WHAT DO YOU DO?

Rather than say he's retired, my brother claims to be an encyclopedia salesman. He says he'd have no business. He says he doesn't know anyone who has bought a set of them for years.

Not since Al Gore invented the internet. Well, he didn't say that. But he's right. With a simple Google or WekiPedia hit, the encyclopedia has become a dinosaur.

I suppose World Book still exists along with Britannica and all the others, but one would probably have to go on-line to find them. And to purchase the yearly updates. I think 1980 was probably our last one purchased so I have some catching up to do.

I always remember the encyclopedia salesman who came to our house in about 1958. He knew his business. He asked me if I knew Neal. Of course, I knew him. He revealed that he had been retained and wouldn't be in my class at school anymore. So his parents bought a set, presumably so he wouldn't fall further behind. At my young age I thought his parents great. I also thought I would miss him because he made me laugh. And just maybe we needed to buy these to insure I didn't join him.

But he also added that Mike, another classmate of mine, had read the encyclopedia all the way through from beginning to end since his parents bought a set. Mike was the smartest guy in our class, known more for athletics than brains. Wow! My fourth grade mind was racing now. We just had to have a set.

Either because of him or my past history, my parents didn't buy the World Book set that year. I guess they knew I was somewhere between Neal and Mike and they would wait awhile to see which way I was leaning.

So my learning, like the fence pictured, had a few gaps. Had I just read through the whole encyclopedia, maybe I would have become a doctor like Mike. Naugh, even had my folks purchased the most expensive set, they would have been used a lot early and then been shelved. Much like the mid-July copies of My Weekly Reader.

SOMETIMES EVEN CHRISTIAN RADIO STATIONS DON'T HELP

I've freely admitted that I get upset by drivers. They seem to be so self-centered anymore. I've written about how they tailgate, how they change lanes on a whim, how they will cut you off, how they will leave you stranded when you need to change lanes and properly signal.

But there's one time that they don't need to bother to signal because I will cut them no slack; I will become one of the enemy. That's when there is ample notification by signage than one lane is ending and a merge will soon be necessitated.

And they keep driving in the lane that will end. When they horn in at the last minute and make the patient law-abider allow them access.

It happened to me yesterday. A huge truck pulling something called a Sandpiper literally ran me off the road into another lane. We were inches from his Sandpiper when at the last second I realized he would hit me.

Even while tuned to a K-LOVE radio station playing Contemporary Christian Music, I was enraged. The only possible explanation is he was from Africa where the rule of the land while we were on safari a few years back was the biggest in the jungle rules. No exceptions /no apologies. But still.

While listening to Christian radio helps my temperament, it's no panacea. If there was a positive to be taken it was that my wife saw that after the incident, I didn't try to get even; I didn't try to cut him off. I let it go. Well, sort of.

I'M AN OBSERVER

I'm a lover of the skies. As soon as I early rise, I look to the heavens to marvel as I go retrieve my morning paper.

In fact on Wednesday of this past week I saw a falling or shooting star. How often does that happen?

But I hadn't stop to think about the moon. That is, this picture claims to be a photo of a moonrise. Now, I don't know anyone that has ever said, "Did you catch that moonrise?"

Now, I know the planets orbit around our sun. But what about the moon? And how come lots of days it is visible along with the sun? I think there's something lacking in my solar and/or lunar education.

But it does sound romantic. There's just something about the moon. After all, its not a honeysun.

"YOUR DOG"

We haven't owned, but then again does anyone ever own(?), a dog this decade. I miss that companionship, and maybe that's why I hold on to the two words.

I guess some 'splaining, Ricky, is due. Whenever I feel a little goofy or frisky and the phone rings, after I answer and talk for a while, my wife will ask who called. My two word response, "Your dog."

I'll give the same answer under the same conditions when she asks what I'd suggest for Supper. Easy going, she rarely displays irritation. She knows I'll get around to responding in a sane manner. Eventually.

Not in the same vein, in our household when I was growing up, my Dad had an expression that made my Mom cringe. When emphasizing total agreement with the statement made, he would add, "You ain't a woofin'".

I guess it was the "Really," of the '50's. Or the "You got that right," of later years. And if you think that sounds out of whack, what do you think subsequent generations are going to think of "My bad,"? My bad what? I mean that is stupid.

It's worse than "How's yourself?" but unfortunately used more often.

I don't think I have to worry about "Your dog," catching on. Talk about stupid. But feel free to use it once and awhile just for the shock value.

SALAD DAY

As far as I know, Shakespeare is credited with coining the phrase Salad Days. I forget which of his 37 plays it's in. It wouldn't be hard to find. But the teacher that's still left in me expects you to find it. To hone your google skills.

Of course, its meaning is similar to green or green horn. Days of youthful naivete.

One thing I've always enjoyed, maybe since Art Linkletter's day, was the innocent questions kids pose. Like the one earlier this week when a young one asked President Obama why people hated him. Whoa! Now, that's some salad.

But you don't have to be young to be green. Some hunter friends of mine, and I have many, used to take their kills to a tavern in MTV and give them away. It was primarily a hang out for Blacks, so when my White buds showed up, the patrons would know they had some wild game to take home.

Once when the killings were slim; that is, no pheasants, quail, or ducks, Les announced that they had doves to give away.

One of the regulars asked salad-like, "What the _____ a dove is?" Not "what the bleep is a dove?" But his syntax has stayed with me to this day, even though I was no where around when he uttered those words.

I wonder if dove tastes like chicken?