BOLTS AND NUTS

Suntan lotion smells so good to me. Swimming pool water looks so inviting. Old, browned by the sun, people look so much better to me than old white like flour people. The problems of the nation and world seem to be back-burnered to me when I am around pools at resorts.

Marco Polo games. Water basketball. Water volleyball. Lap swimming. Kids playing. Cannonballs. Beach balls. I just don't tire of it.

Blue skies. Cloudless. Mountain tops punching out from the desert floor to give a pictured painting effect. Almost surreal in space. Cardboard cutout day.

That's the nuts and bolts of it. The carefree way. Idyllic. My way.

TIME SLIPS

Time jumps mainly. But time slips, too. And, it most certainly drags. Very few times, does time stop. Ain't it funny how...

One year ago today I was stepping onto hollowed ground at Augusta. The Masters. While we could only secure practice rounds tickets from good friends, it was still a great experience. Amen Corner is carved into my memory bank, taking the place of a technician or doctor's assistant who carved on my leg veins less than a month ago. But hey, she only assisted on three of my five surgeries, so why should I remember, right?

But what is more surprising about time is how it seems so much longer than one year since we walked the golf course there. How can that be? When most good memories seem to be the just the opposite.

Of course bad memories or unpleasant times seem to roll around pretty fast. Take tax time. So I guess there's no figuring out time.

Hey, by the way, it's time to go. I have to pick up some family from the airport. Three grandkids are coming at 8:00 AM. By 10:30, I'll be exhausted. By Saturday when they'll leave, I'll think how quickly the time went by.

I'm telling you, time is a many splendored thing.

A BODY LANGUAGE COLD CASE

The new tv series called Lie To Me is like that. The body language experts are called in to discover the truth. And it's not a bad show. Even though the main character is a Brit with a modern day mush mouth that makes much dialogue inaudible or at least indistinguishable to me.

Body language has always fascinated me. I used to love to get term papers to grade on the subject. I'm never sure how and who figured it all out, but there's definitely something to it.

I used to try it with a guy I knew who lied a lot. But he was so good or had done it so long that I couldn't tell. Maybe I just couldn't see it, too. But I was astounded by some of the things he could do, backed up by others, but he lied so much that I couldn't differentiate. Or figure out why he lied so much since he had such abilities and rich experiences to go on.

But what about the woman in the picture? What do you see?

For me I see her thinking, obviously. About a decision. She's worried. Her right eye droops just enough to make me think she's going to do something that's unpleasant for her. Something she'll regret.

That's my take on her. But remember, I don't have too many answers. And I've misread looks from females all my life.

NOW THAT'S A CAROUSEL HORSE!

I'd still fight to ride that guy. If I ever see one like that when I'm taking our grandkids to a theme park or even a mall, watch out.

Little kids take a back seat. That one is mine.

Can you imagine an armored horse on a carousel? Wow! Mess with me: I've got the toughest horse anywhere.

But then reality rears its ugly head. I couldn't get away with knocking a little kid down. Even for such a lofty purpose. Such a grand ideal--to ride the best steed on the carousel.

An even harsher dose--I'm nearing the age where that's the only ride old people can handle. And they usually sit in those old benches between the real animals, like the one pictured. Or stand, afraid that if they sit, it might take them two rides before their old bodies would allow them to get up and off the benches.

But that may still be better than riding some of those sissy horses that some kids pick. You can tell a lot about how a kid is going to turn out by the carousel horse he opts for. But any related to me, better choose the tough horse or have me to answer to.

BEEN THERE ON A SUNNY DAY

You see those boulders? Those big rocks? Well, I lay on top of one of those. Like a Sports Illustrated model. Well, not quite.

The sand was on an incline tilted toward the ocean. Imagine that. It was light brown powder. (The sand, not the ocean.) But it was hard to lie on. I pounded the sand. Actually, that was my last course of action. I threw down my towel. I tried to flatten out a good place for my body. I added an extra towel for my head.

But my body ached. Lumps and bumps were sticking me in various and sundry places, as they say. My last course, I've already shared. So I headed to the boulders.

Assured that they weren't all that slick, I climbed. I had observed a couple of little kids earlier; that was my assurance. And I lay there soaking up the bright sunshine of Virgin Gorda in the British West Indies. Probably for half an hour before I came down to cool off in the water.

I was just standing there in the water by another big boulder when a head-high wave slapped against me. I wonder if that ever happened to the SI models? Also, there was no red daisy. I think they only bloom for them as well.

FIVE HOURS IS A LONG TIME

to sit behind a woman on an airplane. A woman who as George Will said "knew virtually nothing about everything". Yet that was our dilemma on Sunday night.

Fortunately for me, she was seated directly in front of my wife. She directed most of her knowledge to a young high school girl seated directly in front of a Canadian teacher next to CQ. As an aisle seat passenger, I was spared the direct hits.

But this woman never shut up the entire trip. That's not quite true. When she couldn't have undivided attention, she announced that it was reading time. We in the row behind celebrated. But it was short lived. Her book was closed and her mouth was re-opened after a five minute interval. Her topics ranged from her being an art model to what she wore when she was in high school. Another expertise was food additives and toxicity.

It literally made the most talkative human I've ever known up to that point an introvert. She talked so much that it interfered with my sleep. Almost nothing does that.

Rather than the very nice Canadian teacher, I was wishing former fellow teacher Mary Foreman from MTVHS was seated with us. Bloody Mary, as she was called by scared students (and teachers) would have quietened her with one hard look.

As I type this entry, I'm still suffering from Sunday's jet lag. I'm still eyes widely shut. All because of the expert who shared her knowledge.

BUSHWACKING OR BEING BUSHWACKED

Some Friday high school nights when we weren't parking with our girls, we'd go try to find those that were. Honking, light shining, once shaking a car from side to side--he deserved it; he told us where he and his girl parked. The best was when an older guy blocked a car on a country road by cutting down two trees that hemmed them in.

Invariably a car would get stuck. Either from pulling too far over or driving down a private lane trying to escape the bushwackers. The walk to the farmer's house asking for help was common in the days before cell phones and AAA. They were most always helpful with chains and tractors. Most, perhaps remembering their youth, wouldn't take any money for the bother.

Once in awhile a battery would go dead because the radio was left on to set the mood. The Righteous Brothers, The Association, Little Anthony and the Imperials were the cause of lots of lasting relationships back then. Even a good DJ could chip in and stoke the fires of passion.

Of course driveways and streets at the end of the night would add the final touch. Until a beacon of light from a passing car or a porch light pierced the night and brought a sudden stop. But that was ok.

Because remember--this was only Friday night. There was still one more weekend night left.