DICK MACKENZIE
  • Dick's World
  • Stray Thoughts
  • Albums
  • Contact me

How to turn $5000 into millions

8/31/2013

2 Comments

 
Picture
My friend Don Sanders died about 25 years ago. He was a businessman of integrity and huge influence in Sioux Lookout, as well as a man of marvelous mischief and humor. I admired him immensely.

Among the many wonders I remember about Don is his story of the time he won $5000 in a lottery. His hardware store had one ticket unsold at deadline on one occasion, so he and some of his staff chipped in and bought it just as a lark. That ticket was a winner. Five thousand bucks apiece!

“Well,” he told me, “that was the most expensive $5000 I’ve ever had. Whenever Peggy and I wanted something we couldn’t afford we just shrugged our shoulders and said, buy it out of the lottery win.” And smiling like an imp, he concluded, “Over the years we spent that $5000 so many times…

A few weeks ago I asked Mary to keep her eye out for a lid for my 13 inch cast iron pan. Told her I didn’t really like cast iron lids, so stainless steel would be my preference.

A couple days later I started looking online for a lid, and as many of my searches do, it led me to Cabela’s site. And, my lucky day, they just happened to have the perfect lid… well, almost perfect. The size was right, but it was cast iron. “Oh, well,” I thought, “it’ll work… Hey, wait, look at those frying pans on the same page.”

I gazed in a daze at the 20 inch pan that I had oogled, but resisted, many times over the past year. Nope. Couldn’t do it.

“But, look. There’s one just like it, except it’s only 16 inches,” I cajoled myself. So, that seemed reasonable, and one quick click placed it in my shopping cart, beside the 13 inch lid.

Then the doubt crept in. I don’t know if I have some hidden psychological need to own the biggest frying pan in the neighborhood, or if I really was making sense when I asked myself the question, “But what if you have lots of company and the 16 incher isn’t big enough?”

Never mind that I have a beautiful collection of pans of all sizes hanging on the wall already, including an antique hand made cooker created from a gold pan and another old, old monster crafted from quarter inch steel that’s so heavy I can hardly lift it.

After quite a long deliberation with myself I decided the best bet would be to just go ahead and get them both. So, another mouse click added the 20 incher to my cart.

Luckily, at the last minute, I remembered those guys would need lids, so, a couple more clicks and they were added.

Then, just about check out time, thank my good fortune, I just happened to notice some small cast iron individual frying/serving pans, and realized the potential immediately. Wouldn’t they be wonderful for cooking up one pot meals at camp, either on the wood stove cook top or in the barbeque – maybe even in the oven. Versatile, too. Could use them at home sometimes. That click was a given. The only debate was “how many?” Feeling that I should exercise some restraint, I settled on four. “Click!”

That ended my Cabela’s shopping for the day. I got that $15 lid I started out looking for. Somehow, those other odds and ends boosted the total to about $300, but, hey, I told myself. I haven’t had a drink of scotch for six weeks and consider all the money I’ve saved. I didn’t do the math, but it seemed about right.

For some reason I was reminded of my friend Don Sanders and his lottery win.

The pans haven’t arrived yet. But I have been thinking about those little individual serving pans. If they’re piping hot, where will we set them down. Seems like they might burn the table, and would probably scorch fabric place mats. So, I finally decided that maybe wood cutting boards would be nice. While in Dryden last week I checked some out at WalMart. The cheapest looked pretty nice, so I plunked four of them in my shopping basket. Right beside the cheap ones, though, were some much better looking bamboo boards and they weren’t an awful lot more expensive, so I added four of those to my basket, too, reasoning that I would probably have to order another four of the little serving pans anyway – in case of an influx of dinner guests.

Add another $94 to the cost of that 13 inch lid.

This morning I’m sitting at camp, surrounded by cutting boards, looking through the window at the sun rise across the lake, and another question has popped into my silly mind. “What if we have a table full of friends all eating out of their little individual cast iron pans and the wood place mats start smoldering in the middle of the meal?”

I’m thinking maybe I should buy some little spritzer bottles. We could keep them handy, just in case. I wonder if I should buy eight of them, or if two diners could share one, in which case I could get by with only four?

Again, my imagination has returned to Don Sanders. I can see the mischievous glint in his eyes as he sits across from me at dinner, then quietly raises his spritzer bottle and squirts me right in the face. “Oops!” he’d exclaim with his most innocent face. “Missed! Looked like your place mat caught fire and I was trying to put it out.”

Times like this make me wish I had drank a lot more scotch. Think how much more money I would have saved these last few weeks.

And, of course, fond memories of an old friend are always a blessing.


2 Comments

Never satisfied

8/30/2013

0 Comments

 
Picture
Changing perspectives are interesting to reflect on. At my Friday morning weigh-in today I punished the scale at 174 pounds. I am thrilled. That's a loss of 28 pounds since late June (short term goal was to lose 20 pounds by the end of September). For comparison, I wrestled in high school in the 103 pound class, was happy when I finally got up to 120 pounds when I was in my mid 20s, was mortified when I hit 135 when I was 30 something, and then accepted the fat adding when I quit smoking about 20 years ago (I deserved a treat for quitting, right?). So, when I was skinny I wanted to gain weight. Now that I've gained weight I want to be skinny again. Ha, ha... some people just can't be satisfied.
0 Comments

Afraid I'm turning into a nymphomaniac

8/19/2013

0 Comments

 
Picture
As I cleared brush with my chainsaw during the weekend I found myself thinking, as I admired my work, that I was really giving ‘er tar. Getting lots done. Carving out a swath of forest to create a small yard in back of the cabin.
Then, with the roaring saw noise seeping into my brain via the hearing aids turned to low volume, I puzzled over that term – give ‘er tar. I hadn’t heard it said for years and years and years. Matter of fact, I couldn’t remember where I had ever heard it. But I knew I had. Probably as a kid, somewhere.
I understand it to mean about the same thing as today’s expressions “give ‘er hell” or “give ‘er shit” or, more recently, just plain “give ‘er!” Don’t know why I said to myself, “Give ‘er tar” but it seemed right at the time.
My mind tiptoed aimlessly through the expression, as I felled tree after tree and bucked them up into stove lengths, wondering if maybe at one time it was an expression of paving crews who had to work with hot asphalt and get it spread and smoothed when the consistency was just right (“Okay, boys, it’s ready right now. Give ‘er tar.”) – seemed possible. Much like farmers making hay while the sun shines.
But, then, I wondered if it might have to do with the Uncle Remus story of the tar baby. I couldn’t make a logical connection there, but figured it would be worth further thought sometime.
Or, what if tar wasn’t the word used in that expression? What if somebody were saying “give ‘er far.” (I spent a few years of my boyhood in south-central Ohio where people did pronounce some words funny – such as far, when they really meant fire). What if the expression meant to light a fire under somebody to get them going? (Only a south-central Ohioan ever understood the cartoon of the Christmas manger scene with three wise men wearing fire helmets. When asked why, the play director said it was because those wise men had just come from afar.) So, could I have misheard the expression when I was boy, thinking “give ‘er tar” was really “give ‘er far?”
Overriding all the silly thoughts, though, was a recurring puzzlement. Since giving up alcohol and starting a diet seven weeks ago (minus 22 pounds and counting, and successfully avoiding all booze) had I suddenly become a nymphomaniac? Hard work in the hot sun does seem to channel my thought process in strange directions. How else could I explain rushing home to tear off my shirt to check my blood pressure as soon as I hit the living room and soon after removing the rest of my clothes and rushing to the bathroom to step on the scale?
My seeming fascination with nuts and other snacks. Seems that with every small meal I’m already calculating the time when I can eat a little handful of peanuts or, on a big day, a teaspoon of tuna on a cracker. Gone are the glory days of looking forward to a fishing trip – now all the anticipation lies with an olive and a dill pickle spear at the bottom of a glass of Clamato juice. True, I get to add a few drops of Tabasco, so it’s not exactly a bland offering.
Saturday morning I had been feeling pretty good, so decided to tackle a small roof patching job on the cabin (I think lodge sounds better – from now on I’m going to call the camp cabin our lodge. Call me pretentious.) I’m not happy with heights, ever, but I got up and got the job done and got back down again without a hitch, then went to work with the chainsaw to start clearing that little back yard at the lodge.
A few minutes later, as I sat in the shade of our little gazebo trying to shake the faint feeling that had snuck up on me, I noted to myself that these things had been occurring regularly for the past month or so, but if I just waited for a minute they’d go away. I’ve never fainted before in my life, but this is the feeling I imagine it would be like, so when they come I feel kinda silly, but I usually grab hold of something and lean slightly in the direction I want to fall, in case this should be the first time. The boat docks are a different story because I don’t have anything to hold on to, so I just lean noticeably toward the middle to avoid fainting into the lake and drowning.
Since I planned to discuss with my doctor at our appointment next month I didn’t tell anybody else for fear I’d be accused of being a nymphomaniac, but in the gazebo Saturday I had to tell Mary since I was sitting and couldn’t get rid of the feeling and was afraid to stand up. Putting on my best nonchalant voice I told Mary I must be having a diabetic attack (What do I know? I’ve never had one of those either, but I’ve had a couple friends who have and I kinda remember what they did.) and asked if she’d go inside and bring me back half a chocolate bar and a glass of orange juice.
HOLY MACKEREL, was that Hershey bar ever good! It was left over from two summers ago when friends brought it to make s’mors, but it wouldn’t have tasted better if I’d been visiting the candy plant and drank it straight out of the spout. Seven weeks without chocolate and wine has been quite the stretch.
I felt better after a while and was able to resume my Paul Bunyan caper with my chainsaw in the back yard. (Yes, I lean away from it while cutting, just in case, you know. It’s a bit awkward, but, better safe…)
I did have to tell Mary about my faint spells as I swore her to secrecy about my nymphomania. She listened with huge, wide eyes of absolute amazement that gradually ran down her face, turning her lips up into one of her incredible smiles as she burbled through spasms of giggles, “Do you mean hypochondria? Do you think you’re becoming a hypochondriac?”
I answered with an almost incoherent comment about people in Ohio talking funny, but secretly thought, “I wonder if I’ve been repressing that N word for years because I couldn’t find an acceptable way to use it, and then in a weak moment it wormed itself right into my life.”
And then I lay down on the couch in our lodge for a short nap, because I was all tarred out.
0 Comments

If one hair fell out...

8/8/2013

0 Comments

 
Picture
If one hair fell out, would I be bald?
About 50 years ago, when I was 18, my first chest hair sprouted! I was so happy and proud that, at the drop of a hat, I'd pull the neck of my tee shirt down to show everybody I knew, or anyone who might be remotely interested. Well, they didn't really have to be interested. I'd show 'em anyway.
Most would squint as they stared blindly at the tip of my pointing finger and ask with some puzzlement, "Where?"
My Uncle Joe, though, knew what to say to a budding hirsute teenager. "You know, Rich, if you get a razor blade and split it twice down the middle you'll have four hairs." He was so funny! After only a few tries to split the hair I knew he was pulling my leg.
Over the years my chest hair (Hairold) remained a bachelor. I went long periods, sometimes as much as three or four days in a row, without looking, but every time I peeked Hairold was still living alone.
Finally, in recent years, I have pretty much shied away from looking too much at Hairold for fear I might scare him away. Most mornings I do check around my pillow to see if he has fallen out during the night, but otherwise I try to leave well enough alone, just knowing that underneath the shirt is my secret ticket to manhood, patiently holding down the fort.
This morning my eyes accidentally looked into the mirror as I washed behind my ears, and there was a sight I never, ever, imagined I'd see. Hairold has turned gray - or silver, as I prefer.
This is something new for me. I've never had a chest full of silver hair. I wonder if Hairold is more delicate, or fragile, now. Should I switch to a milder shampoo? Do I need to brush it, or will combing be okay? Hair tonic, or the dry look?
So much to learn. I never realized the responsibilities involved with caring for a hair. In some ways I'm glad I never split that hair with a razor blade.
0 Comments

Purple haze

8/6/2013

0 Comments

 
Picture
Picture
Yesterday I went to the store to pick up a sweet potato for supper. I've never especially liked sweet potato fries, but thought it time I give them another try.
The sweet potato bin didn't have a sign, so I wasn't sure whether I was getting a sweet potato or a yam, but didn't figure it would make much difference.
Imagine my surprise when I sliced into my sweet potato and saw this sight!
I have absolutely no idea what this is. Anybody know?
It's ready to start barbequing, so I guess supper will be a meal of surprises. Hope it's not poison.
I'm also trying a burger concoction to go with these fries. It's ground turkey mixed with diced peaches. Anybody ever hear of something like this?

Picture
Picture
Some tweaking might make this a glorious meal. Or not. Maybe the world doesn't have enough tweaks to accomplish that. The purple fries turned out very dry - not sure what I'd do next time if I came home again with one accidentally. I'm not likely to buy another one on purpose. Although the outside was crunchy, the inside was like a childhood chaw of Double Bubble, or grape flavored Bazooka. Fairly sweet and tasty. See the picture of one with a bite out of it.
My peach/turkey burger was a waste of a peach. Next time I'll dice up a couple more so it's more noticeable. I'm thinking some small chunks of pineapple might be a nice touch, too. The burger, itself, was fine. Enjoyable, even. I forgot that turkey doesn't shrink down like ground beef so I got a nice bonus - a HUGE burger - and, because "everything happens for a reason" (when it's to my advantage) I thought I should eat the whole thing, especially considering that I shorted myself on the purple fries, that for some reason kept falling on the floor where the dogs grabbed them before I could get out of my chair.
So, no prize for this effort, but glad I tried it. And, I won't be going to bed hungry, which is a good thing.
0 Comments

Stalking the wild pansy

8/3/2013

0 Comments

 
Picture
Picture
Picture
Pansies are such hardy, colorful, versatile flowers I often wonder how the term pansy came to describe people in such a scornful way. It ought to be an honor to be called a pansy. Matter of fact, I'm going to ask Mary from now on to introduce me to her friends as her pansy. ("Hello. I'd like you to meet my pansy...)
I garnished this morning's breakfast with a couple pansy blooms from my deck planters. I was planning to eat them, but Mary hustled them off the plates and into a glass of water in the middle of the table before I could even sniff a petal.
Note my zucchini poached egg cup. It turned out even better than I had hoped. I cut a couple chunks of zucchini from my little camp garden, hollowed them out by removing the seeds, then steamed them slowly in a frying pan covered with a lid. When they were tender I cracked an egg into each one, turned up the heat, added a bit of water, and covered with the lid once more for a couple minutes.
We liked them. I'd do them again.
0 Comments

Jarvis' fetish

8/1/2013

2 Comments

 
Picture
Picture
I'm looking for comments and advice from friends and psychiatrists, friendly psychiatrists, friends who are psychiatrists and amateur psychologists regarding an acquaintance who seems to have developed a jar fetish.
This friend, let's call him Jarvis, recently started drinking virgin Caesars from an old pickle jar. More recently he felt the need for a fancy drinking glass (top) for occasions when the good china and silverware come out or for the rare Sunday-go-to-meeting days. Otherwise, he says, "That old Bicks jar packs some kicks."
Now Jarvis has started making green salads in a jar.
Do you think Jarvis has some kind of a problem? Is he a little bit off? If he were ever sent to prison do you think the other inmates would single him out? How about the guards?
I have read everything from Freud and haven't run across anything about jars.
When I ask Jarvis about this all he will say is, "The lids fit nice and tight."
2 Comments
    Picture

    Archives

    November 2024
    January 2024
    December 2023
    March 2023
    December 2018
    March 2018
    February 2018
    January 2018
    December 2017
    November 2017
    October 2017
    September 2017
    August 2017
    July 2017
    June 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    March 2017
    February 2017
    January 2017
    December 2016
    November 2016
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    July 2016
    June 2016
    May 2016
    April 2016
    March 2016
    February 2016
    January 2016
    December 2015
    November 2015
    October 2015
    September 2015
    August 2015
    July 2015
    June 2015
    May 2015
    April 2015
    March 2015
    February 2015
    January 2015
    December 2014
    November 2014
    October 2014
    September 2014
    August 2014
    July 2014
    June 2014
    May 2014
    April 2014
    March 2014
    February 2014
    January 2014
    December 2013
    November 2013
    October 2013
    September 2013
    August 2013
    July 2013
    June 2013
    May 2013
    April 2013

SIOUX LOOKOUT WEATHER
P.O. Box 1464
Sioux Lookout, Ontario  P8T 1B9
807-738-BOAT (2628)
[email protected]
Picture