DEER ONE

Slayer.  Not hunter, though there was a movie entitled that as well.  I kinda prefer slayer.

Not a hunter, I have some trouble with killing wildlife.  I know all about thinning out the herds and the necessity, much like how fires are good for forests.  But I don't approve of them either.

Now, if you want to shoot blackbirds, sparrows, grackles, pigeons, even doves--fire when ready.  Thin those babies and don't forget crows.  The bigger the better.

So, I guess, I'm saying I'm selective in what I wouldn't mind hunters plugging. I could make a more exhaustive list, but I've probably already angered some readers by my inclusion of doves.  But they wake me up with their constant cooing.

But the dear I saw yesterday at the pool... Ok, I'll tell you about her since you insist.  I pointed her out to my wife who agreed.  Not that she was a dear, but he had no shape whatsoever. 

She wasn't bony at all.  But in a small bikini, she showed no curves; not a one.  Straight up and down and all around. Yet, as I said, she was no Twiggy.  There was plenty of meat on those bones.  The meat just clung, shapelessly.

I'm tempted to end with,"Oh, dear," but I'll just say when she left,she put on some top and some beachwear pants and looked good. So maybe she was like Twiggy who looked pretty good as a model and as she got older looked better still.

But that shape.  Or lack thereof.

ONE THING FOR SURE

I may be the most punctual person on the planet.  I'd blame it on bells that I had to adhere to as a teacher, except I've always been that way.  My epitaph should simply state Never Late.

Yet, I was almost late to church on Sunday morning.  That would be no problem at our Scottsdale church as many come in as much as 15 minutes late, but never us.  But we're in Coronado and there's not too many I've noticed that are seated by the time the church bell rings (and it really does, which I like a lot).

Four stories up, I was watching dolphins early Sunday morning performing a show on the ocean below.  No Sea World trainers, they performed their own routines.  And they were great.  Some even appeared to try to fluke without the great whale tail fins.

Choreography was no problem.  They were as in tune as pelicans who fly in formation skimming the waves in search of food.  But theirs was more playful.  Six in all.

I could be heard uttering, that's not right, saying out loud, "Oh, my goodness.  Did you see that. Gee."  I know--nothing creative there, but very much in awe.

We made it in plenty of time, but for me being only 10 minutes early is almost late.

But as I watched the show on the Pacific, I noticed others who were as unaware of  God's creation as they were unaware that it was a day to worship.  They were going about their business, jogging, walking, carrying beach chairs, holding on to that cup of coffee.  They didn't know what they were missing, or they simply chose to ignore.

Free will.  Yet another gift from God. 

AND I THOUGHT...

What other novel can be recognizable by two words, not counting character names?

I can't come up with a single one.

But readers of S.E. Hinton's The Outsiders have no doubt about "stay gold".

Advice that Ponyboy Curtis got from Dally.  Based on a Robert Frost poem.

Adolescent literature has been important to me since I taught high school and wrote my Master's paper on the subject.  And there is simply no better adolescent novel than Hinton's first, which she (Susan Elizabeth) wrote when she was 17. 

Certainly it's somewhat dated now.  Not as dated at Maureen Daly's Seventeen, one of the first with an intended teen audience.  But it was important because it blazed the trail for a gap between childrens' lit and adult literature that dealt with themes foreign to teenagers.

I haven't kept up of adolescent lit for a decade or so; thus, I can be of no assistance to suggest titles  In the 70's though, I could have students fill out an interest survey and recommend a book based on their preferences.  Hopefully, I helped a few along the way to develop a love for reading.

And for older folks like me, I'd certainly suggest David McCullough.  He tells history like no other.  But without using a proper noun or two, I can't think of two words that would define any of his non-fiction either.

SHE WASN'T SELLING AUTOGRAPHS
When we were in Killarney, Ireland, this Summer, I saw a woman at our hotel who had on a Favre family tee shirt.  I didn't bother to talk to her, but a friend of mine from New Jersey did.  She claimed to be Brett's mother, there on a church mission.

I believed it when Steve told me.  He simply said, "Well, tell him he has fans in New Jersey." 

But then recently there was this impostor Brett in Green Bay (pictured) charging for autographs while keeping his head down.  So, now I'm wondering if that was really Brett's mom, as substantiated by a woman with her, or not.

I had a student named Taylor Hornung.  She said her father often used his name to get better seating at restaurants, once having to resort to an impersonation of famed Paul Hornung himself.  Adding Taylor was named Taylor after Packer running back Jim Taylor.

There just seems to be something about impersonating a Green Bay Packer.

So as Cardinal pitcher, Joaquin Andujar stated on multiple occasions, "youneverknow".