I forgot to look and see what J.A.K.E.S. stands for; that is, I forgot to look again. I looked once but I can’t remember. Anyway, maybe it is a secret since it involves our dear Jakey whom we dearly love, but who does have a tendency to run afoul of the law. Jake has many entrepreneurial enterprises and often does his own law work. Maybe we will post a picture of the Jakester quite soon.

Some things I skim over and Dorko was one of them; that’s the last name of the new head guy at Lutheran Hospital. Then I saw it again . . . and it registered. Now, I feel for this man, I really do. I know he is a very successful man, and no doubt quite well off financially. I don’t know how old he is or when the term “dork” entered the vernacular, but it is probably not something is is happy about.

Excuse me, I am going to do a Google search. Ah, here it is – a reference to the word: Dork , and here is part of that entry verbatim:

Dork is a term used to describe someone who has unusual interests and is, at times, silly or stupid. A dork can also refer to someone who acts on his own motives without caring about his peers’ opinions. The term occasionally implies stupidity, though perhaps less often than it once did, and it can paradoxically imply an unadmirable (bookish, academic) intelligence, much like the terms “nerd” and “geek.”

. . . The adjectival form of dork is dorky, a word that was mainstream enough by 1971 to appear in a Peanuts comic strip.^[3]

Oh, that 1971 mainstream reference means he has been dealing with it for some time; maybe it is the reason for his success. I know, I know, it probably represents a proud family – quite possibly of Dutch descent. There is nothing wrong with Dorko as a last name, not really. But, gee, it does kind of take you by surprise in a headline. He could have taken a French bent and changed the spelling to Dorkeaux and moved to Louisiana; heck, that kind of sounds like a name in a novel:

The dew lingered on the vines growing along the edge of the veranda where the morning shade kept the sun’s heat at bay. Mr. Dorkeaux always took his coffee there when weather allowed, often gazing across the lawn that rolled down to the river where Suzanna had first climbed in the boat that eventually spirited her away.

Ever so polite detectives had come and asked questions, left, returned and finally disappeared into the the same river mist that had closed in on the scene all those years ago. Suzanna Dorkeaux had become one of the wisps of Southern family history who every now a then appear in shadowy form on the outskirts of a evening lawn party. It was whispered that her travels – as Mr. Dorkeaux referred to them – had taken her to places where she could find no rest, no peace. And so, she was drawn back to her marriage home – Dorky Park.

Oh, no, no, no, no, nix that idea.

Of course, as I said, Joe Dorko has done well for himself.

Maybe my last name should have been Bozo.

This is Charley, the trolley. He got the name Charley when Quentin was little; he misheard the trolley word and so Charley was initiated into our world. Charley used to run around a little tiny railroad, but over the years lost his track . . . or we lost track of it. He stayed for a long time in the china cabinet and on my bookcase, and then I took it into my head to put him on the tree in the sitting room.

He has the job of taking the elves back and forth between the beach and cliffside resort where they spend the off-season.

Hi there,

I’m the Gingerbread Man. AmeliaJake was going to write about me and how sweet I look hanging on the tree. Then she saw the way the camera captured my facial expression and she is backing away slowly. By the way, it only appears as if I am carrying a bat; that is the side view of a flat ornament behind me.

Do I look a wee bit bent out of shape to you? I am. I am tired of Maxwoo and her insatiable appetite for my kind, as she calls us – Tasty Boys.

AmeliaJake was going to say how much she enjoys putting me on the tree and watching the lights reflect on my copper. She tucked me away for the year all comfy in a folder paper towel, gave me a little kiss even, but now she is considering resting something heavy on the lid. Foolish old lady, I have already escaped.

This is the tree in my sitting room; it is artificial, so sometimes I forget to take it down. It is my favorite tree because it has the traditional lights and my favorite ornaments . . . because most of them have a special place in my heart. Usually I have to tie it to the window latches so it won’t fall over; this year I used red ribbon because I forget to bring up twine and the ribbon was there.

The one below is the little blue-sequined angel; I’m fairly certain she came from a rummage sale. She reminds me of my good friend Andrea (aka Feisty) although Andy has long pig tails and carries a bunch of seashells with her. It is comforting for me to know part of the Feisty spirit is on the tree, doing her little dance and being festive.

Last night during the game when the Green Bay Packers were playing “those other people”, I noticed that Tom Coughlin, coach of “those other people”, had a really red, chapped-looking face. Actually, one of the announcers even commented on it during the first quarter.

This morning I got up and Googled Tom Coughlin and frostbite face and saw that two other bloggers were thinking the same thing.

Blades of Blue and Henry’s Travels. Henry, by the way, must be a cat because the address of the blog contains the phrase “four dainty paws” and there is a picture of a cat in the profile box . . . and he doesn’t tolerate tomfoolery. In fact, he has contempt for it.

On my butt – that’s where I am. Sitting here typing because otherwise I would just be sitting here. Not that there is so much wrong with that, but I am unhappy with it tonight. However, I am not getting up, which should tell me something about my character.

Watching Green Bay and the Giants; it’s halftime and the four sports guys with different strategies on keeping their heads warm. One guy has no hat and closely cropped hair – not smart; Bradshaw has a stocking cap on which looks a lot better than the beret he was wearing pre-game; Howie has the bomber hat on he wore some years ago at another super cold game and Jimmy Johnson has a band that goes around his forehead and neck, covering his ears. Well, you know how he likes to have his hair just so.

There is a new show coming on – they’re advertising it now, To Tell the Truth. A new show to humiliate people. It follows American Idol. I see a trend of yuckiness here.

Halftime is over; Giants at their own 31.

I wonder if the team I root for is doomed to lose. Poor Packers, then.

Never mind about my chilled feet.

I don’t remember them teaching me much about writing in school, that is expressing myself. I remember topic sentences and the talk about punctuation and run-on on sentences and the passive voice vs. the active voice. (They didn’t like the passive, too mousy; better you showed the vigor of the active voice.)

I remember groaning when teachers would announce, “Tomorrow’s assignment, class, is to write 300 words.” Sometimes, they would add that you could you could write whatever you wanted. Ha! I didn’t think it in so many words, but I knew they didn’t mean that; you were to write something with each law of grammar observed, even if it made it less attractive to read . . . topic sentence, dontcha know?

The irony of this is that we were often reading the works of authors who couched their message in symbolism and analogies . . . and we aren’t even getting into guys like Faulkner who told the story from different viewpoints and different times and didn’t even mention it was doing it.

I’d sit there and stare at the study questions asking me to discuss Faulkner’s theme, his symbols and explain what he was really telling people. Do you know what I would think? I’d want to spit out, “Look, it it was so important to get this message out, Bill, why didn’t you just spell it out for us.

Okay, so maybe that wouldn’t make a puzzle of the book, lead the reader to the slow dawning of what was happening. Maybe the dialect of the telling would lose its flavor. Okay, fine, leave it as you wrote it, but include a little nutshell at the back of the book to explain things for those of us who had all your subtle intellectual literary maneuvers go right over our heads.

Decades later, I would share this thought with an editor who majored in literature and she would say that good writers put stuff out there for interpretation. To me, that would imply good writers are the ones who write assembly instructions – you know, the writers for whom English is a second language. In this case, I find the pictures to be a better guide then the words.

Anyway, so I was supposed to decipher what the great minds of literature decided to hint at, but when I wrote myself, I was to make certain I clearly stated what I meant. Bummer.

I leave you with this Winston Churchill quote: ”If you have an important point to make, don’t try to be subtle or clever. Use a pile driver. Hit the point once. Then come back and hit it again. Then hit it a third time-a tremendous whack.”

That doesn’t include begging for human food – he will do that anywhere, pretty much. Hey, come to think of it his “dog food” is mostly human food: browned ground chuck, browned buffalo burger, chicken and rice. Oh, and the meat are throughly drained and patted after being browned. There is a small bit of Purina One for sensitive digestive systems added in for vitamins; he actually chows down food sold in the store for table food.

He won’t eat it in the kitchen. I stood there today washing glasses and cookie sheets and whatnot and his dish was close by and no one else was in the house, but he would not eat – even though I had warmed his food in the microwave. So, when I was done, I warmed it again and carried it out to the porch where he has become accustomed to eating while I sit on the sofa, laptop on lap. He ate it. Well everyone needs a place where they feel comfortable, where they have a regular spot and everyone knows his name.

Hey, Norm . . . wait, I mean Sydney.

My grandmother, Jessie Shimp, nee Wisler, used to say this when something out of the ordinary happened, usually something that would cause a complication or outright trouble. She was born in 1881 and I don’t think she ever said, “Well, this is a Hell of a note.” I think I first said the great note phrase when I pretty little; I remember my mother remarking, “She heard that from Mom.”

A lot of things are “a great note” around here these days, from Hillary Clinton to routine family things.

At least the dog is a nice guy.