“Dad,” said Mia amid a flurry of activity around the breakfast table on a Saturday.

“Yes Mia?” answered her father, trying desperately to command the flaying arms reaching for the scrambled eggs, toast, butter and marmalade. “No Ethan, we don’t have jam on toast at breakfast time, only at teatime.”

“Dad,” said Mia for a second time, but this time in slightly higher pitched voice.

“Yes Mia,” her father answered again. “No Ethan, you can’t put the same spoon you put in your tea into the marmalade jar. That’s why there’s a spoon on the side just for that reason.”

“Am I reading that sign properly?” Steven asked the question of anyone and everyone who stopped to wonder why he was standing outside the large windows of the grocery store and not going inside. Needless to say, most thought him to be not quite there and kept their distance from him. But Steven was undeterred. He kept standing there, reading the large sign in the window over and over again. There were many advertisements displayed trying to lure prospective shoppers into their halls with the numerous sales. But those didn’t interest Steven. He was one of those shoppers who went into a grocery store with a list and never deviated from it. But this time was different.

“What are doing outside?” the voice was familiar. Not acknowledging his friend Adam he repeated his question.

It is said that one out of every four engineers in this country, is a graduate of Penn State Engineering College. It is also said that before each and every one of those students sets foot on the hallowed grounds of any one of Penn State’s various campuses, they did not know one end of a football from the other! A kicker was a punch line; a quarterback was an obscure term for the most popular guy in their high school, and their arch rivals Ohio, was just the state next door.

“Penn State is playing Ohio tomorrow,” my wife Rachel declared when we sat down to dinner a few nights ago. I smiled as I chewed on my under cooked steak and then suddenly, I panicked.

“At Penn State?” I asked after gulping my glass of red wine.

For me, there should just be two seasons. Hot and Hotter, that’s it. It makes life so very uncomplicated. No need for jackets, warm clothes or temperature gauges and really no need to figure out what to eat either. Seafood will be fine for six days and on the seventh day the Lord rested and so I would have leftovers. Every day would begin with my mug of sweet, strong coffee sipped on the deck facing east, and the day would end on the same deck facing west, with a glass of Cognac.

In between those two points, the day would be taken up with writing, reading and discussions about mundane subjects with a few friends from the village below. Political and religious discussions would be frowned upon, because they can have the effect of raising the blood pressure. In the afternoon, lunch primarily of a chilled shrimp cocktail, steamed lobster and a cold Indian Pale Ale followed by a nap in the shade.

Ever since Joshua was a young boy of seven, he was constantly asked, “what is your goal in life?”

He would shout out with glee, “to ride a camel!”

That always managed to bring about a round of applause and laughter, until one day when his parents were giving a party and at that party he was introduced to the guests. Then as a flight of fancy his mother asked him, “Joshua, why don’t you tell everyone here what it is you want to do when you grow up.”

And it never failed. He threw up his hands nearly hitting his sister who stood next to him in the face and said, “I’m going to ride a camel.” And then as a follow up he was asked by a guest where he would like to ride the camel, and Joshua answered to the best of his ability, “in the land of sand.”

“Arabia!” shouted one guest.

It was late in the evening when Marjorie finally decided to stop work for the day and go home to her husband. She stretched and looked out of the window at the snow falling silently. The buildings across the narrow street were masked by the snow and the car headlights travelling along the slick road were blurred.

“Yuck!” she thought to herself, as she knew that against her better thinking and her husband’s advice, she had left home that morning without the appropriate attire. Yes, she was wearing an overcoat, but that was because it was cold and not because snow had been forecast. She hadn’t believed the weatherman on the TV the night before as he strongly advised his viewers to not only bundle up because of a strong northeaster, but because it was winds such as these that brought a chance of heavy snow. Marjorie had latched onto the word ‘chance’ and she told her husband as she kissed him goodbye that morning, that the word chance was a weasel word which they used just in case they were wrong, which they were 75% of the time. Marjorie‘s husband, a successful attorney, was more logical than Marjorie, who owned her own design house and tended to be more emotional. Even though he pointed to the heavy dark clouds which appeared to be moving in, Marjorie pointed to the patchy blue sky as a rebuttal.  But Marjorie‘s husband, Todd, had been right.  She knew that when she returned home, she would not be able to live it down.

It was never a good day, Jason believed, when he woke up in the morning and looked out of his window at a cloudy sky. He wasn’t sure why he felt that way, but he had ever since he was a child. He tried to explain it to his friends, but they weren’t able to understand his logic. They in turn tried to come up with reasons why, but they too drew blanks. It was just something about a cloudy day. Whether the clouds ultimately gave way to the sun or decided instead to squeeze themselves dry, was immaterial. There was something about a cloudy sky when he first woke up, that made Jason want to return to bed and pull the sheets over his head and call out sick. He never did though.

Stephen rose from where he was sitting. The words that had plagued him all day still echoed in his mind. As hard as he had tried, he was unable to rid his mind of them. Yes, there had been many times when he thought of the poem, but never to the extent he was just then. What did it all mean?

He just couldn’t understand it. Over the years, especially as Stephen grew older, he was now in his 60s, he found that certain things like music, classical music in particular, would come to his mind first thing in the morning when he woke up. He would invariably have a tune playing in his mind and over the years he had tried to make sense of those pieces of music but had failed. It was only in the past ten years or so, but more strongly in the last three years, that he found that there was in fact a logic to the music he heard. Invariably the music was either something that one of his parents had enjoyed, or a piece that he himself thought of as a favourite. But it was the music that played on the radio when he first got into the car that seemed the most meaningful.

I hate horses! And that’s not a strong enough statement in my opinion. I think they are such dumb animals. I have never understood how anyone could find them handsome, as I’ve heard some people say they are. No, they aren’t and neither are their cousins ponies or donkeys. I don’t find anything redeeming about them. My idea of the best place for a horse is in a can of Alpo, period. Yes, I know they are popular gifts for birthdays and Christmas, but not me. I know many children ask for a pony, but I wanted a bicycle with rockets strapped to it. But I didn’t get one until recently.

Every time I had a birthday, I would be asked what I would like and the answer was always the same, a rocket bicycle. That would be greeted with a roll of the eyes and then followed up with the words, be serious.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, I could ask you the same question.”

“Jury duty!” replied John holding up a piece of paper.

“Same here,” replied his friend David, holding up a similar piece of paper.

John got up from the hard wooden bench he was sitting on and shook his friend’s hand. They both sat down.

“What case do you have?” asked John looking around the room filled with an assortment of humanity. Some wearing nice suits and jackets and dresses, while the majority were wearing jeans and, in some cases, tee shirts, and a few sporting large head turning tattoos, including one whose tattoos covered his entire head and face.

“Costco?”

I looked at the large man wearing a silly smile standing across from me on the train platform. I furrowed my brow because at first I didn’t know what he was talking about. He noticed my concerned look and smiled, “Costco?” he repeated but this time pointing to my pants.

“Yes,” I replied surprised by his question. The platform was packed and there was no place to sit. I pointed to his shirt, “Costco,” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied enthusiastically and then pointed to my shirt, “Costco?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied brightening up. I was beginning to like this game. I pointed to his hat, “Costco?” He smiled and pointed to mine, “yes,” I replied.

“You know she used to be a streaker,” remarked John pointing at a rather pretty woman probably in her late 60s standing in the middle of a crowd discussing something rather animatedly.

Richard looked over at the little group and shook his head. “Nah, she wasn’t a streaker.” And then to make sure his friend was talking about the same woman he asked, “who was a streaker?”
“Her,” replied John, again pointing carefully making sure he didn’t spill his gin and tonic. “You’re talking about Anne, the, the woman over there?”
“Yup,” replied John taking a sip of his drink.

“Impossible!” said Richard shaking his head. “You know who that is don’t you?”
“Yes, of course I do. That’s Anne Brisbane….”
“Dr Anne Brisbane PhD,” interrupted Richard, “a PhD in Astrophysics. The woman who’s in the newspapers constantly nowadays because of the discovery she just made.”

I pulled into what looked like the last parking spot in the grocery store car park without having to walk half a mile or so. I pulled out the grocery list from my pocket to glance at it before putting it back. It was a mental test I had developed for myself over past few the years and at which I must admit, I fail miserably.

As I was taking the keys out of the car in preparation of getting out and fighting the hordes in the food aisles, there was a series of sharp knocks on my window. I looked up to see a pint-sized man with sunglasses wrapped around his entire head staring at me. I lowered my window and before I could ask him why he was interrupting my preparation, he blurted out, “you’re parked illegally!”

“You love that song, don’t you?”

“What, the one I’m whistling now?”
“The one and only song you whistle.”
“Don’t fence me in?”
 “Yup and I bet you don’t even know who wrote it.”
“Irving Berlin wasn’t it?”
“See, what did I tell you. No, it was Cole Porter, and who sang it and made it popular?”
“That one I know. It was Frank Sinatra.”
“John, before I correct you yet again, why is it you whistle the song?”
“Well, I would sing it but I don’t know the words. It’s just a very pretty tune.”
“And very old. I think it was composed back in the 1930s.”
“Wow! I didn’t realise it was that old.”
“Yup. Can you believe it, there’s something in the world that’s older than you.”

“Sir, sir, excuse me sir. We’re closed now, you need to leave.”
I looked up the man addressing me. He looked very stern as he stood by the door with his left hand on the light switch. I remained seated in a large room where about half an hour ago it was filled with people. I looked down again. “Sir, sir,” he addressed me again, “you need to leave. I have to lock up the place.”
I looked up again and he could tell by the look on my face that I was sad, very sad. “No more dogs?” I asked in a voice just louder than a whisper as if I was afraid me would hear me.

“Where’s Joe?”

“Went running.”

“I thought he went running yesterday. Does he run every day?”

“No, only once in a while.”

Sam drew in a deep breath, “what are you trying to tell me?”

“That he hasn’t returned from his run.”

“The run from yesterday?”

“Yup. He headed down the road and disappeared.”

“Disappeared? How can he disappear?”

“Oh, that’s very simple. He began running and hasn’t been seen since.”

“Where does the road lead?”

“Belgium.”

“Belgium? Don’t be daft, Belgium is in Europe.”

A little about myself before I talk about my favourite pastime of roasting almonds.

I was born in June, though there are in some quarters the feeling that I was actually born in July because someone had forgotten to turn over the month on the calendar, which was glued to the wall in the kitchen of the trailer I was born in.

Even the year is in slight dispute, but for the sake of my sanity let’s say I’m somewhere around 52 years old give or take a few months. My earliest memory is waking up one morning and feeling the trailer was moving. I opened my eyes and looked out of the window, and indeed we were moving. That had never happened before. I was quite confused. I was around 3 or 4 years old. I looked across the cupboard which doubled as my bedroom and saw that the bed next to me, which housed my sister and her dolls when she wasn’t there, was empty. It was obvious that my sister was up.

One of the things I love to do, and have done for many years, is to take the Sunday newspaper and go out on the deck if it’s a warm sunny day, and spend the morning reading and dozing off until lunch time.

Lunch time on a Sunday is a tradition begun by my mother when I was a child. No doubt inherited from her mother, before which the origin of the tradition becomes murky. Even now, with my children grown and with families of their own, when they are in town they look forward to Sunday lunch. In fact, some have decided to carry on the tradition in their homes. I am sure my mother is looking down from heaven very pleased that her little tradition has multiplied over the decades.

There isn’t much that can be said about Edith, that hasn’t been said already. Throughout the annals of history, Edith whether she knew it or not or in fact approved of it or not, had been the one person who everyone who knew her thought was bonkers.

She had her entire universe upside down. She thought North was South, left was right and anything one said she always took the opposite position, whether it warranted an opposite position or not was superfluous.

Dipping back into his memory bank, John closed his eyes for a brief moment to allow himself some time to sort through his memories. He opened his eyes a few seconds later, “eight days a week,” he said emphatically, which caused his friend, David, to raise his eyebrows.

“Eight days a week,” David repeated.

“Yes, eight days a week,” confirmed John.

“You asked me what my favourite song was when I was growing up, and it was Eight Days a Week sung by the Beatles.”

David found that hard to believe. “With all the songs we grew up with, the one that’s your favourite was Eight Days a Week, but why?”