A Shot in the Dark

  Maybe it's just me, and usually, it is. 

  Family genealogy is fascinating to me. It's not so much the names, dates of birth, marriages, and eventual deaths, but it is what can be filled in with fact or imagination.

  I have what some might think is a treasure. It is an unpublished book that chronicles my great-great-grandfather's trek from southeastern Ohio to northwest Ohio. And, of course, his wife and sons. 

  It was in the possession of an older cousin, much older. He lent it to me on the condition that it would be returned after I finished reading it. After reading, I handed it over to another cousin, who made two copies, one for him and one for me. I was able to return the original.

  The cousin I originally obtained it from was many times removed from my branch of the family. He didn't even possess my last name. However, it contained a couple of stories thought to be myths with no particular origin.  

  To me, the intriguing part of the book was the chronicle of events that moved my family from Perry County, Ohio, to Mercer County. I calculated the journey to be ten days. 

  There was one very interesting event. At the end of one day, the family set up camp. One of the teenage boys stayed up all night to keep watch. During the night and through the dense trees and underbrush, he saw what appeared to be two sets of eyes. He aimed his flintlock in the middle and fired. The two eyes disappeared. This woke the family. They decided any threat was gone and would wait until morning to investigate.  

  When morning came, Adam and the boys traced to where it was thought the two eyes were seen. They discovered a wolf shot between the eyes. Not bad for a young'un in the night with a flintlock rifle. 

  I heard this story again, but rehashed.

  Over a hundred years later, my dad was stationed at the Panama Canal. He walked guard duty one night. He walked part of his guard post through the jungle. He spotted what he thought was two eyeballs in the jungle. He called out to be identified. No one responded. Dad aimed for between the eyes and fired. The next morning, they conducted an investigation. And a panther was found with a bullet wound between the eyes.  

  Yep, my dad likely borrowed that story. And I have the feeling the other story may have been borrowed also. I suspect that somewhere in my family's history, aeons ago, one of my ancestors shot a bow or hurled a slingshot in the middle of the night and hit something between the eyes.   

Look Out For the Lefties

Maybe it's just me, and usually, it is. 

Years ago, I ate at a great barbecue joint. It was called Lefty’s. The owner took my money at the register. I noticed he was right-handed. 

“Why do you call this place Lefty’s when you are right-handed?” I asked.

“I bought this place from Lefty and kept the name.”

“Why don’t you name it Righty’s?”

“Lefty’s is a better name.”

I asked AI for a picture of the
famous left-handed pitcher,
Sandy Kofax. It produced him
throwing right-handed.
Could it be, he was right-handed
all along? After all, AI is smart.

  That was enough for me. I walked away enlightened, but couldn’t explain my enlightenment. Why is Lefty a better moniker than Righty?

   There’s a gaggle of athletes, (especially) baseball players, and musicians nicknamed Lefty. Lefty Gomez (baseball), Lefty O’Doul (baseball), Lefty Grove (baseball), Lefty Frizzell (Country singer and songwriter). 

Lefty is a good mobster’s name. “Hey, Boss, ya want me to go get Lefty to do the job?” Never do they get Righty. Righty would probably shoot the wrong guy and spill the beans on the whole gang.

I’m sure we’ve come across a few Lefties in our day. Ole Lefty, a reliable guy, always there when you need him, honest as the day is long, the go-to guy. 

When people speak about art, literature, and intellectualism, it is often associated with the Left Bank. What! Are all the idiots on the other side of the river?

Sure, there’s righty; righty tighty, lefty loosey, and tighty-whiteys. Good only for not stripping out bolts or holding everything in place.

Okay, there is the right-hand man, but let’s stare reality in the face; he’s there to take the blame while the Boss and Lefty are sunning in the Caymans. 

Why does marching start with the left foot? I smell a conspiracy—a left-wing conspiracy. 

Life After Retirement

Maybe it's just me, and usually it is.

This guy parks next to me at Albertsons Grocery. He is wearing a shirt that reads, "I'm retired; this is the way I dress." People wear shirts with stuff on them for a reason. This guy was trying to draw attention or excuse his appearance. 

Being who I am, I approached him in my blue jeans, gray t-shirt, unbuttoned button shirt, and said, "Me too." 

We had a brief chuckle. 

"Where did you retire from?" I asked.

"The entertainment industry," he said.

"Oh really!" I said. "What did you do?"

"I was a production accountant," he said proudly.

At this point, I thought he might at least express some sort of conversational skills, and there might be a brief interchange. You know, two old guys jawing for a moment. I figure that after a lifetime of shutting up and doing your job, it's time to spout off.

So I'm going to give him his chance. "What was the last production you worked on?" (I knew he was just itching to tell me.)

By then, we were in the store. He grabbed a cart. He waited until the noise settled from dislodging his cart. "My last production was XXXXXXXX with Tom Hanks."

At this point, I'm supposed to ask, Did you meet Tom Hanks? What's he really like? Does he wear lifts? And so on, but I didn't.

Instead, I said, "I retired from a factory, Dana Corporation."

A disinterested, pathetic smile. 

"I made stub shafts."

An even more disinterested, pathetic smile. (At this time, I know my time has run out with him.)

"Anyway," I said, heading for the soft drink aisle, "every time you see a big eighteen-wheeler speeding down the highway, that may be one of mine at work." (He could never top that one.)

That's the story, but it would not be complete without relating that to my astonishment, I could not find Moxie Soda in the soft drink aisle. It's probably in automotives. Thus, I settled for a six-pack of Guinness. 

While walking to my car, I was hoping to see my production accountant buddy. I wanted to tell him how I became acquainted with Moxie Soda. And he thinks he had an exciting life.

Walmart, Always Concerned About You and Me

Walmart, Always Concerned About You and Me (#1, 7/8/25)

  Maybe it's just me, and usually it is.

  It was yesterday or last year, I was shopping at Walmart. I walked down one of the frozen food aisles. Above the display freezers hung two signs about eight feet apart. One read "Healthy Meals" and the other "Nutritional Choices." Aside from that, I thought it was a clever choice of words; I was left wondering. Does that mean everything else in frozen foods is not healthy or a nutritionally bad choice?  

  I'm afraid if I pick up a box of waffles, the cashier might out me as a food junkie. Or if I bury tater tots in my groceries and go through the self-checkout, when scanned, a red light and siren will alert the nutritional police.

That brings me to the APCH (Asset Protection Customer Host).  Talk about synthesizing words and scrubbing the meaning, that takes the cake. (gluten-free, of course). That's the guard at the door who checks your receipt against the items in your cart. want to make sure you haven't pilfered any Peanut Butter Bars. Anyway, if you don't have one of them, your Walmart is in a safe area. You ought to see the array of vermin and degenerates who go to mine.