I was sitting on my favorite park bench, eating my lunch, two cold roast beef sandwiches, a chocolate cupcake, and a diet soda. I was almost finished with my lunch when a forlorn figure of a man sat down next to me eating  a grapefruit.

“Good afternoon,” I said cheerfully, trying to raise his spirits.

“It’s not a good afternoon,” he scowled.

“Why not? The sun is shining.”

“Because I’m not sure if my wife loves me anymore!”

“How did that come about?”

“Well, the first thing was, she started criticizing my body. I’m getting fat, she says.”

“I see you’re only eating grapefruit, that should help you get thinner.”

“Yes, but I’m miserable on this diet.”

“Is that the only thing that’s bothering you?”

“No, she says I don’t know what love is and I don’t do enough to make our relationship work.”

“Love is friendship that has caught fire. I think you will have to make a decision to do everything possible to MAKE the relationship work, in other words, it’s up to you!”

“What do I have to do?”

“Well, start to really “love” everything your wife does and says because when you admire, respect and love who the other person is, it should help make your marriage or relationship work better. Liking or Loving is a Choice.”

“Well, that’s half my problem solved.”

The birds in the park began to sing!

“What should I do about this terrible diet?”

“Let’s have some fun with this one. Look, I have a diet soda with my cupcake. You know what, they cancel each other out, zero calories!”

“That’s interesting,” he said, smiling.

“See, you’re feeling better already.”

“Tell me more.”

“Well, eat your lunch in the park all the time. Eat everything you want. If no one sees you eat it, it has no calories!”

“I love chocolate cookies.”

“Okay, what you do is break up the cookies into very small pieces. The breaking up process causes calories to leak out.”

“This is great news.”

“And finally, if you can fatten up everyone around you, you will look much thinner.”

He walked away a happy man!

My friend and I were having our lunch on a park bench where we discuss the problems of the world.

“My wife told me the other night that she read an article that said a wife is worth £20,000 per year!”

“That’s a lot of money,” my friend said.

“With all the work they  do, I guess it’s about right,” I said.

“I don’t think so. Whoever wrote that article should be shot. They’re starting a lot of domestic arguments.”

“You would have to pay a maid that much to do all the work your wife does.”

My friend shook his head.

“Do you realize I could live in a beautiful hotel with maid service for that money and not have to put up with nagging and the mother-in-law.”

This guy was not happy with his wife!

“I think you’re being too hard on your wife,” I said, trying to ease his anger.

“How do you know how much my wife is worth, you’ve never met her.”

‘Look, I didn’t write the article.”

He was looking daggers at me now.

“She does cleaning, cooking and washing, doesn’t she?” I said.

He laughed.

“She cleans a “lick and a promise” when dusting. Her cooking is mediocre and the last time she did the laundry she washed my wallet, which was in my trouser pocket. The wallet contained my paycheck and credit cards!”

He was absolutely livid now! I thought I better shut up.

“So, don’t try to tell me what my wife is worth unless you have met her!”

I thought any minute now he will attack me!

“And another thing, I only make £20,000 per year. I can’t afford her. I think I’ll kick her out tomorrow.”

I went home that night and told my wife about this guy’s diatribe.

“ I’m glad you stuck up for us women, honey. That estimate of £20,000 is low,

I think.”

“I agree with you, darling,” I said, smiling sweetly.

“That friend of yours has such a lousy disposition, I don’t think he could get any hired help to stay with him. Next time you see him, tell him, marriage is the only answer for him!”

“I’ll do that, darling, now what’s for dinner?”

One day I was out in my garden soaking up the sun and trying to snooze.Then my next door neighbor stuck his head over my fence and said:

“Hey Dave, I was burgled last night!”

“George, you old duffer, you don’t have anything worthwhile to steal.”

“Well, they took my watch and ring and a little cash. I think the robbers feel us oldies are soft touches. The bum came in through the garden.”

“But you have a dog that sleeps in the garden.”

“Yes, but the rotter threw a hunk of meat down and the dog was quiet while eating and then poor Chester passed out.”

“Sure, the burglar doped the meat.”

“The scary thing is I was asleep and the bum took my stuff off my nightstand only a foot away from me.”

“What did he do, bust a window?”

“No, he came through the back door. I thought I had a strong lock on it.”

“It wasn’t pick-proof.”

“The weird thing was, I heard a noise but I didn’t see anybody. So I went back to sleep.”

“The burglar was probably hiding under your bed. He waited until he heard you snoring and then continued his work.”

“Well, I don’t know what I can do, Dave, to protect myself. I have locks and a watchdog, nothing did any good.”

“Short of getting a shotgun, I’ll tell you what I’d do.”

“Tell me, Dave, I’m all ears.”

“I’d leave the bathroom light on and the door open a crack. Most burglars don’t want a confrontation with someone coming out of a bathroom.”

“Sounds good, Dave, I’ll try that.”

The next night, George left his bathroom light on and the door ajar.

He heard a noise in the middle of the night and tip toed to the bathroom with his baseball bat in his hand. He threw open the door and there was the burglar sitting on the toilet with his gun pointing at George.

He dropped the bat and said:

“What are you doing in my house? The bathroom light was supposed to deter break-ins.”

The criminal smiled.

“Sorry, fella, last night I forgot the silverware, but when I saw the toilet light on, I thought I might as well relieve my call of nature while I was here!”

The year was 1964. I was visiting my aunt down in Independence, Missouri. One afternoon, I took a walk downtown and entered a restaurant/bar for some refreshment.

I took a stool at the bar and ordered a beer. I scanned the booths in the room. In a corner booth was an old grey haired man with circle spectacles writing away on a large pad of paper. I thought the man looked like Harry Truman, the former President!

I took my stein of beer and walked over to the corner booth.

“Excuse me, are you Harry Truman?”

The old man put down his pen and looked up at me and said:

“Yes, I am, and who are you?”

“My name is Harold Wilkerson, from Chicago, and I would like your autograph for my collection.”

“Move on, mister.”

It was one of Truman’s Secret Service minders.

“It’s okay, let him sit down,” said Truman.

The burly minder went to the bar, but continued to look at me.

“Chicago, you’re not a retired gangster are you?” Harry laughed.

“No sir, just in town visiting my aunt.”

“I remember Chicago well, 1948, on election night, the Chicago Tribune newspaper came out with the headline: “Dewey Defeats Truman”, it was hilarious.”

“How did that come about, Mr. Truman?”

“Call me, Harry, please, well I think the polls got it wrong because they conducted them largely by telephone and many of my populist base, those days, didn’t own a phone. Also, many of the “powers that be” thought Dewey was a sure thing.”

The Secret Service man was still eyeing me up and down.

“I often wondered, it must have been tough for you to decide to drop the “A” bomb. Did you have a lot of anxiety and fear over that decision?”

Harry’s expression turned very somber.

“Well, as you might recall, I always had the sign, “The Buck Stops Here”, on my desk. I believed in that saying. I had the last say-so. I had to be bold, another of my sayings was, “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen!”

“I agree with you, Harry.”

“As far as fear goes, America was not built on fear. America was built on courage and imagination. A President cannot always be popular. I felt we could save millions of American lives by ending the war then and there.”

“Well, Harry, you always were known for telling it like it is.”

“I tried to tell the truth, as I understood it.”

“A lot of people wanted to make you feel bad about the bomb and apologize.”

“My philosophy was to carry the battle to them. Put them on the defensive and don’t apologize for anything.”

“Well, Harry, thanks for the autograph.”

“You’re welcome.”

“One more thing, I guess when you’re the President, you don’t have many friends.”

Harry Truman smiled and said”

“Son, if you want a friend in Washington, get a dog!”

I went to a party the other night at a friend’s house. He had several guests that I didn’t know. So, I got introduced to a woman who he thought was a good conversationalist. The caterer came around with a tray of cocktails. I grabbed one, and asked the lady:

“Would you like a cocktail?”

“No, thanks, I prefer to be sober for a few minutes.”

We both sat down on the sofa.

“Don’t you think purpose gives meaning to life?”

I nodded.

“I heard a good quotation the other day.”

“Oh, what was it?”

“Oh dear, I can’t remember now, sorry.”

I took a long drink of my cocktail.

“Do you know the secret of happiness?”

She was thinking deep now.

“Well, if you make others happy, you will be happy.”

“Hmm, that sounds about right,” she said, dreamingly.

She looked into my eyes in a strange way, I was getting a little edgy.

“Are you afraid of the future? I am.”

“If you live the present good, your future will turn out okay.”

“Hey, I like that. I feel better already,” she said.

I gulped down the rest of my cocktail and grabbed another.

“Do you believe in free speech? I do.”

She stared at me with those big cow eyes.

“I do, but sometimes a person can make a pig of themselves, just because it’s free.”

She looked confused, but she continued.

“I had a dream last night.”

My cocktail was delicious. I felt like another.

“What was it about?”

“ A handsome man scooped me up in his arms and kissed me. Then he rode away with me on his horse. Do you know where he was taking me?”

“No, I don’t. It’s your dream.”

“Oh yeh, that’s right.”

I was starting to feel my drinks now, yet she had nothing to drink!

From now on, I thought, I will just nod my head and smile at her conversation.

While she continued to talk for about ten minutes, not a word passed my lips.

“My word! We’ve been chatting for an hour and I don’t believe you’ve said much.”

“No, I haven’t,” I agreed, smiling.

“Makes it unanimous, doesn’t it?”

I saw a magazine article the other day calling men, “raffish” people. It made me a little angry to say the least.

What’s wrong with being “raffish”, a bit of a jack the lad? I think if us men were more raffish there would be better family life and less divorce. What would ensure a happy marriage?

I think a husband and wife would get on like a “house a fire” if the men would say to their wives:

“Honey, you have great legs and a great bottom!”

My long lost cousin agrees with me, wholeheartedly.

It’s very strange that men talk about other men’s wives, how they have fine legs and bottoms, also airline stewardesses, waitresses, well, you get the idea. They compliment many females who aren’t their wives.

When talking to their wives, it’s usually:

“Don’t forget to take the car in for service.”

“While you’re up, get me a beer.”

“What’s for dinner?”

With remarks like that, women start to lose their identities!

At a party, I was at recently, a husband said to his wife:

“I’ll have one more cocktail for the road. You drive.”

Instead, he should have said:

“Have you folks noticed that my wife has great legs and a great ass?”

Believe me, your wife would be absolutely delighted, and maybe a little surprised.

Now, I know a lot of men will say:

“I can’t say things like that about my wife, it would be too embarrassing.”

Well, if that’s the way they feel, they will probably, someday, hear their wife say to them:

“You’re Fired!”

Wrrr! Wrrr! Wrrr! Herbert looked up from his newspaper, the washing machine was going full blast again. Herbert was disgusted.

“Janet, do you have to have the washing machine whirling away everyday of the week? This is Sunday morning!” said Herbert, pursing his thin lips.

“Listen Herbert, you’ve had thirty years of clean and folded underwear, because of my washing and ironing.” Janet stood there with her hands on her oversized hips.

Herbert was very particular about his underwear. And the older he was getting, the grumpier he was getting.

“You’ve always taken my washing and ironing for granted. If you think you can do any better, in less time, be my guest and try.”

Janet’s round face broke out in a smile, daring her husband to take up the challenge.

Herbert’s thin body squirmed in the lounge chair, as he considered his wife’s dare. His long fingers ran through his thinning grey hair. The nostrils of his long pointed nose flared and then he jumped out of the chair.

“Okay, my dear, I’ll do it for a week and show you.”

Monday Night:

Herbert started taking the wash out of the basket.

“My God, Janet, there’s everything in here, dark clothes, colored clothes and whites. Are you sure these are all our clothes?” He started throwing items into the machine.

Janet noticed what he was doing and frowned.

“Herbert! Stop! You can’t wash dark, colored and whites altogether. You’ll ruin the clothes, the colors will run. Also you will need different temperatures for different items.”

He began separating the dark clothes from the others. Again, Janet pops her head into the kitchen to see how Herbert is doing.

“Hold it! Your things are all inside out. I’ve told you a hundred times to put your clothes right side out before throwing them in the wash.”

“Okay, okay.”

Eventually, Herbert does two loads of washing and drying.

That night, he walked into the lounge where his wife was reading. Janet looked up and said: “Oh Herbert, are you done? You look tired.”

“Nonsense, this washing and drying is a breeze,” scowled Herbert, marching upstairs to bed.

Tuesday Night:

Herbert was ironing one of Janet’s blouses. He then proceeded to burn a big hole in the garment. Janet appeared at that very moment, wouldn’t you know it.

“Look what you’ve done,” said Janet, pretending to be angry, but smiling to herself.

“Well, I’ll need another blouse ironed for the club meeting. And please watch the temperature on the iron.”

Herbert just shook his head. He ironed for two hours, taking special care with his wife’s clothes. He put all her things neatly on hangers or folded up in her dresser drawers.

Wednesday Night:

Herbert diligently washes, dries and irons. Again, paying special attention to his wife’s things.

“Look how good I’m doing now, Janet. It’s easy once  you get the hang of it.”

He looked at his wife for her response.

“Yes, dear,” smiled Janet.

Thursday Night:

Both husband and wife were reading the newspaper.

“The washing is finished for the week, just a few things left in the basket.”

“That’s wonderful, dear,” said Janet, not looking up from her paper.

Friday Morning:

Herbert kissed his wife and jumped out of bed, smiling.

“See, just three nights to do the washing and ironing. I think with practice and planning, I could cut that down. So could you, Janet.”

“Yes dear,” said Janet, yawning.

Herbert smiled to himself, thinking he had showed her. He walked over to his dresser, to get his underwear for the day. He stared in disbelief:

The drawer was empty!

Chicago, Illinois,

July 22, 1934

A man sat on a high stool at the bar of a tavern looking out the window onto Lincoln Avenue. He was good looking, in his early thirties, wearing a pin-striped suit, canvas shoes, his straw hat was on the bar.

“Bartender, give me another beer,” he mumbled.

The bartender brought his beer and said, pointing at the movie theater across the street.

“Lots of people going to see the movie tonight, must be a good picture.”

The man took a sip of his beer. An aura, a current of cold air, seemed to surround him.

“Yes, it’s a good film. I saw it last night. Clark Gable played a good part as a gangster.”

The bartender went back to washing glasses.

The clock on the wall said 8:30 pm, people were lining up for tickets at the Biograph Theater’s box office, among them was a young man wearing a straw hat, with two women, one on each arm.

At approximately 10:30 pm, the doors opened and the crowd filed out of the theater. The man in the tavern was still looking out of the window. He saw a man,

wearing a straw hat, and two women emerge from the theater. All of a sudden the man started running, and other men were running after him.

Several shots were fired and the man with the straw hat fell to the ground, his body oozing blood. The two women who were with him, melted into the crowd.

By this time there was a huge crowd on the street, someone shouted, “Dillinger is shot!”

The man in the tavern smiled. Two women came in the side door and joined him. There was chaos on the street outside.

The man put on his straw hat, and with the two women, one on each arm, left by the side door in a smoky haze.

The next day, the papers screamed the headlines:

“FBI Shoots Dillinger Dead”.

Down at the bottom of the page was a paragraph about a bank that was robbed late that night.

On a lamppost near the Biograph Theater was a poster flapping in the wind:

PUBLIC  ENEMY  NUMBER  1

JOHN  DILLINGER, BANK ROBBER

$15,000  REWARD,  DEAD  OR  ALIVE

What prompted this short story was when my friend Tom and I were discussing how our looks have changed over the last 50 plus years.

I was walking past a shop window and I sneaked a look at the reflection. I saw someone there, but I did not recognize the figure. After a few seconds of just standing there staring at the window, I was forced to make again, my own acquaintance! Why is it that us older fellows no longer know ourselves at first sight?

I thought I still looked like I did 20 or so years ago and I assumed it was the real me. We kid ourselves, don’t we?

I told my wife about the reflection in the window and she just said, I was deceiving myself with my vivid imagination. I guess in our mind’s eye we just don’t see ourselves as others see us and we don’t want to!

When I shave in front of the mirror in the morning, I’m not shocked by my reflection. Why is that?

My wife says, that’s because I’m on autopilot in the morning.

This whole reflection thing has now triggered a sort of “identity crisis” between my ears. Who am I really?

Am I the person in my imagination or the person in the shop window?

I would hope I could always think I was 20 years younger in my mind.

But then, I’d just worry about WHY a young stud like me has got failing

eyesight, hearing, and falling hair!

One rainy day, I was falling asleep in my favorite chair and the doorbell rang. I opened the door and there stood my cousin, looking very forlorn.

“Hello cousin Dave, I need some advice. I’ve got the “retirement blues”.”

“Come on in, cousin Jim, and tell me what’s bothering you.”

Jim plunked himself down in my favorite chair.

“Got a beer?”

I went to the fridge and got two beers and sat down in the straight-backed chair opposite my favorite chair.

“Now, what’s all this about the retirement blues?”

“Well, I’ve been retired six months and I don’t know what to do with myself. And to make matters worse, my memory is failing me!”

“Well Jim, you know I’ve been retired for quite a few years now and I’m very happy in my retirement.”

“That’s why I came to you for advice. My memory is fading and I lose things, keys, glasses, etc.”

I smiled.

“That’s normal for oldies, they call it having “senior moments”. As far as fading memory, memories are unreliable, they get dim and distorted with time.”

“That’s what I was afraid of, cousin Dave.”

“But Jim, there’s a good side to fading memories.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, when you constantly try to remember things, you create another memory that might be better than the original.”

“Hey, that sounds okay.”

“And one more thing about losing our memories, what happened in cyberspace? Along came Wikipedia to help us!”

“Great, I feel better already. Now, what about my boredom?”

“Well Jim, you know I do a lot of writing in my retirement and that keeps me busy and I enjoy it immensely. I’m working on my autobiography now.”

“That’s it, Dave, I could write my life story.”

“Yes Jim, that would take up a vast amount of your time.”

“Oh boy, I could get back at those schoolteachers and bosses that I hated.”

“Hold on, Jim, to ‘’get back” at people, you would have to write a fictional autobiography. Change all the names and embellish the events.

“The good thing about fictional autobiography is that you could sell it as a novel and get things off of your chest at the same time. It would be great therapy for you.”

“I could get rich and be on the best seller list!”

“Maybe,” I smiled.

“It also would be fun delving into the past and finding out about my relatives.”

“Now Jim, don’t get too carried away. Your ancestors could be as boring as you are!”

“I know what I could do. I could leave my partner. I could find a gorgeous young model.”

I stared at my cousin with my mouth open.

“Oh thank you cousin, for helping me go from the retirement blues to ecstasy!”

Jim drank his beer and left whistling!