Testimony of the Doughnut by S.E. Hicks

After 55 years it has come to self revelation that I am very good at something that previously has not been revealed. I am blessed with an unparalleled talent of eating doughnuts. Eating the one doughnut has caused me to become better at eating the next doughnut, etc. If I could only get somebody to pay me to eat doughnuts whilst walking on a treadmill, I would be in Hog Heaven. This talent should not be construed has gluttony but rather a well developed hidden talent which is continuing to evolve, not as a habit but as an occasional practice. A practice limited by convenient access, impulse purchase availibility, blood sugar levels and the circumference of my waist. I neither crave nor seek the circular treats but when happenstance has presented me with a ring of pastry delight I take full advantage.

Once, while living as a bachelor, the small apartment I dwelled in was located up and behind a small historic doughnut shop, of which I frequented. The baking of said product would begin sometime in the wee hours of the morning. On cool nights when sleeping with the window open, the resulting aroma of the manufactured sugary discs permeated my olfactory sense to such a degree, it created a Pavlov’s dog reaction causing great quantities of drool to pour out onto my pillow in my sleep, resulting in near dehydration and  the mysterious need to change the pillow case. My doughnut eating skill is clearly a learned behavior.

As my culinary doughnut eating skills matured over time, the knowledge of who's doughnuts to eat, what variety appealed to my personal preferences and at what time of day I could find nature's finest freshest best tasting doughnut was etched in my memory banks. Forget it, I will not reveal this knowledge to anyone as I do not have the patients to stand in line behind you.

While I was writing this little gem my wife ask me if I wanted to have a stick of celery. What do you suppose my answer was to that innocuous offer. "Give me that stale doughnut instead..... dear."

I wish at this time to give a shout of thanks to all those masterful doughnut chiefs whose talents I have had the pleasure of benefiting from. Keep on dropping that dough doughnut making person. I need the practice, as I am still in training for that.... next doughnut eating opportunity.

Confidence

 When GOD solves your problems, you have faith in HIS abilities; when GOD doesn't solve your problems HE has faith in your abilities. That is to say pray, keep your hands on the plow and eat more doughnuts.

Attention viewers

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Little League Dinger by S.E. HICKS

The Little League Dinger That Changed the World
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Furguson.
　
When I was a boy of third grade age we had moved to the big city. Getting though that socially challenging year undamaged, which was rough for a new kid, I managed to develop a few new buddies. The guys and I, when we were not performing child labor tasks, played ball.

As it turned out there was a local YMCA, the South Town Branch, that had a new kid’s program director. His name was Ron Gingreckco. At the time he was starting a little league baseball team for third and fourth grade boys. My buddy Jimmy told me about the team Coach Ron was forming, I found the concept intriguing. After much posturing with my parents I was permitted to join the team, my adoptive father paid the fee and bought me a used ball glove.

The day before the first practice, my friend Jimmy and I played catch with his ball. I had never thrown a ball before and did so with poor accuracy causing Jimmy to chase the ball repeatedly. We played catch for several hours that day, developing sore arms as result that would hamper us the several practices. Jimmy was relentless and very determined to have a winning team, so we kept on throwing. He pushed me to throw the ball over and over until I was throwing it correctly according to his expert eight year old eyes.

The game plan was for the two of us to take turns as pitcher and catcher. According to Jimmy, these roles were the most fun positions to play. By doing so, we would have the greatest impact on the third grade game of baseball. Jimmy was wise in his assessment of the two positions’ importance but he had the wrong candidate for the pitcher, catcher duo.

After the first inning of the first game I had walked in twelve runs and would be relegated to right field the remainder of the next three seasons. Labeled and harnessed with a completely shattered opinion of my baseball skills that childhood fantasy had just previously just constructed into a major leaguer only a few days before. Impervious to the facts of reality I continued to play, showing up every practice and every game. Jimmy would continue to recruit kids to the team making it more and more difficult to earn a starting spot.

We always played ball, day and night, whenever the over lords allowed it. After while, we began to fantasize about actually winning a game, prior to that we always knew we were going to get beat. I was still hitless but not with out hope. I had reached base a couple of times, drawing walks and striking out reaching base due to a passed ball on a swinging third strike. Sometimes, more frequently than not, the catcher would over throw the first baseman and the ball would roll into right field. This allowed me the runner to take second base and sometimes even third but for some unlucky reason, home plate eluded me. During the course of the entire first season, I never scored, placing me in a role as a sub, a part time player.

The real problem was that I was growing very fast. The rapid growth was not allowing my coordination to develop and master new skills. I was a goofy uncoordinated kid that coach Ron saw something in. He would always give me extra time in practice and never failed to praise me even though I was a horrible player. He never gave up on me saying that, “we work for the future.”
.
I have met a lot of coaches over the years, but coach Ron was probably my favorite. He made the game fun. He never was cruel or demeaning. I’m sure that had it not been for coach Ron’s interest in me and the other guys, our lives would be totally different today. The love of the game of baseball which I possess today is a direct result of his influence and wise mentoring. Where ever you are Coach Ron thanks. Anyway, the third grade baseball season came to an end with the team record an embarrassing zero wins versus twelve losses. My batting average was .000. Now that’s not a statistic to hang your hat on.

The next spring brought new blood to the team but the record left us in the cellar, the same as before. My batting average was still triple goose eggs. We had played the same teams with the same kids from the same small towns. They were just better than we were. More practice and more coaches was the answer, so Coach Ron recruited us another two coaches. One of the coaches had a little brother that was a better player than all of us. He could actually hit the ball on a consistent basis and played a mean shortstop. This gave us some hope, but the team’s fourth grade season was a lost cause.

The next season was a little different, the team was better. We were bigger, taller and some of the guys were sprouting a little hair. Instead of losing twenty or thirty to nothing we would score some runs and on one occasion nearly won a game. The effort went for not, another 0-12 season. Our hopes for the future were bright though, Coach Ron planned to work with us all winter. When spring finally came at the end of our six grade year we were ready. Not me though I still struck out all the time and made too many errors to be a starter. As the team was actually winning some games I rode the bench more often than not, so as to not risk a loss or to maximize the chance for a win. This trend continued until half way through the six grade season.

We had been in the game until we gave up ten runs in the fourth. We were now down by fifteen runs with only the fifth inning left to play. This being the case, Coach Ron let me and a couple of the other subs bat and play in the fifth. Jimmy my friend, was still in the game. He being a lefty and by then a fairly good hitter was certainly the best our team had to offer. Jimmy took the first pitch, a ball. The next pitch he fouled down the right field line. A good well struck ball but he was out in front of the pitch. Ron signaled to the third base coach to have Jimmy step back in the box. This was new strategy and it worked, Jimmy got a hit.

The next batter Sam, drew a walk, as did the next three batters forcing two runs home. The other team changed pitchers. They brought in a kid that had a real fast pitch and was considered to be a bully at the time. He gave up a grounder to the assistant coach’s little brother. Because of all the errors, he cleared the bases with the exception for a kid named little Mike who was standing on third. Now we were down by ten runs. The next two guys walked scoring a run. This brought me to the plate with one out recorded, due to a trick pick off play at third base that occurred before I stepped in to the batter‘s box.

There were just two on and just the one out when the loud mouth second baseman on the other team opened his mouth. “Don’t worry guys, all this guy does is strike out,” said the player. This was the first time anyone had ever really criticized my play. Baseball had always been a positive experience. I didn’t like it very much-- it stuck in my craw. That heckler on second, doubting my skill as a batter. Who did he think he was? I swung and missed at the first pitch resulting in more heckling and flippant remarks knocking my skill. The anger I felt soon evolved into a compelling determination. I summoned every ounce of energy I had. The next pitch left my bat with a heckle silencing crack that left players, coaches and spectators alike quietly stunned. They stood frozen in their tracks and seats, opened mouthed as they all watched the jaw dropping hit sail at a height hundred fifty feet over the left fielder’s head. I was rounding first when the ball hit the river. I had hit the ball into the Little Blue River, an impossible distance for a twelve year old. As I stepped on home plate for the first time ever, the small crowd and the players were still quiet, dumbfounded at the remarkable feat. I the strike out king of the Southtown Branch YMCA had hit a monstrous home run of likes never seen before or again. In that fleeting moment in time, I was the greatest baseball player that there was, a hero to little leaguers far and wide. The guys called me Homerun Furguson for a week or so.

We went on to lose that game but our fortunes had changed. The hit was a life changing moment for me and our team. Not only was it my first hit, it was my first pitch hit, my first homerun, and my first runs batted in as well. Now that was a much better stat to hang your hat on. It marked an elevation in my confidence to such a degree that the next season and every season there after, until we were too old to play little league, we were the league champions. More importantly, I the strike out leader of the entire league for three consecutive seasons would lead the league in hitting, triples, doubles, stolen bases, runs scored and runs batted in. I never hit another home run. To this day that fact remains an odd stat of my celebrated athletic history.

Many years later I happened to run across the diamond on which the game was played on that fateful day. The long gone voices of the kids that played the game that day were still echoing in my mind. The memorable moment of the great hit was still vividly placed in my consciousness. Even the old smells of hot August dust, leather and bubble gum still hung in the air as that hit was relived over and over. The interesting thing of it was, the diamond was not the huge green monster that I had remembered it to be but the smallest of diamonds, placed so close to the river that I could reach it with a well thrown stone. The age related reality put the hit in prospective. Although it may have been a small diamond, a brief blink of insignificant time, it was a fabled childhood achievement. It was my memory. Mine alone. After all, everything has relevance to it’s creator in the over all plan of one’s life..
　
　
　

Charlie the Hat..... A Childrens book

Charlie the Hat

written by S.E. Hicks

Charlie was a brand new hat.

Charlie was not just any new hat. Charlie was a brand new baseball hat.

Charlie was made in a hat factory.

Ed’s Hat Factory made lots of hats, for lots of people.

　

Ed made hats for Tom’s Auto Shop, Bill’s Welding, Mac’s Cafe, Betty’s Candy and Mike’s Bait Shop. There were even hats for Ed’s Hat Factory.

Ed’s Hat Factory was in Taiwan. The people there like to make hats.

Charlie was a red hat with a bright yellow bill. What made Charlie very special was the shinny silver button right on top.

Charlie really liked his yellow bill but he was very proud of his silver button.

When the people of Ed’s Hat Factory made Charlie they put him in a box. Charlie didn’t like being in a box. He didn’t like it at all.

There were a lot of other hats in the box but Charlie could not see the other hats. It was dark in the box.

Then one day the box was put in a crate with a lot of other boxes full of hats.

The crate was then put on a ship.

Charlie asked “Where are we going?”

No one knew. Charlie was very scared.

Charlie was so scared and worried about where he was going, he got tired and fell asleep.

Charlie slept a long, long time. While Charlie slept the ship rocked back and forth keeping Charlie asleep.

Suddenly, Charlie was awakened by a man who took him out of the box.

“Yea!” Charlie said. “I’m out of the box.”

“Where am I and who are you?” Charlie asked.

“You are at the hat store and that is the hat store clerk,” said one of the other hats. The clerk then put Charlie on a shelf.

There were lots of other baseball hats on the shelf. There were black hats, green hats, blue hats, purple hats, orange hats but Charlie was the only red hat with a bright yellow bill and a silver button.

The other hats made fun of Charlie, especially his silver button. Charlie didn’t mind though, he knew they were just jealous.

One day a man came to the store and bought Charlie.

“This hat is for my son Jimmy’s birthday.” said the man. He then put Charlie in a sack.

Charlie didn’t like being in a sack but he was not alone . There was Gary the baseball glove and Bob the baseball. They all became good friends.

When they got to Jimmy’s house, Jimmy’s Dad took Charlie out of the sack. “Yea, I’m out of the sack!” said Charlie.

Then Jimmy’s Dad put Charlie in a box and wrapped the box with birthday paper. Charlie said, “ Great, I’m back in a box again.”

When Jimmy opened the box, Charlie was very excited to see Jimmy. Jimmy put Charlie on his head. Charlie liked that very much.

The birthday party was fun. There was cake and ice cream for everyone. Jimmy had so much fun he got chocolate icing on Charlie’s bright yellow bill. Charlie didn’t mind, it tasted good but the icing left a stain.

Jimmy took Charlie outside to play with Gary the glove and Bob the baseball. That’s when Charlie met Mickey the baseball bat. They were five good friends and they played baseball every day.

Jimmy wore Charlie everywhere, except at school or church. That’s when Jimmy would put Charlie on a peg.

Charlie didn’t like hanging on a peg very much. He liked being on Jimmy’s head or on the bed post at night.

One day Jimmy got up in a hurry and put Charlie on his head.

“Where are we going today?” Asked Charlie.

“We are going to see my grandparents. They live in the country,” said Jimmy.

Jimmy’s Dad drove the pick-up truck. Charlie thought it was fun riding in the truck. When they got to a dirt road Jimmy got out and climbed in back.

Jimmy sat in the back of the truck hung on tight to the rail and said “Okay.” The truck then started to move down the dirt road. Faster and faster the truck went. The wind started to blow real hard and suddenly Charlie was off Jimmy’s head. Up, up in the air, Charlie was flying in the wind!

When Charlie stopped flying he was stuck up in a tree.

Minutes went by. Hours went by. Days went by. Weeks went by. Months went by. Charlie was stuck in the tree a long, long, long time.

It rained on Charlie. It snowed on Charlie. There were lots of bugs that crawled all over him. To make things worse, a bird pooped on Charlie’s bright yellow bill.

One day the wind started to blow real hard. The wind blew just right and blew Charlie out of the tree. Charlie said “ yea, I’m not stuck in the tree any more.”

Down, down, down Charlie fell. He landed in the middle of the dirt road. He laid in the road for a couple of hours.

Soon a car came down the dirt road and ran right over Charlie, kicking him into the ditch! “Great,” said Charlie “ I’m in a ditch. I don‘t want to be in a ditch.”

Now Charlie was a dirty mess. He had a chocolate stain, a bird poop stain, a car grease stain, he had tire track marks and he was covered in dirty road dust. At least he still had his shiny silver button.

Charlie was in the ditch a long, long time.

One day it started to rain. It rained real hard. Soon the ditch was full of water and Charlie began to float down the ditch.

Down, down, down the ditch, Charlie floated all the way to the creek.

Charlie floated in the creek a long, long time. He floated in the creek until the creek became a river.

Down, down, down the river Charlie floated. He floated in the river until he landed on a sand bar.

“Yea, I’m out of the river.” Charlie said.

Charlie was on the sand bar a long, long time. Charlie missed his friends.

One day a little boat with a motor came up the river. The sun was out and shinning bright. Charlie’s silver button was glowing in the sun light.

The man in the boat saw Charlie’s silver button shinning in the sun light. He stopped the boat and picked Charlie up.

He was a very old man wearing a hat. It was Mike’s Bait Shop hat. The man threw Charlie in the bottom of the boat with some fish and took Charlie home with him.

When they got to the old man’s home, Charlie was taken to a tool shed and hung on a rusty nail.

Charlie was glad to be out of the tree. Charlie was glad to be off the road. Charlie was glad to be out of the ditch. Charlie was glad to be out of the river. Charlie was glad to be off the sand bar. Charlie didn’t like hanging on a nail but it was better than floating in the creek.

There were lots if other things in the shed. There was Fred the fishing pole. Tim the tackle box, Hank the hammer, Sam the screwdriver. There was even a car jack named Jake. Charlie had new friends.

One dark night Charlie felt something chewing on his bright yellow bill. It was Randy the rat. He was chewing a hole in Charlie’s bright yellow bill where the chocolate stain was!

Charlie didn’t like that very much. Now he was a real mess. He had a hole in his bright yellow bill where the chocolate stain used to be. He had car grease stains, tire track marks, bird poop stains, and he smelled like fish.

Charlie was in the shed a long, long time.

　

One day out of the blue the door to the shed opened. It was the old man. He had someone with him. The old man said to the other man,

“If we are going fishing you better grab that hat.”

　

The other man took Charlie of the nail.

“Hey,” the man said. Where did you find this hat? This is my old baseball hat.”

Charlie then saw the man’s face. It was Jimmy. Jimmy was all grown up. Charlie was very happy to see Jimmy again.

Jimmy said to Charlie “Where have you been?”

Charlie thought for a minute. He was glad to be on Jimmy’s head again.

Then Charlie said “ I have been in a box, a crate, a ship, a shelf, a sack, a peg, a bed post, a truck, a tree, a road, a ditch, a creek, a river, a sand bar, a boat, and most recently I have been hanging on a nail in a tool shed! What about You?”

ARTIST/ILLUSTRATOR WANTED

Charlie The Hat is a real gas to read. It’s a cute whimsical children’s book/primary reader about an animated baseball hat that bonds with a young boy named Jimmy and is subsequently lost. Found years later after battling the elements baring the scars of life, Charlie the hat is reunited with the now grown young man.
Charlie The Hat

With the aid of quality illustrations depicting Charlie’s expressions and emotions this book will have appeal to young readers.Charlie the Hat was inspired by the finding of an old hat on a river bank by the author. The story begins with the origins of the tattered hat and takes the reader through the hat’s life. Given as a gift, Charlie the hat bonds with young Jimmie Hunter and enjoys a happy all but brief relationship with the boy playing baseball and growing up. One day Charlie is lost, blown off Jimmy’s head during an ill fated pick-up truck ride. Charlie then finds himself alone for a long, long  time experiencing the weather, emotions and other indignities. Charlie is eventually found by Jimmy’s grandfather, not realizing the hat was Jimmy’s, his grandfather stored Charlie the hat on an old rusty nail in a tool shed. Several years later all grown up, Jimmy Hunter returns to see his grandfather and rediscovers Charlie, his long lost friend.

Not Sure Why

Not Sure Why
Written by S.E.Hicks

“There are those that look at things the way they are, and ask why, I dream of things that never were, and ask why not.” Robert Kennedy said these eloquent words. It is a worthy creed. I have a different take on the ubiquitous question of why….. I’m not sure why. There are a lot of certainties in life, death, taxes and the like. I’m not sure why… about a whole lot of things.
For example:
I’m not sure why I don’t catch fish when I know they are biting because everyone else in the boat is catching them.
I’m not sure why I thought I could in the first place.
I’m not sure why I did.
I’m not sure, why did I?
I’m not sure why, I’m sure I did .
I’m not sure why I didn’t.
I’m not sure why I’m sure I didn’t.
I’m not sure why some one else said I did when actually, I didn’t.
I’m not sure why if I did why it is any business of yours.
I’m not sure why but I think they should consider the possibility that they are not sure, did didn’t do it.
I’m not sure why every time I look into my wife’s eyes it is better than the first time but every time something goes wrong in our lives it is my fault and I feel like I‘ve been poked in the eye.
I’m not sure why when you go about looking for something you have lost, you can’t find it but when your not looking for it, there it is right where you left it and it is now…. in…. the…. way.
I’m not sure why if God created man in his image, why we are all so different and mostly ugly.
I’m not sure why I have so many flat tires.
I’m not sure why cheap tires are so expensive.
I’m not sure why no mater how much money I bring home somebody complains about it.
I’m not sure why when I try to answer a question my wife has put forth to me, why another question is ask before I can answer and when I do answer the first question, why she didn’t hear nor understand my answer to her question nor remember her question but still wants an answer to the second question… and on and on ….and on it goes.
I not sure why I I I I I I I stutter so much.
I’m not sure why there are so many living things that bite.
I’m not sure why I always get bit and the other guy doesn’t.
I’m not sure why I ask my wife, how her day was? When she tells me, I realize I didn’t really want to know… all that. Every time, every day for the past thirty years!
I’m not sure why I just got slapped.
I’m not sure why the car fails to start when I am dressed in a tux or a dress suit on the way to a wedding or some important meeting. It just started a few minutes ago!
I’m not sure why women pee so much.
I’m not sure why the pie is in my lap.
I’m not sure why but it is not for me to question nor attempt to answer.
I’m not sure why thou shall not kill, yet thou shall take an eye for and eye. Thank God there is a church.
I’m not sure why they say turn the other cheek. Which cheek are they talking about anyway?
I’m not sure why they are who they is.
I’m not sure why they is who they are.
I’m not sure why they is.
I’m not sure, why are they?
I’m not sure why, any who.
I’m not sure why but they better not read this. They might take it wrong.
I’m not sure why little smart people call big dumb people stupid.
I’m not sure why people say “Hello” when they are really thinking, hell no!”
I’m not sure why when I wake up I’m tried, when I go bed I’m not, when I am tired and go to bed I can’t sleep and why I wake up early when I can sleep in.
I’m not sure why I take sleeping pills and drink coffee.
I’m not sure why every time I shoot and field dress a deer, I puke and gag. Every time for the last twenty five deer.
I’m not sure why my wife throws a fit when I clog the toilet……She fed me….. I use the plunger. She’s mad none the less.
I’m not sure why I didn’t get any dinner tonight.
I’m not sure why people rake leaves on a windy day.
I’m not sure why deaf people go to rock concerts in the rain.
I’m not sure why you have to jack up your wife’s car to change a tire but you better not jack with her car!
I’m not sure why women wear such revealing outfits then complain because we men gawk at them.
I’m not sure why but I would have been better off having not written that.
I’m not sure why I mentioned it in the first place.
I’m not sure why, should I have not written that?
I’m not sure why I should not write why not instead.
I’m not sure why but why not.
I’m not sure why.
I’m not sure why she just hit me.
I’m not sure why, but…. it is becoming more clear to me.
I’m not sure why but I’m quite sure I better start running.
I’m not sure why some women can’t smell their own farts nor hear them and men are admittedly quite proud to claim theirs.
I’m not sure why but I should have run faster
I’m not sure why but I think I know why.
I’m not sure why people wash their car before it rains.
I’m not sure why people can’t see past their nose.
I’m not sure why people don’t talk to each other in the elevator and when the one rare person does break the ice they won’t shut up.
I’m not sure why people wash their car when the streets are still wet.
I’m not sure why people can’t wait for the light of day.
I’m not sure why, because.
I’m not sure why but I should probably leave because alone.
I’m not sure why but if I do leave because alone you might some how feel cheated, some how.
I’m not sure why, because it is just better that we don’t go into it.
I’m not sure why. Because you brought it up! There’s that word again.
I’m not sure why but because might be another book.
I’m not sure why self esteem isn’t the goal for all teachers and coaches of youth.
I’m not sure why there are 2600 Christian denominations all claiming the “Truth “ is only found though their better way of prayer.
I’m not sure why but I doubt He intended it to be thus.
I’m not sure why people with poor skills and high blood pressure play golf and poker.
I’m not sure why any body thinks OJ didn’t do it.
I’m not sure why Tiger Woods is not secretly worshiped by every single man on the planet, because married guys certainly can’t.
I’m not sure why when my left foot stinks, my right foot doesn’t, and why my right pit stinks before my left pit does.
I’m not sure why I thought that would throw her off the previous subject.
I’m not sure why the chicken crossed the road. After all those jokes I still don’t know.
I’m not sure why doctors schedule appointments. They never keep them. In a relative sense, my time is much more important than theirs. Dog gone it man, I’m the freaking customer!
I’m not sure why there is an it.
I’m not sure why we are so concerned about it.
I’m not sure why it is worth arguing about.
I’m not sure why it is not.
I’m not sure why arguing about it is worth it……not.
I’m not sure why it is worth it.
I’m not sure why I ever got started with it. The arguing about it that is.
I’m not sure why I don’t just let it, be.
I’m not sure why but I better not be concerned about be.
I’m not sure why but I guess I better not be.
I’m not sure why if man has walked on the earth for 100,000 years, why only now do we have a world economy based on oil. And it is so bad in every way!
I’m not sure why if man has walked on the earth for 5,000 years, why only now do we have a world economy based on oil. And it is so bad in every way!
I’m not sure why we continue to ruin our soil, our water, and our air. No body likes it, why do we still do it?
I’m not sure why but we are all just really so stupid. About that.
I’m not sure why Christendom is so fragmented.
I’m not sure why we continue to elect double talking liars to run the country.
I’m not sure why politicians think they need to lie in order to be elected.
I’m not sure why they think, who they think they are.
I’m not sure why who they think they are, are.
I’m not sure why who they think they are, bother to think.
I’m not sure why I bother to think about who they are.
I’m not sure why who they think they are say, who do they think they are.
I’m not sure why dogs smell each other’s butt.
I’m not sure why African American men look so much better in a hat than a white dude does. Same for women.
I’m not sure why one fingernail grows faster than all the rest. And yet it is never the same one but there is always one.
I’m not sure why at one time I wore bellbottom jeans and soon after purchased a leisure suit.
I’m not sure why I have a three inch hair that grows out the top of my left ear.
I’m not sure why when you go to the trouble of wiping yourself clean you still have skids marks.
I’m not sure why colored underwear didn’t come around before Michael Jordon.
I’m not sure why or if Native Americans did or didn’t have skid marks on their loin cloths.
I’m not sure why some one didn’t check.
I “m not sure why they would have.
I’m not sure why our government makes poor people pay tax.
I’m not sure why but our government has skid marks.
I’m not sure why or what happened to the great American western television show. Where is Matt Dillon of yester year.
I’m not sure why I care but what happened to Mork?
I’m not sure why Waldo is and I certainly don’t care where he is.
I’m not sure why we straightened out all the rivers and streams.
I’m not sure why the haves are fat and eat all they want, want more than they need and the have not are skinny and eat less than they need and want very little.
I’m not sure why the have not suffer the haves.
I’m not sure why Hunger!
I’m not sure why we fish out our resources.
I’m not sure why most people who don’t eat fish care so little about fish.
I’m not sure why people who do eat fish don’t care enough about fish. In general.
I’m not sure why poachers don’t get the death penalty, thrown to the loins so to speak. That would stop it.
I’m not sure why if you are just going to release it why catch it just to look at.
I’m not sure why the sun rises in the east and sets in the west and not rise in the north and set in the south. Wouldn’t that be weird, given how the earth rotates …the time considerations?
I’m not sure why but wouldn’t that really mess up, your day?
I’m not sure why but thinking about stuff like that maybe why my sleep is ………………all ………….messed up.
I’m not sure why we spend all that money on space travel when we can’t go fast enough or live long enough
to get anywhere really interesting.
I’m not sure why some boogers are wet and others dry.
I’m not sure why right is right and left is left. It could be the other way around.
I’m not sure why we are fertilizing the oceans.
I’m not sure why I couldn’t hit a curve ball.
I’m not sure why there is not a standard methodology for giving directions.
I’m not sure why I have been referred to as “The Little Prince.”
I’m not sure why they called a pass play when a running play would have worked better.
I’m not sure why it is difficult to determine the relative merit of the two alternative perspectives.
I’m not sure why if opposing geometric energies are suspended in a vacuum, trapped in a quadrilateral dimension of time the resulting forces…. do what to my wife‘s menstrual cycle?
I’m not sure why my wife is suddenly thumbing thru the A section of the yellow pages.
I’m not sure why people have to sit at a red light burning gas and time, when there is no traffic in sight.
I’m not sure why or what made bottled water more expensive than gasoline.
I’m not sure why but I think it was a who.
I’m not sure why it is oil and lithium and not terrorism.
I’m not sure why but again I think it was a who.
I’m not sure why I didn’t let the dog out.
I’m not sure why they called him out when he was….OBVIOUSLY SAFE!
I’m not sure why but I’m not going to eat any more ball park hotdogs or buy eight dollar bottles of beer.
I’m not sure why, next year I’ll change my season tickets to the upper deck.
I’m not sure why I thought I had season tickets.
I’m not sure why who ever let the cat out of the bag, did.
I’m not sure why or who put the cat in the bag in the first place. How did they do it?
I’m not sure why we don’t build all homes from dirt and leave the trees alone.
I’m not sure why when your done peeing and you shake it dry you still dribble in your shorts.
I’m not sure why all the cows must be milked before work begins and why after the work is done the cows still have to be milked.
I’m not sure why you pay a lawyer $500 in order to avoid paying the court a $500 fine that you end up paying anyway.
I’m not sure why but there are a lot of good lawyer jokes.
I’m not sure why or what happened to my tools once the kids came.
I’m not sure why my wife puts things down the disposal that breaks and clogs the thing time and time again, when there’s a trash barrel at her feet!
I’m not sure why I wrote that. There’s going to be trouble, there goes two of my favorite cd‘s.
I’m not sure why I wrote this.
I’m not sure why I wrote that.
I’m not sure why I wrote any of this or that, especially this.
I’m not sure why this got ………….all mixed up with that.
I’m not sure why I ever thought I could possibly be remotely sure of this or that.
I’m not sure why I’m sure when I’m quite sure that I’m not .
I’m not sure why but I better stop this.
I’m not sure why but I can’t.
I am sure, that the one thing I’m sure of is that I’m not sure of why I‘m not sure.
　
　
　
　
　
　

Excerpt, "From Derbyshire and Back"

Runcorn Gap
Written by S.E. Hicks

Straddled on the apex of the stern, Tobias Archer repeatedly dropped the lead and line to check the depth of the River Mersey.  Giles Ginter, his childhood friend was at the helm directing the river cog through the shallow sandy bottomed channel. Tobias scanned the ship, looking proudly forward at his father Oswyn, who was standing statuesquely at the bow,  studying intently  the water in advance of the cog. He listened  curiously at Piers Geste,   who was barking orders to the small crew manning the square rigged sail and again to the oarsman.  They were eight, mostly Archers and one from Ginter‘s family.   Giles Ginter had many a time sailed the river but had never ventured west of Warrington nor to far east into Manchester. Tobias knew not of navigation, he was both excited and inquisitive. The trip on the river flat would be his only schooling, an incomplete preparation for the rapids yet to come.

The river was flowing  just fast enough to mostly out run the effects the gentle early morning breeze had on the sail.  As he watched the sail fill and relax, Tobias wondered of the horses they had set free at the confluence of the Goyt and the Etherow. Packed with a few bags of rock, the equine had been sent on a rouse,  galloping east towards Mottram ferry with no riders along the River Mersey’s north bank.  He thought of his Millicent and her angry father the Shire-reeve. Tobias’ fathers men had in deed thrown Barnaby Shipwash and the hue and cry off their trail. The Archers were temporarily safe from their pursuers.  At least for now. Their  heading  would be north and west on the whims of the river. With the aide of the single sail river cog, the gap between them had lengthened considerable.

Their trip on the river would take them past Wulfiges, the land of wolves. On to Woolston Eyes  and the great breeding grounds of the Black Neck Grebe, past the mill pond at Warrington, Lancashire the place of the Roman crossing, then into the treacherous narrows of Runcorn Gap. If the cog made it through to the   wide expanse of the estuary they would be but a day’s sail to the next narrow and  on to the busy Seaforth Dock of Liverpool, the gateway to the Atlantic.

As the cog approached the Runcorn, the wind picked up sail and Giles ordered the men to furl the square rig. Both Oswyn and Piers joined the men on the oars. Giles requested Tobias  to help him man the tiller. Just before they entered the mouth of the gap, a young woman appeared on the far bank chased by two rouges. Her dress of rags just clinging to her, she sloshed her way to the edge of a moored row boat, casting off into the fast water just ahead of the cog. The unknown woman was successful evading her assailants.

The river groaning sounds like a raging beast, began to dance a myriad of ballistic ballets before them. Tossing about sea craft and voyagers alike.  The  drift ahead presented a surging river which was riddled with white capped dilemmas defining but a single course. One mistake meant death to the few that dared her challenging jaws.

Giles instructed the crew at each approaching obstacle.  The men responded courageously to the demands of each  protuberance. Rocks void of moss not lacking in mass sent colossal rising fountains of water up skywards and stood defiantly in their path. Tobias keen on the fate of the young woman in the row boat was distracted from his duty and was knocked over by the pitch of the cog and sudden sway of the tiller.  When he finally stood he caught only a brief glimpse of the waterlogged women as she disappeared into the raging torrents. The little rowboat, now a passenger less,  sagged and dipped,  spiraling into one boulder then the next. How the wooden dinghy held together was a tribute to the ship’s carpenter  and a parcel of luck. The girl could be seen  infrequently, barely holding on to the gunnels of the craft,  rarely raising her head from the water.  Two hours more of rapids inspired careful and diligent management of the cog--  suffering the crew to safe passage thru  Runcorn Gap.

When the cog  finally found itself in quiet water, the embattled ship came upon the little row boat. Tobias rushed to the lee side and with anguish, peered over the side to look for the girl. She was not in sight. He had nearly turned away when a hand slowly appeared from the murky water and grabbed hold the gunnels. The woman had survived the watery ride but was bleeding  badly about her head.  He saw her face in a brief flash. He noticed a piece of her scalp was missing and bare skull exposed. Her had been nose, smashed into her skull and her bloody cheeks were dislocated she looked haunting and pitiful, unrecognizable. Before they could mount an effort  her eyes froze in death. Her disheveled corpse slipped away into the green murk leaving simply a spire of crimson trail in the water and a single blonde shed floating on the surface. It was hair like Millicent had.

Oswyn said “Do not forlorn her passing Tobias, she did not die without courage.”

Then Oswyn said a short prayer to himself, others coalesced  with Tobias at the stern to bid her a safe journey.  

“Who do you think she was and what fate had she escaped from?” questioned Tobias.

“ I can not conjecture her first fate, but the River Mersey and the rapids of Runcorn Gap was the fate that took her life,” said Giles.

Tobias then sheltered his eyes as he wished not for his father’s men to see his tear.

After they passed the placid tidal narrows of Liverpool Bay they moored at Seaforth Dock. Both Oswyn and Tobias stowed themselves in the hold, keeping out of sight. Giles and Piers went ashore to perform reconnaissance of the markets adjacent to the ship yard.  They had a mission, to hire a guide for a sea crossing to Ireland. Neither Giles or Piers could navigate the vast openness of the Irish sea. They not only needed a guide but a guide with charts and compass. Someone that could be trusted, someone not easily bought buy the Duke’s shilling.

Excerpt from "Common Vengeance"

The harbor master sat at his desk keeping one eye on the pier and the other on his shipping file. He could observe from his little office that the Congolese dock workers were doing their job of mooring the Portuguese merchant ship. If his life depended on it, Major Dunstein could not find any information about the Saint Mercy. He had misplaced the harbor mooring logs again, something he had done many a time in the past, primarily due to the effects of his rum consumption. The Major had served as the harbor master for some thirty-five years, he now owned the harbor, the town, and everything in it. The two piers, both four hundred feet long had mooring space for three ships on either side. With a little help from his good friend Keeps and on the backs of adequately paid Congolese employees, he had built the entirety with his two hands. He had built the town as well, all the time influenced by the rum. The harbor itself was mostly empty on this day, except for this new ship the Saint Mercy, which was now docked at the extreme end of the north pier.

“Hey Major, looks like some good business. They need a new foremast, some sail, and rigging,” said Keeps.
“Good,” said the Major, “Have the men set to work straight away. We’ve got other ships due any day now.”

Don's Sonic by S.E. Hicks

Don’s Sonic
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson

Rare is the time when a circumstance occurs that becomes  so memorable it carries with it degrees of exponential substance that allows the experience to take on a life of its own. An event that is still transcending time. So it was one night after a year of heavy academic drudgery  for four college sophomores, good friends .

In an effort to protect the guilty the names of the participants have in fact been changed.  This story is about the inaugural summer bash held by a college buddy, who  is now safely established as a municipal judge for a county not to be named later. As all stories go there are different accounts but this version is told from one individual’s view point. An individual that may or may not have been present at the time but the tale will be told as if he/she was.  I must apologize to any reader who finds the material offensive.  It is not designed to offend nor is it meant to represent a point of proud historical happening. It is what it was and through it all remains a fact of happenstance. Enough introduction, here is the tale of Don’s Sonic.

Having spent a truly hideous semester of laborious study, working the grave yard shift at a metal shop and competing in a never ending Track and Field season that had lasted from December to May. I was ready to break training and get a good drunk on. I was not alone in this regard, as the eminent announcement of the first annual  beer bash,  held at an obscure privately owned  lake house was well received by three others. Three friends who clearly had experienced the  same level of mind twisting demands as I had. The beer bash was scheduled for a Saturday with a Sunday scheduled for recovery before the trip home. We may have got an early start.

At the time I was working the day shift at the metal shop and was finishing a long week of cutting to length, heavy gauge sixteen inch aluminum pipe. The twelve foot lengths of pipe were cut from a twenty six foot piece of raw material. Once the pipe was cut to length, I had to drill a six inch hole in either end inorder  to attached two aluminum nipples with flanges. The heavy pipe was being manufactured into what was called a hydrostatic water treatment device used by hospitals at the time. The work was very physically demanding, the weather was beyond hot for the month of June and the work was time sensitive. Needless to say, by the time I had my shower after I got off that  Friday afternoon I was more than ready for the first beer that I had had in better than ten months.

My buddy Seymour Wiggins showed up at my apartment with a mutual buddy Homer Grayskull.  Homer was a very tall and lanky country boy who could really throw the discus and toss down a beer, Seymour was a short legged fellow distance runner who could drink until his nose sweat while driving a foreign four speed.   Homer had conveniently taken the liberty of filling two large coolers with ice and Papst Blue Ribbon.  After a few PBR’s we left my one room apartment to head the thirty miles north to pick up another buddy who was, to say it mildly, a unique character in of his self.  Tuan Tan Nguyen was a Vietnamese refugee then  pre dental school student with a personality that never stopped evolving. We could not help but adopt him. Bright in spirit, super intelligent, the little Asian genius was a brain trust of never ending resource and  countless laughs. Someone you could count on to provide a side splitting one liner on most any occasion,  when you least expected it. The guy was so smart he not only picked up the English language in under a semester, he mastered Latin and French as well. The guy was scary smart, quick witted.

Anyway,  after a good six pack apiece we had picked up Ten Til-Noon, which was what we called him (eleven fifty for short). We had a good three hour drive yet so the beer was a primary focus while we caught up. As the beer was going down,  we drove and started to unwind.  Homer who was at least six foot seven was in the back with our Asian friend (5 foot 1 maybe) consequently, leg room in the little four seat import was at a premium and a constant festering subject.  About thirty minutes into the trip, Tuan presents us with a Thai stick joint.  Now neither Homer, Seymour nor I had ever even considered smoking such.  Nonetheless, it got smoked. The best of  the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band went into the cassette player and the THC induced creativity began.  What followed were witty jokes along with deep meaningful,  philosophical discussions having world changing impact.  Theories and theorems of which never will be absorbed nor come to light in today’s society. Insightful wisdom that would never be remembered nor recalled. We were, on a different plane in a completely different stratosphere.

That is when it happened, the realization that food was needed, so we pulled into a small town Sonic Drive In restaurant and placed an order. We each in turn placed an order via the micro phone. When Tuan ordered four bearded clams we could not have stopped laughing  to save our lives much less eat. Thus, we left immediately without any food. Now when we did leave, Tuan hit us with another little ditty. Due to the fact of a unintended  alignment of two electronic signs,  the fact we had impaired enhanced cognitive skills and had depth perception issues,  Tuan referred to the Sonic as Don’s Sonic.  Additionally,  it was right next door to Don’s Pharmacy.

That revelation added to the drug induced laughter caused  by the  diminutive Asian’s  request for bearded  two legged shell fish.  Auspiciously,  that was not the end of the kingdom that the enterprising phantom, monopolizing entrepreneur Don owned. Along the way we saw Don’s Autos, Don’s Auto Repair, Don’s Tires. Don’s Tow Service, Don’s Trucking,  Don’s Tractor Service, Don’s Lumber, Don’s Hardware, Don’s Gas and Go, Don’s Bar and Grill, Don’s Ice Cream Shoppe, Don’s Title Company,  Don’s Real Estate and let us not forget Don’s Septic Service.   Don needed his own yellow pages just to find himself.  Thus, we found a Don’s Printing, a Don’s Phone Service and Don’s Advertising Agency.

Down the road and for the next two days we ran across more road side businesses owned by Don. There was a Don’s this and a Don’s that, even a Don’ s This and That. We blamed Don’s Thai stick for the phenomenon. All weekend long we encountered Don. When we pulled the boat up to Don’s Marina on Saturday, I just about lost it. A plethora of  Don’s taverns, Don’s shops,  Don’s stores and Don’s more, complete with every possible type of  Don’s signage from Don‘s Signs, all uniquely belonging to Don.  Don’s empire continued to line the roadsides,  infecting our funny bones then and still does today.  

When you combine explosive pent up brain stress with alcohol, THC and a creative unfettered, exuberant Vietnamese comedic genius, nothing is not funny.   Therapy is the result. Tuan was convinced that Don owned everything between where we where and where we were going from then until the end of time. The  revelation left us in a continuous state of historical, hysterical delirium.  A whimsy which has fostered a life long guffaw.  Consequently, Don became a lasting unparalleled enigma, a magical  reappearing institution that has lasted some 40 years.  From that day since, Don has been  and remains to be, part of our lives. I can not eat at Sonic with out thinking of Tuan’s order and thinking of the fact it was Don’s Sonic that started it all.

Tuan called me a few years after college and told me he had been accepted into Don’s school of Dentistry, one of his professors was Dr. Don Donaldson, he had married a young Amer-Asian lass named… you guessed it Dawn Donnley. His first born son, Donald was attending Don Meriwether Elementary. Last time I saw  him he was driving a Cadillac he had bought from Don’s GM.  Since then no communication has ever taken place without some reference to Don working its way into the conversation, ever more cleverly and subtly as time has rolled on. Once I got a Don’s Sonic monogrammed pen and pencil set for Christmas. It was wrapped in brown paper cut out of a Don‘s Deli take out bag. I’m not sure it will ever end but Don will continue to bring a smile to my face. Whenever passing his ubiquitous roadside businesses, I will always be reminded.
 
I will never forget Ten Til-Noon nor Don’s Sonic.

Every time I drink a PBR I give a toast to Don, who and where ever he may be. To Don and bearded clams.

True or false

If something is false it can not be not false at the same time.
If in your judgment you find that what I think is not false, false
and the first statement which is true can not be argued as false,
one can only conclude that what is wrong, is the judgment of fault
you find in a truth,  that is false, because
a Truth can not be not false and false at the same time
just as something that is false can not be not false at the same time.

SE Hicks

Every Thing That Is

God "Is."
God "Is" everything.
Therefore, everything "Is" from God.
God then has a reason for everything that "Is."
There are 2600 Christian denominations.
If the above "Is" true, then every one of these
denominations "Is" because God has a reason for them to be.

For Argument's Sake

For Argument Sake


Nothing can be True and not True at the same time.
If in your judgment, my understanding of Truth be not true
and my Truth is true to me, considering the first statement which can not be argued as false, which is true.
One can only conclude that the only thing
that is wrong, is your "judgment" of my Truth. Simply because nothing can be true and not true at the same time.

S.E. Hicks

Excerpt from ''The Incomplete Works of Fletcher 'Butchwax' Ferguson'' by S.E. Hicks

Snakes In The Belfry
written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson



It’s a well known fact that I’m an avid outdoorsman. Consequently, I have had my fair share of encounters with all creatures great and slithery.   The possibility of running into an unexpected creature or wild thing carries with it a degree of adrenaline rushing anticipation. It keeps you coming back to the woods and the streams.  On many occasion I have come face to face with a wild species.   However, not all these episodes have occurred in the country.

Many years ago when my boys were still quite young, my wife and I were living the typical hectic life of two working parents. With a toddler of just over three and an infant in diapers, it took super human skills and split second timing to ready the troops, get a shower a piece, dress and eat in order to get to work on time.   My wife gave the assignments out and had it timed to a gnats ass. About the only time I had to myself was after the wife had hit the shower, before the kid’s feet hit the floor or the baby awakened  with a  diaper full of a big wad of fresh steaming god awful smelling shit. That was the tiny fragment of time I had to enjoy a cup and stand looking out the front window scratching my hole laden, underwear covered ass. The fleeting moment was the most valuable few minutes of the entire day.

On this one occasion the five minutes of ass scratching bliss was interrupted by the arrival of the water meter maid. The frail looking, very petite black as coal woman pulled up and parked at the end of my driveway.   Smartly dressed in her uniform, she was a mere wisp of a woman.  It was just barely starting to lighten up.  In November in this part of the country, the sun doesn’t show itself until well after seven a.m.  I stood behind our large front picture window drinking my first cup, concealed  by a veil of darkness the night was still clinging to.  I was able to watch the meter maid go about her early morning chores from a position of anonymity that the low light afforded me.  I could not help but notice that there had been a beautiful dusting of snow that night which had delicately placed puffy little clouds of snow resting in and on the still somewhat green plants and grass.

After the meter maid had been next door she entered our yard. The water meter was located in a vertically positioned  plate covered  twelve inch  pipe nestled under the shrubs that grew  across the front of our yard. A threaded nut had been tightened securing the hatch’s heavy plate. The meter was actually located inside the pipe three feet or so below ground level to protect it from freezing.  The meter housing was both hidden by my hedges and covered by the light snow. The rookie first day on the job meter maid,  failed to locate the meter in the dim light and returned to her truck to retrieve a flash light.

Once she found the meter she used a long handled wrench to loosen the nut that held the cover plate tight.  This effort alone was not adequate for her to read the meter as the plate was frozen fast in place. Try as she would the weak woman could not displace the plate. This was the best early morning entertainment I had had in eons.  The  nearly helpless women failed over and over to get the plate off.  Frustrated, she tried everything, finally undaunted she went to her knees, took the name brand flash light and banged it on the plate breaking winters frozen grip. She then stuck the flash light under her chin, still on her knees and removed the plate thus enabling her to see the water meter. Well, she promptly dropped the flash light down the deep pipe opening.

By now my laughter had awakened my three year old son who was standing by his daddy’s side rubbing one eye and pulling on the edge of my t-shirt asking to see what I was laughing at. There’s nothing like sharing a moment with your son.  Picking him up, holding him close, feeling his little heart beat against my chest as he joyously laughed at what he didn’t fully comprehend,  is still an active memory. He just laughed with an unfettered exuberance.  As the meter maid struggled to reach her flash light, she had to use the full length of her little arms to reach the flash light,  forcing her to lay on her side in the wet snow to reach it. The show caused my young son to laugh with even more earnest, infecting my funny bone until we were both in tears with debilitating side splitting laughter.

That’s when the now wet from the snow meter maid was seen scooting rapidly on her rear, stiff legged and  flaying her arms wildly.  She was ineffectively trying to scramble away from the meter.  She was retreating via a technique of lifting one cheek and pushing off with her hand  then repeating the action as fast as her wet nearly catatonic limbs would allow. The flash light she had pulled from the hole was in realty, a fist full of garter snakes  The snakes having been haplessly cast in to the snow, were trying in slow motion to seek the nearest source of heat. That happened to be the meter maid. As the cold effected the snow bound snakes, they slowly moved towards the meter maid.  We went into a complete state of delirium with our laughter.  She could not escaped the half dozen snakes that were desperately pursuing her, seeking the lifesaving heat the meter maids body offered.

It dawned on me that the situation was getting serious so I put on some gym shorts and a pair of slippers.  As I went to the rescue, my three year old was fast on my heels with a mission of his own design.  The woman was completely catatonic. Rigid with fear she could not and would not breathe. As I picked her up out of the snow it was evident she had pissed herself.  I shook the woman enough to have gotten her to now focus on me. She looked at me with petrified bulging eyes,  still not breathing. The only recourse was to slap the girl to get her to breathe.

When the slap came so came an ear drum busting scream that penetrated the entire neighborhood and got the attention of the young buck that had just moved in across the street.  He came charging across the street. The rescue attempt failed, as he hit the snow after hurdling my hedges. As he slid into my gas yard light pole he racked himself resulting in a debilitating painful injury.  He was wreathing in pain, as he had not only busted his balls but had broken his pubis bone. Knocking the glass out of the yard light in turn.  He hit it hard, Ouch!

I put the still rigid, wet and cold meter maid in our porch swing.  While my new neighbor rolled around in the snow holding his balls, groaning a most pitiful sound, I wrapped up the stiff meter maid in a old comforter. I was forced to call an ambulance,  as she had slipped into shock. My neighbor, a nice guy it turned out, also required medical attention resulting in a second ambulance. The water company came and took the truck. The guys that came to get the truck not only appreciated the phone call but fully enjoyed the shear beauty of  the humorous calamity. A story I’m sure was repeated to a wide collection of blue collar workers at bars and taverns for months to come.

Once the truck and ambulances had left, my attention went back to my three year old whom had successfully picked up and stored in our dry fish aquarium a half dozen of the now fully warm garter snakes. Several of which had escaped in the house with out my knowledge. My son was busy forcing the remaining snakes to stay in the aquarium when I found him. “Can we keep them? Can we keep them? Daddy please can we keep them?”  That’s when the second scream of the morning came. A scream that was not affected by cold or shock.  It was nothing more than a determined women making it known to her husband that there was a snake in her bathroom. This was the kind of scream that sent fear rapidly in to my courageous soul.  It was  flight fear that I felt. I was now the suddenly petrified catatonic recipient of the curse the snakes had brought  that morning.

The  blue eyed blond tornado was oblivious to the morning’s events, and  was not especially curious as to where the snake had come from. She was all to focused on her time sensitive routine and just wanted the damn thing out of her bathroom. As I collected the now carpet lint covered snake she calmly ask me as she applied her eye shadow, if the boys were close to being ready. I  sheepishly said no and before I could explain--Son-of-a-bing-son-of-a-bang.  I was dead meat. She was completely unsympathetic to any thing that had happened.  All she was concerned with was chewing my ass because we were all going to be late.

At noon that day the story had reached a local psychiatrist’s radio talk show which my wife listened to during her lunch religiously. She heard the story thought it was funny and called me to tell me about it.
“Honey, I heard the funniest thing on the radio today at lunch.”

Quote from "Charlie the Hat"

When the people of Ed’s Hat Factory made Charlie, they put him in a box. Charlie didn’t like being in a box.