete chameleon. He was so good at this that I didn’t catch on till he got cornered in discussion with our political science professor. The professor mentioned that Chuck had some excellent skills at playing the devil’s advocate. Each position, in turn being taken as the class discussion, developed. But, asked the professor, growing frustrated: “Do you have any opinions or positions of your own?” Chuck grew flustered at this. He hardly noticed his habit.

Chuck had more than casual feelings for a girl who had relatively strong political opinions. Beth shared the political science class with us and paid a lot of attention to Chuck and the professor’s interchange. That evening over beers, the discussion of the forthcoming student strike grew heated. Beth was among the cadre planning the entire operation. Many of the rest of us felt less enthusiastic about a strike during reading week ( the week before final exams). During the discussion, Chuck had commented on both sides of the argument. In frustration, Beth sharply asked Chuck what he honestly felt. Caught off guard, and knowing he had trapped himself, he dithered. “Well,” asked Beth, ” do you have an opinion that you own?”

“Ahh,” replied Chuck, ” don’t know, and I’ll have to think about it.”

So you may think that Chuck had blown any chance he had with Beth after that. Not so. She was satisfied that he had finally come up with an honest answer, and she respected that. Theirs was an interesting relationship. With Beth cornering Chuck every time he dithered, he eventually became cautious in his answers. 

But occasionally, if Beth weren’t around, The devil’s advocate would slip loose for a night out.

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Travel Food

Steinbeck observed in Travels with Charlie that you could still get an excellent inexpensive breakfast almost anywhere in the US. A few years after he wrote that I was able to confirm that observation personally. An evening meal was another matter.


When traveling by thumb, hitchhiking, you are not able to select the bistro of your choice. Even if you could, most discerning establishments will disdain to seat you among the other- shall we say more gentile sort. There you stand, sweaty, tired, and with backpack and guitar in hand. No maitre’D is about to loan you a tie and shepherd you to a prime table. No. You get relegated to the sort of place that boils their rigatoni with last night’s underwear. They are known locally for cheerfully serving up frankenfood of undeterminable origin.


If a friend has not already advised you, it’s wise to come equipped with something you can whip up over a discreet fire or eat uncooked. While you are always mindful of adding canned goods to your pack’s shoulder weight, an old favorite of Bill and I was B&M Baked Beans. You can warm them up over an evening fire, or in need, eat them cold.
For the Newb, here is some advice that might seem a bit trite until you think about it: unless you have a through ride, avoid eating at truck stops. They are private property and generally take a dim view of non-local vagrant types like hitchers.

As the traveling season begins, this has been your hitchhiking tip from the Old Professor.