MY PALMS, MY PALMS, MY KINGDOM FOR MY PALMS

Monsoons. When I first heard our daughter use the term in connection with Arizona's wet and stormy season, I laughed to myself. Monsoons? Those are for the Far East, Indonesia, not in the US. But, sure enough, we have them here.

This monsoon season so far has dumped over 5 inches of precipitation, several thousand lightning strikes, winds of up to 85 miles an hour, toppled planes on a runway in Chandler, and even provided a little hail. In comparison, last Summer's monsoon yield only .74 inches of rain.

My palm trees don't really look quite as bad as those pines pictured, but they're starting to look pretty bare. The wind just knocks down the palm fronds. Straight down. Which requires trimming.

Plus, it robs me of so much shade provided by the palms. I saw a worker on the TPC Champions Golf Course, where we played on Wednesday, duck under the minimal shade of a palm and wait for us to tee off on a par 3. There wasn't much shade, but he was taking full advantage of it.

A few more weeks of monsoons. A few more weeks of 100 degrees. A few more weeks of a very humid Summer. Then the good weather will roll in and decide to stay awhile. Then we start getting calls from friends who are going to be in the area. Most of them have never heard of monsoons either. But they're smart enough to want to avoid AZ in the Summer.

TWISTED TIME IS THE TITLE OF THIS ARTWORK PCTURED

A twisted time in my life was eighth grade. At least that's when Chubby Checker's "The Twist" came out. Followed by "The Peppermint Twist".

We had school dances and parties, some at parents' houses, some at the Country Club, some in neighborhood basements. I liked girls and I liked to dance.

I especially liked the games at dances where you passed an orange to your partner without using your hands. And yes, an occasional game of spin the bottle.

Then in high school there were street dances in the Summer, mostly at parks and bank parking lots. Some at an Old Post Office building, later shamefully torn down for a ghastly parking lot and garage, some above the Police station, some at the Armory, some almost daily at The Sub, and some at the YMCA. In addition to the high school hops and big dances.

We "twisted the night away," and most of our youthful days. You'd think after all that dancing, I'd be pretty good. I wasn't. Well, I could twist. Maybe I'd have been a lot cooler if Chubby had come up with some more dances that didn't require a lot of coordination.

YOUR COFFEE BETTER BE GOOD

When your building is shaped like a coffee pot. But why did they have to ruin it with the advertisements for beer, wines, and liquors? No qualms about the drive through window, but they sold out on the advertisement.

I've written about coffee before. Maybe because I usually have a steaming cup as I'm blogging. Thus, my early post times. If I post later, there'll be no coffee. It only touches my morning lips.

Like a good cook never measures, I, a coffee maker for years, don't count scoops. I just shake it out of the bag and know when to stop. If it's too strong, I just tough it out because I like it strong. If it's too weak, it won't be the next morning.

Good friend and former fellow teacher Coach D made coffee for the Athletic Dept while I helped make it for the Teachers' Lounge. One day for whatever crazy reason, Coach DeForest thought a jock strap should be placed inside the industrial type coffee pot. I'm sure it was brand new, but when he complained of the taste that morning and opened the top of the pot, he carefully fished out the supporter.

Those non-coffee drinkers laughed the loudest and longest, I'm sure. As for the prankster, he received a milk shake from AD Noble Thomas. Mr. Thomas, one of the strongest humans ever, milk shaked Ron by picking him up, turning him upside down in mid-air and shaking him up and down with his nose precariously close to the ground. Mr. Thomas was nearing 6o years of age at the time. Coach D, 6'1'', 175 pounds.

The stuff legends are made of.

A SALUKI

No one seemed to understand my tee shirt at our Men's Bible Study early Tuesday morning. Our pastor even asked me how to pronounce Saluki. He, an Ohio State fan, and Midwesterner did not know of the SIU Salukis.

Another guy from our church says "A Saluki? Isn't that the sound tobacco makes when it hits the spittoon?"

Oh, where's the respect? And recognition of an institute from which I graduated? Twice.

I must admit, I tried to make humorous adding that the shirt only cost $6.99 and I'd wear any college shirt for that price. I guess the two exceptions would be Indiana University and the University of Arizona. But for $2.99, I would.

A saluki is a fine racing Egyptian dog. Since Southern Illinois University is located in Carbondale, Illinois, it's in an area called Little Egypt because of its similarities in appearance to Egypt. Having spent much more time in Southern Illinois than Egypt, I'd have to say I saw no similarities. But I also saw no salukis there. Just Pyramids.

HAS SUMMER BEEN FAR TOO LONG?

OR, WHAT IS WRONG WITH SOMEONE LIKE ME?

Shirley Temple was before my time. Not by all that much, but half a generation anyway. I never watched many of her movies. Mainly because I can't stand her.

Now what's wrong with someone who doesn't like the little Shirley? I even picked out my favorite picture of her where she almost looks as normal as the next kid.

I never abused any kid. Well, that's not true. I taught school so I guess that shoots that argument. And as an adult, I wouldn't have thought about harming her. But if she were one of my classmates in grade school, I'd have done something to her that would have gotten me sent to the Principal's office. Oh, nothing major, but something just to annoy her: you know, a well placed bug in her cafeteria food, something like that.

So what was there about her I didn't like? Smugness. I like a lot of precocious kids. But she was precocious with an attitude. And her curls. I love curls, but hers were too tight or something. They bounced too much. She played with them, fluffing them up or something. I don't know.

And when she sang, she sounded fine, but her sappy expression said "Aren't I the cutest thing ever?" Well, I've written enough about Shirley as a child. Besides, it's time to make an appointment with a counselor.

VENUS IN BLUE JEANS

MONA LISA WITH A PONYTAIL

You don't have to be very old. You don't have to know much about girls. You can still like lots of other things. Like sports and being outdoors. And music and art. Well music anyhow.

And then she comes to mind. You watch her for awhile in class. Out of class. You ask around about her. Carefully. You find yourself walking around campus taking the route she might be taking. Just to look. Oh, you'd speak if you encountered her. But you'd just as soon you didn't.

It's safer that way.

But then you did something crazy. Crazier than calling her house and hanging up (in the days long before caller ID). You wrote a poem. Not to share. But to express. It went something like this.

I looked forward, while you looked away.

I looked for you, while you looked elsewhere.

I love the way you look.

But then,

You looked at someone else

The way I look at you.

Who says looks don't matter?

I ALWAYS FEEL LIKE

SOMEBODY'S WATCHING ME. Rockwell, I believe, was the artist of that song from the mid-eighties. I know our son liked it, played it, and got it stuck in my head from time to time. A poster I had in my room at school for twenty years or so, stated "Just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they aren't out to get you." But I feel as if I've shared that before with my readers. See how paranoid I am?

But what came to mind today was the blame I used to, and somewhat still, receive when I'm totally innocent. A stunt, a shenanigan, a prank could be played by some of my friends, and it seemed I was blamed for it.

I never knew whether to take it as a compliment (for the wisdom and bravery it took to pull it off) or a criticism ("that boy's always in trouble. If you want to find the culprit, that's where to look.")

I must have gotten away with some stuff in my young life, but I can't recall too much. Seriously. I recall more often being at the other end of that pointed finger. When I had had no part in the deed.

Well, there was that time we smeared squashed up plums on a neighbors house writing the name of another neighbor who got blamed for it, but that was the only time. Except when...