Comebacks to stupid comments you’ll get when when you announce you’re moving to Florida

Thanks to Boomers like me, Florida has overtaken New York as America’s third most populous state. According to demographers, a thousand Boomers are moving to the Sunshine State every day. That’s 365,000 new (okay, "old") Floridians a year.

And the numbers are only going to increase thanks to new laws limiting deductions for property taxes and state income taxes, that are propelling residents out of tax-happy northern states like New York, Illinois and New England at ever-increasing rates. Our property taxes here are roughly one-third of what we paid in Connecticut for the same size house that didn’t come with a pool, golf course views, or friendly neighbors. Plus, Florida has no state income tax.    

If you’re among the millions of Boomers who are going to be moving here, be advised that everyone – family, friends, co-workers  – will want to express their opinion when you tell them you’re heading to Florida.  Some will say they’re happy for you. Some will say they are jealous. And others – perhaps the majority of folks around your own age – will make comments so stupid or nasty you’ll have trouble refraining from decking them. 

Why? Because you are their contemporary. The fact that you are retiring to Florida makes them feel old, a state of being many Boomers refuse to acknowledge. If you’re old enough to move to Florida, then they must be old enough to move, too, and that, for some reason, makes them feel compelled to explain why they would never consider it. 

Here, for your convenience, are quick comebacks to some of the most common comments you will receive when you tell people you’re moving to Florida. 

“I would never want to live around old people.”  

“Fine. I hope nobody ever forces you to.”

“I went once and couldn’t stand it – it was so phony.”

“You went to Disney World for Chrissakes. Disney World isn’t real.”

“I couldn’t move to Florida. This is my children’s home.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, they don’t live with you any more. When was the last time I saw one of their cars in your driveway? Thanksgiving? Christmas?  Have you ever considered they might prefer spending the holidays on a Florida beach rather than driving through a blizzard to be cooped up in a musty-smelling house where the windows haven't been opened since October?”

“I couldn’t live anyplace that doesn’t have four seasons.”

‘Let me get this straight. You are saying you would miss raking leaves, picking up fallen branches after sleet storms, shoveling show and paying fuel oil bills that, in any given month between November and April, amount to more than you made in a year on your first job?” 

“There’s no culture in Florida.”

“Au contraire.” (Be sure to use that term. It’s French, which means you know a thing or two about culture.) “There’s the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Miami Heat, Jacksonville Jaguars, two ACC and one SEC college football teams, the Daytona 500, the Don Garlits Museum of Drag Racing, Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede in Orlando, and the Live Mermaid Theater in Weeki Wachi Springs. What more could you want?”

“I can’t stand Southerners”.

“So don’t move to Mississippi. Everyone in Florida is from the north. People who live in the south already enjoy mild winters so they don’t move there.” 

“What are you going to do all day?”

“Golf, tennis, swim, sail, windsurf, take walks, and ride my bike 365 days a year, after which I'll go to an open-air happy hour with my new friends. What will you be doing when the snow’s piled up so high you can’t open your front door?”

“People there are so different from the people here.” 

“Yes, getting away from closed-minded bigots like you was a significant factor in my decision.”

“What if you hate it?”

“I’ll move back. At least I am willing to try something new rather than ramble around a house that’s too big that I have to spend most of my disposable income to maintain while growing old in a town geared to young families that has no social services whatsoever for its senior citizens.”

"It must be a million degrees in summer." 
"Yep, northern and central Florida – Tallahassee, Pensacola, Jacksonville, Orlando and Ocala for instance -– experience hot, humid summers. But the southern half of the state, the part below the frost line which runs roughly from Sarasota to Vero Beach, enjoys tropical weather that doesn't vary all that much from month to month. Temperatures rarely reach the mid-nineties, even on the Fourth of July. The highest temperature ever recorded in Naples and Ft. Lauderdale was 99. Miami reached 100 exactly once, on July 21, 1942. How many 100-plus degree days do you have to endure summer after summer? Your A/C bill will be higher than mine."

“Florida’s too flat.”

“You really are desperate, aren’t you?”

“Will you ever be back?” 

“Yes, for your memorial service unless you die during the winter in which case I’ll send a lovely spray of flowers” 

Goodbye Alfred E. Neuman

The publishers of MAD announced this week that the magazine is toast. It will still be published but will contain nothing original, only recycled material taken from its archives which must be pretty extensive because, like me, it has been around for 67 years.

MAD is — was — a humor magazine. Humor is no longer relevant in a nation where everyone seems to have lost theirs.

According to DC Comics, MAD’s publisher, the magazine topped out at 2.8 million subscribers in 1973. It has less than 150,000 today. 

In the late 1960s, when I was in high school, MAD was considered the gold standard for irreverent adolescent humor. Nothing was sacred. Its writers made fun of anyone and everything, from JFK to Castro to Batman-ia to Woodstock to Nixon. My buddy Craig, who moved to my tiny Missouri hometown from LA our freshman year, introduced me to MAD. We inhaled every issue and laughed our asses off. I emailed him the sad news about MAD today and he wrote back, reminding me he once owned the first 100 issues.

Magazines are folding right and left and those that remain are disturbingly thin, but MAD wasn’t your typical magazine. It didn’t accept advertising. And because it didn’t, its creators didn’t have to kow-tow to advertisers or pander to any group. MAD was an equal opportunity offender, taking on subjects some folks held sacrosanct and finding the humor in them. 

The primary reason MAD folded, the reason comedy clubs nationwide have gone out of business, the reason you no longer see comedians on late night TV who make you laugh out loud, the reason situation comedies on TV no longer make you smile much less laugh, is because comedy writers are scared shitless of offending so they are writing material that is, literally, witless. With the exception of self-deprecation, humor is almost always at the expense of someone or something else, who becomes the butt of the joke. Humor writers are no longer able to joke about women, Democrats, Republicans, socialists, liberals, conservatives, Whites, Blacks, Latinos, Latinas, Asians, gays, straights, transgenders, politicians, entertainers, athletes, Italians, Poles, rich, poor, Christians, Muslims, Jews or people who are fat, thin, bald, young or old, without offending someone. 

We have become a nation of thin-skinned, humorless snowflakes who take offense at anything that makes fun of us or our beliefs, refusing to concede the possibility that humor can be found in almost anything we take seriously or hold dear.

College kids seem particularly sensitive and, as a result, joyless. Jerry Seinfeld has returned to stand-up comedy, but refuses to play college campuses, claiming political correctness has robbed students of their ability to see humor. But getting back to MAD.

A month or so ago Trump sent a tweet comparing Democratic presidential aspirant Pete Buttigieg to Alfred E. Neuman, the gap-toothed mascot who has appeared on the cover of every MAD issue since 1956. When you look at their pictures side by side, there is definitely a resemblance.

Buttigieg responded that he had to google Alfred E. Neuman, he hadn’t heard of him.

There is, I readily admit, no reason someone Buttigieg’s age (37)  should be familiar with a cartoon character who was at the height of his fame 45 years ago but this old fart found Trump’s observation hilarious. Say what you will about him but Trump does have a sense of humor. I still laugh at his contention during the 2016 primaries that former Texas Governor Rick Perry started wearing glasses to make him look smart. But I probably shouldn’t have put that in writing. Some of you will write me off because I just said something positive about Trump. 

Did I say I voted for him or agree with his policies? Nope. The mere fact that I mentioned Trump's sense of humor will be enough to convince some snowflake readers that I must like him and so, because they hate him and everything he stands for, they will no longer like me, in which case all I can say in response is (scroll down even though you know what's coming) ...

The boy in the oval picture frame

This column was first published in the Wilton (Conn.) Villager the week before Memorial Day, 2000. It was reprinted in the paper twice and this is the third time it has appeared on tomdryden.com. Several people mentioned in the original have died since I wrote it, and I've made a few updates to reflect their passing. 

Atop a table in our guest room is a hand-tinted photograph, taken in the summer of 1933.

The photo is of my grandparents, Burton and Judith Tate, and the first four of what would eventually become a brood of 14 grandchildren born over a span of 35 years.

On my grandfather's lap is my cousin Robert, six months old. Robert grew up to be a computer specialist. Grandma is holding another baby, my cousin Nancy. She grew up to be a nurse. Kneeling in front of them is my six-year-old cousin Paul, who, when he grew up, married his childhood sweetheart and became an Army General. Next to Paul is my cousin Jimmy, a boy of four. Jimmy was killed in Korea in 1951. He was 21.

Nancy, Paul and Jimmy were the children of my mother's sister, Margaret, a tiny wisp of a woman. In 1923, Margaret married a giant of a man, Pat Timmerberg, who stood six feet three inches tall. Pat's parents had immigrated from Germany and settled on a farm near my grandparents' Missouri home. When America entered World War I, Pat joined up and was shipped off to fight his own people in the fields of France.

Margaret and Pat's oldest, Paul, joined the army in 1945, the year he graduated from high school, just in time for VJ Day. Like his father, Paul showed a natural aptitude for soldiering. He was selected for Officer Candidate School and, shortly thereafter, was a Second Lieutenant, on his way to earning his stars.

Jimmy, who graduated from high school in 1947, enlisted in the army the next year, when he was 19. After basic training, he was sent to Colorado, where he captained the 21st Engineer's basketball team. He was shipped to the Yukon for eight months, back to Colorado and, in August, 1950, to Korea, where he was a machine gunner with the 21st Infantry Regiment of the 24th Division.

Jimmy was killed in action near Changgong-Ni on April 28, 1951. His tour of duty was almost over.

When they received word of Jimmy's death, the Timmerbergs were preparing for Nancy's high school graduation. She had graduated first in her class, and was looking forward to giving the valedictorian's speech at Montgomery City High School. She went ahead and delivered it, though her heart was broken and the audience knew it.

In those days before jet planes, families often had to wait months for their loved ones to arrive home for burial. Jimmy's flag-draped casket arrived in Montgomery City on a Wabash train on November 20, and he was buried with full military honors. According to his obituary posted on cousin Robert's family web site, a quartet sang "In The Sweet By and By" and "Safe In The Arms of Jesus." A solo, "God Understands," was also performed. My mother couldn't attend. She was in the hospital, having given birth to me three days earlier.

We visited Aunt Margaret and Uncle Pat often when I was growing up. They were always full of news about Paul and Nancy and their growing families. But I was always aware of the presence of a third Timmerberg cousin, a handsome dark-haired boy of 18 or so with a fixed broad smile, who peered from a gold oval frame on the dining room wall. Of him, never a word was spoken.

Pat died in 1963 and Margaret, who lived alone, began spending a lot of time at our house with my mother. They spent hours discussing the family and events of the past. But they would never mention Jimmy. Every Memorial Day, my mother took Margaret, who never learned to drive, to the cemetery, and they would return looking grim.

As a teenager, I used to accuse Aunt Margaret of being a pessimist. She wasn't much fun to be around. She always seemed to look on the dark side, to expect the worst out of life.

I take it all back, Aunt Margaret. Once I held my own sons in my arms, I understood. And now that one of them has two sons of his own, I understand even more. And I want to tell you this: You were amazing. I don't know how you were able to go on, but you did.

Margaret died in 1988, and was laid to rest next to Jimmy and Pat, near my grandparents. My mother continued making the trek to the cemetery every Memorial Day until she stopped driving.

Paul died in 2008 and was buried at Arlington in an impressive military ceremony with a 13-cannon salute befitting his rank. He was inducted into the Military Police Hall of Fame and there is a building named for him at Ft. Leonard Wood.

Up to the day before she died in 2015, Mom talked on the phone at least once a week with the last of my Timmerberg cousins, Nancy, and kept me up to date with what was going on with her and her family.

But nobody in our family ever spoke, or speaks, of Jimmy. I don't think those who knew him can. Though his headstone has faded, the horror of his loss never will, until the last person who loved him is gone. And there aren't many of them left.

Many of my grandparents' 14 grandchildren accomplished great things. One graduated from West Point, as did Paul's son, their great-grandson. The youngest, named for his cousin Jimmy, ran a major music company. All of us married, most had children and grandchildren, and two are even great-grandparents.

Scattered from Florida to California, the ten of us who are left will celebrate Memorial Day. We'll enjoy sunshine and picnics. And I guarantee that all of us will remember the boy in the oval picture frame on Aunt Margaret's dining room wall, the boy who, unlike the rest of us, never grew old.

I hope that, whatever else you have planned, you will also take the time to remember Jimmy ... the hundreds of thousands of other young men and women who paid for our freedom with their lives ... and their parents, like Uncle Pat and Aunt Margaret, who buried the best of themselves with them.

Why I'm watching Jeopardy! again

I’m watching Jeopardy! again, a show I stopped watching several years ago.

The reason I’ve returned to the fold: The current champion, James Holzhauer, makes Ken Jennings, the all-time champ who won more than 70 consecutive games, look dim-witted by comparison.

Holzhauer, a professional sports gambler in his early thirties, employs an unorthodox game strategy that, over the last 15 days, has earned him more than $1 million. I've no idea how long he will remain champion but if I had to guess, the reason he will exit is because he will grow bored and want to get out of the studio to spend his winnings. The producers are going to have to search high and low to find someone who can outplay this guy.

I’ve loved Jeopardy! since the original version, starring Art Fleming, debuted in 1964. I immediately applied to be a contestant and received a letter thanking me for my interest but informing me 12-year-olds weren’t accepted. Luckily, when Jeopardy! in its second and current incarnation, starring Alex Trebek, premiered in the mid-eighties, I was accepted. (For that story, click https://thomasdryden.blogspot.com/2014/05/how-i-went-on-jeopardy-with-hickey-size.html .)

As it has been since the beginning, Jeopardy! is played bass-ackwards compared to other game shows: The host reveals an answer to which the players must provide the correct question. But today's version is significantly different than the original in many ways:

1. It’s in color. (Duh.) 

2.  The answers on the game board are revealed electronically. In the first version, before digitization, a cover was raised manually to reveal each answer.

3. It is impossible to discern which player knew the question first which, in my opinion, should be every bit as germane to the scoring as knowing the correct question to ask. Originally, players were able to “buzz in” the moment they knew (or thought they knew) an answer, from the split second the cover was lifted until a few seconds after Fleming had finished reading the answer aloud. Speed readers ruled. When Trebek took over, he didn’t want players interrupting him so players are now forbidden from buzzing in until he finishes reading an answer in its entirety. A computer determines the nano-second Alex finishes, and only then are players able to buzz in. The player who knows the answer first isn’t necessarily the one who gets to answer it.

4. The current version has been dumbed down to the point it annoys some serious fans.

For example, an answer from the original version, under the category of “Presidents,” might have been phrased: “He was known as the Father of our Country." That’s two clues — one from the category title and one in the answer.

Today, the answer in the same category would likely be, “Our nation’s capital is named for him, the commander of the Continental Army, who is also known as the Father of our Country.” Four clues.

That’s a big difference — the difference between having to connect two dots or having the exponentially easier option of having three or four paths to lead to the correct question.

An answer on last night’s show under the category “What’s for Dinner,” revealed a photo of a plate of tamales with the following text: “You have to go south of the border to get these — get them while they’re hot!.” Four clues again. The category and plate of tamales would have sufficed or, at the very least, only one of the two additional clues should have been included.

A few days ago Holzhauer blew past $1 million in winnings by correctly providing the Final Jeopardy question to this answer in the category of "American History": "On May 1, 1869, these two men met at the White House 4 years & 3 weeks after a more historic meeting between them." In that case there were five clues: American; the participants were men; it happened four years after 1865 which even the most casual student of American history should know is the year the Civil War ended; the meeting took place at the White House, an indication a president was most likely one of the two men; and the two had met before at an event of some consequence. All three contestants came up with the right question, Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee. So did my dachshund, Rupert.

Four or five clues aren’t provided for all the questions but most contain at least three which makes the game less challenging for viewers who want to test their own wits against the players rather than watching passively. My wife and I found all those gratuitous clues so annoying we stopped watching until the media hoopla about Holzhauer.

If, last night, the first player who recognized the tamales —as they likely all did— could have buzzed as soon as he or she saw the picture without having to listen to Alex read two more clues, viewers would have known which of them was the first to connect the dots. 

But I’m not really complaining. It’s a pleasure watching Holzhauer, who is whip-smart and seems like a good guy. In one episode, he credited his deceased grandmother, who wasn’t a native English speaker, for watching Jeopardy! with him every day after school. He promised her he would someday appear as a contestant and it's nice to imagine her cheering him on from wherever she may be.

One last and unhappy fact about Jeopardy!: Trebek revealed last month that he has stage four pancreatic cancer. Attempting to inject some levity into that shocking announcement, he said he isn’t going to give in to the disease because his contract runs for several more years and so, for now, he’s continuing as host. It is difficult to imagine what a struggle that would be for anyone, much less a man in his late seventies.

Jeopardy! without Alex Trebek would be like a year without the December 25th holiday celebrating the birth of the Christian savior on which Santa often leaves gifts for kids under a decorated tree. 

May his long run continue.

Anything is possible

Don’t tell me there is is nothing that can be done to bring about peace in the Middle East.

Don’t tell me it’s impossible for Hillary Clinton to yet be president. Or for Trump to win a second term in a landslide. 

Don’t tell me you will never be called up to the stage to accept an Oscar. Or be named Super Bowl MVP. Or win the Powerball jackpot. 

Anything — anything — is possible, as I, the world’s unhandiest person, proved today when I changed a light bulb in my pool.

Granted, it took five hours, I had to watch seven youtube "how to" videos, made three trips to the pool supply store, and my index finger is bandaged after being pierced by a screwdriver but, by God, I did it. 

And I’m going to switch it on as soon as I can find a youtube video that will reassure me it’s OK if water got into the fixture as I was screwing it back into the side of the pool.

Help! I need somebody.

I’ve been in denial for months, hoping my many issues would somehow resolve themselves but they haven't, so today I admitted defeat and called a handyman.

I hate dealing with handymen. With the exception of one I hired years ago who has mysteriously disappeared like that Malaysian Airlines jet, the ones I have hired are undependable and inept. My theory is that every idiot handyman who can’t earn a living up north figures he might as well move to Florida where at least he can bask in his ineptitude in perpetual summer.

Another reason I hate calling handymen is that they make me feel inadequate. The reason they make me feel inadequate is because I am. I am completely clueless when it comes to fixing anything. That side of my brain not only doesn’t work, it doesn’t exist, so I don’t know enough to stop a handyman when I see him doing something my gut tells me is wrong. Two years ago when I called one to repair an electrical outlet in the dining room, he removed the toilet in the guest room. I assumed there was wiring under it and they were somehow interconnected. Turns out his boss had given him the wrong “to-do” list — he was supposed to repair the toilet for another client. After he reinstalled it, the toilet leaked so I had to call a plumber in, but he couldn’t fix it. So I called another. The minute he left the kitchen faucet started leaking. For all I know, it's leaking toilet water.

So, I wait until I have a fix-it list as long as my arm — and until my wife insists she can’t live this way another minute — before I make that call.

Right now we have, as mentioned, a leaking kitchen faucet. The pocket door to my wife’s closet has been stuck open for at least a year, leaving a 12-inch gap for her to squeeze through sideways. The termite guy, when he came for his annual inspection today, discovered that the pulldown door to our attic is broken so he couldn't inspect. The house, for all I know, is being held up by termites holding hands.The French doors between the kitchen and living room have swollen from all this humidity and won't shut so they need to be removed and the bottoms shaved off. 

There are burnt out can lights in our family room and living room ceilings. I feel like an idiot having to hire someone to replace light bulbs but the ceiling is 12 feet high and I’m 67. I'd no doubt fall off the ladder and break my hip, catch pneumonia from lying in bed unable to move, and die. I’ve been meaning to have the 21 can lights in those rooms replaced with LED fixtures that supposedly won’t burn out for 45 years so I’m going to have the handyman do it. That way I won't have to get up on a ladder and change the bulbs until I'm 112 but then, I'm sure he'll install them wrong and they'll all come crashing down. That's what happened when I had the last handyman change the fixtures in our bathroom. The new one can fix those, too.

A double-paned window is fogged over, the gutters are full of pine needles, the aluminum cage that towers 20 feet above our pool is covered with green slime and needs to be pressure washed, none of our exterior lights work, and the light in the swimming pool spa burned out after our two-year-old grandson turned it off and on 100 times. I watched a youtube how-to video and decided I could replace it myself but got the shock of my life. Someone told me I should’ve turned off the fuse box. How the hell would I have known that?

The locks on all three sets of sliding glass doors are stuck and we can’t open them. To get to our lanai, we have to go out the front door and circle around the house, then come in through the screen door to the pool cage. Which, come to think of it, doesn't close properly because that tube-like thingie that is supposed to make a hissing sound as it shuts is hanging off the door. Last but not least, we go on daylight savings time this weekend so the clocks in both cars will need to be moved forward. Or is it backwards? I'm never sure.

I’ve asked friends but they all laugh and say they fix those things around their houses themselves. so no, none can recommend a handyman because they, of course, have never needed one, but I'll bet dollars to doughnuts that none of them can conjugate Latin verbs as well as I can.  

And so, once again, I’ve chosen a handyman out of the yellow pages, the one whose ad has the best design and fewest typos. 

He said he will be here two weeks from Friday but he won’t show. 

They never do. 

The Colonoscopy

This souvenir polyp photo was a
lovely parting gift

10:45 a.m.

TD to hospital front desk receptionist:  I have an appointment for a colonoscopy. The doctor said I should be here an hour early. Where do I go?

Receptionist: Can you tell me your name?

TD: Of course I can.

Receptionist: Well, what is it?

TD: Thomas Dryden

Receptionist: Middle initial?

TD: J.

Receptionist: Date of birth?

TD: November 17, 1951.

Receptionist: Take the elevator to the third floor and turn left. The GI lab is the second door on the right. 

TD: Thank you.

10:48 a.m.

TD to GI lab receptionist:  My name is Tom Dryden. I have an appointment for a colonoscopy.

Lab receptionist: Your full name?

TD: Thomas J. Dryden

Lab receptionist: Your date of birth?

TD: November 17, 1951.

Lab receptionist: OK, somebody will be with you in a minute.

11 a.m.

Admitting Clerk:  Thomas?

TD: Right here!

Admitting Clerk: Come with me. Have a seat.

TD: Okay.

 Admitting Clerk: What is your full name?

TD: You already called me. You know it.

Admitting Clerk: I have to ask. It’s the law.

TD: Thomas J. Dryden.

Admitting Clerk: What’s your date of birth?

TD: November 17, 1951.

Admitting Clerk: Do you know why you’re here?

TD: Of course. Do you think I’m here for the sport of it?

Admitting Clerk: Okay then, why?

TD: I’m having a colonoscopy. 

Admitting Clerk: I see we have your insurance information. Go back to the lobby and a nurse will be calling you shortly.

11:16 a.m.

Nurse: Thomas?

TD: Right here.

Nurse: Follow me please. Here’s the room where you’ll be changing into a gown and waiting to go into the examination room. Can you tell me your name?

TD: Why do you people keep asking me this? It’s not instilling much confidence you know what you’re doing.

Nurse: It’s a requirement.

TD: Thomas J. Dryden

Nurse: Now, give me your birthdate.

TD: November 17, 1951.

Nurse: And what procedure are you having done today?

TD: A lobotomy.

Nurse: That’s not what it says here.

TD: Colonoscopy. 

Nurse: Here’s a gown and a plastic bag. Please put the gown on, leave it loosely tied in back, and place any valuables — your wallet, Kindle, glasses, cell phone, etc — in the bag. 

TD: All right.

11:30 a.m.

Anesthesiologist:  Hello, I’m Dr. Payne. (Note to readers: I am not making this up. That was his name.) I’ll be administering your anesthesia today. Can you tell me your name?

TD: On one condition.

Anesthesiologist: What’s that?

TD: That you won’t ask my date of birth. 

Anesthesiologist:  I have to.

TD: OK, Thomas J. Dryden, November 17, 1951. Please knock me out now so I won’t have to answer that again.

Anesthesiologist:  I can’t until we’re in the procedure room.  An aide will be coming to wheel you in there in a few minutes.

11:42 a. m.

Aide: Hi, I’m Michael. I’ll be taking you into the procedure room. Are you ready?

TD: Ted Bundy. January 24, 1989.

Aide: I beg your pardon? What did you say?

TD: Never mind.

11:44 a.m.

Gastroenterologist: Hi Tom, how are you today? Are you ready to get this over with?

TD: I didn’t think there could be anything worse than drinking two jugs of that God-awful laxative stuff and spending the night on the toilet, but I was wrong. Did you know that …

Gastroenterologist: Can you tell me your full name and date of birth?

TD: I had an appointment with you three days ago! Don’t you remember?

Gastroenterologist: It’s policy.

TD: My God, please, please put me out now. I can’t do this any more.

Gastroenterologist: Do what? 

TD: Tell you my name and date of birth one more time.

Gastroenterologist: I have to ask.

TD: Thomas Joseph Dryden, that’s D-R-Y-D-E-N. November 17, 1951. That’s N-O-V-E-M-B-E-R.

Gastroenterologist: Can you tell me why you’re here?

TD: I’m having a C-section — twins, but it might be triplets, I think I felt an extra heartbeat today. 

Gastroenterologist: There’s no reason to yell. 

TD: I’m sorry, but this is fucking insane.

Gastroenterologist: Well, I’d like to remind you I’m holding a five-foot hose I’m about to shove up your ass. I can either be gentle or, if you won’t cooperate, I might not be.

TD: Because I’m having a colonoscopy. I’m sick and tired of having to answer the same questions over and over and over. Look at what the blood pressure monitor says. I’m about to … aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh  (anesthesia kicks in)

12:15 p.m

Nurse: Hi, Mr. Dryden. It’s over, you’re in the recovery room. The doctor will be here to go over the results in a few minutes.

TD:  Ugg … ga … ga…

Nurse: Can you tell me your name?

Goodbye my old friend

"Dad! Someone broke in and stole all the furniture!"
 Rupert in his almost-empty family room. On the left is
 his "Santa Weenie" stuffed toy he got for Christmas

It is always sad to tell your old car good-bye as you drive away in your new one. Will it miss you? Will it be frightened, sitting outside overnight in a strange dealer’s lot when it has spent every night of its life secure in your garage? Does it feel abandoned after years of faithfully transporting you and your loved ones safely? Is is hurt, knowing you are leaving it for a newer, sleeker model? 

I’ve always felt that way about cars but never about furniture until this morning when two men from Habitat for Humanity came to pick up the 12-year-old sectional sofa, matching chair and two tables in our family room we donated to their resale shop. A new sectional will be arriving later today.

I don’t miss the chair -- nobody ever sat in it -- or the tables, though the coffee table did make a convenient prop for my feet.  But, now that it's gone, I do find myself missing that sofa. 

I spent thousands and thousands of hours on it reading, working on my laptop, cruising the internet, eating, napping and, most nights, watching TV with my wife and a couple of wiener dogs snoring between us.

Our beloved dachshund Bonnie spent ten of her 16 years perched atop one of the back pillows where the two sections came together, a comfy vantage point from which to keep her eye on everything going on inside and outside the house. Bonnie died nearly two years ago, but that pillow never did regain its shape where she squished it down, even after it was re-stuffed.

With its thick, plush upholstery, the sofa was the most comfortable piece of furniture we’ve ever owned. The fabric never frayed or faded, but the cushions and back pillows had become misshapen and the sofa was looking a bit outdated compared to the ones I see in our friends' houses. Sofas today are white or at least light colors and for good reason: Manufacturers know you'll spill something and the stains won't come out so you will have replace them more often. The old sofa was a dark brown tweed. And there was damage not readily apparent to anyone but us. Bonnie's brother Billy Ray, who lost control of his bladder in his final days (not that he or, for that matter, any dachshund ever had 100 percent bladder control in the first place)  peed on it shortly before he went to spend eternity with Bonnie on that tweedy soft sofa in the sky. We were able to get the odor out but the stain remained, so the cushion couldn't be flipped, the unpeed-on side had to remain face up. Bonnie’s successor, Rupert, in his early days, chewed a corner of a cushion we were able to disguise when company came by covering it with a throw pillow. Another cushion could no longer be reversed because it would have revealed a stain from the plate of spaghetti and meatballs I once spilled.

The new sofa was my idea. My wife said she was fine with the old one but I convinced her to go shopping on a recent afternoon and the first sofa we saw, we bought. That’s how we always make almost any major purchase— a house, car, furniture, you name it. 

So, I’m waiting for a call informing me the furniture delivery truck is on the way and, in an hour or so, the room won’t be so empty. We’re not replacing the tables or chair yet; we’re going to live with just the sofa, which is bigger than the last one, for now. We may not need a chair at all.

I just the hope the old sofa, bouncing around in the back of a darkened truck somewhere, isn’t hurt or frightened or feeling unloved, and that the next person or family who buys it will appreciate it, enjoy it, live, learn, and relax on it, and treat it better than we did.

Bonnie in the place where she spent most of her 16 years.

Tom Dryden's World-Famous Lemon Chess Pie (with step-by-step instructions)

It was a custom, in the rural Missouri town where I grew up, to bake a pie on New Year’s Eve, place it on a neighbor’s front porch, ring the doorbell, then run off into the night, leaving the recipient to enjoy the pie and wonder who left it.

At least it was until New Year’s Eve 1962 when Arlene Spoonmacher made a chocolate meringue pie using Ex-Lax in lieu of Hershey’s Cocoa and left it on Wanda Faye Green's front porch. Wanda Faye, Arlene later told the sheriff, had been making goo-goo eyes at her husband at church the previous Sunday. Wanda Faye survived but lost 12 pounds she didn’t need to lose. After that, nobody in town would touch a pie they or an immediate family member hadn’t made themselves, so the custom died out. 

Still, to this very day, I get a hankering for pie on New Year’s Eve. This year I decided to make chess pie. The decision was easy: It’s the only pie I know how to make.

Chess pie, if you are unfamiliar with it, is a southern speciality. It is rich, smooth, custardy and darn near foolproof. If I can make one, you can, too. Legend has it the pie got its name when someone who was wowed by what he was eating asked the cook what kind of pie it was. “It ain’t nothing special,” she drawled. “It’s jest pie.” 

Plain chess pie is good but lemon chess pie rises several notches above it when it comes to delicious delectability.

I usually make mine with bottled lemon juice but today’s pie is gonna be extra special because I’m making it with lemons from our next door neighbors’ tree, which is so heavily laden with ripe, tart fruit it is literally bending over.

Our neighbors' lemon tree. It's very pretty and
the lemon flower is sweet but the fruit of the poor lemon
is impossible to eat unless it's baked into Tom Dryden's
world-famous Lemon Chess Pie.

We have an open invitation to help ourselves, so I went over and picked three of them — lemons the size of softballs containing so much juice I only needed one to make this recipe. What I’ll do with the other two I haven’t a clue. 

Disregard the greenish color.
This is what lemons, fresh-from-the-tree, look like. 

And so, without further adieu — I know you’re anxious to start cooking — here’s everything you need to know to make Tom Dryden’s World-Famous Lemon Chess Pie.

Step 1: Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Step 2: Squeeze 1/2 cup of lemon juice from softball-sized lemon taken from neighbor’s tree. If your neighbors don’t have a lemon tree, buy some small ones at the store and squeeze them until you have half a cup of juice. (Helpful tip: Be sure to remove the seeds from the juice, otherwise someone could choke on them which wouldn’t get 2019 off to a good start for you or them.) If it’s too much work to squeeze the lemons, you can use ReaLemon bottled juice or juice from one of those plastic lemons you’ll find in the produce section in which case you don’t have to worry about seeds.

Dice that lemon rind into small pieces, as shown here

Step 3: Remove skin from half of the gigantic lemon (or from two small lemons), peel away and discard the pulp inside, and, using a zester, grate the skin. If you do not have a zester (the first time I made this pie I had to look online to find out what a zester is) you can do what I do and dice it into really, really tiny eensy-bitsy pieces with a sharp knife. 

Step 4:  Remove two frozen pie shells from freezer and allow them to come to room temperature — about 15 minutes. I should have done this before I started Step 1 but I didn’t. 

You know what butter looks like but everyone's so damn visually-oriented
 these days they expect a photo of just about everything
 so I'm showing you one here. 

Step 5: Nuke 2 cups of butter for about 40 seconds until it is soft but not melted. Place in large bowl of stand mixer. 

Surely you know what a bag of sugar looks like.
If you don't, stop right now because you
aren't going to be able to make this pie,
 you're too stupid.

Step 6: Add 2 cups of sugar. 

 

And the beat goes on.
For about two minutes or
until creamy.

Step 7: Beat butter and sugar until creamy.

Step 8: Go to fridge for eggs. Realize you don’t have any.

Step 9: Drive two miles to supermarket and buy eggs.

Aunt Margaret's mixer is used to beat the eggs.

Step 10: Using a different mixer (or the same one, once you have washed the beaters), beat 10 eggs thoroughly. (Helpful tip: Be sure to crack the eggs open, discard the shells, and place the yolks/whites in a bowl before beating.) In this picture I’m using our 1970s olive green General Electric portable mixer that was given to us as a wedding present by my Aunt Margaret, who was a terrific cook. Margaret had a major sweet tooth — she always had freshly-baked cakes and/or pies on hand, and kept a huge glass candy bowl filled with Brach’s Pick-A-Mix on her coffee table. Despite her sweet tooth, Aunt Margaret never weighed more than 100 pounds, if that. Aunt Margaret’s green mixer has moved with us to St. Louis, Chicago, Manhattan, Connecticut and Florida and we always think fondly of her whenever we use it. She would have most definitely approved of this pie. 

 

Do not add the lemon juice at this step
like I'm doing here. 

Step 11: Pour beaten eggs into butter/sugar mixture and beat until smooth. (I forgot to take a picture of this important step so I'm showing a picture of the lemon juice being added, which comes later. Try to imagine this cup contains the beaten eggs. You can imagine that without seeing a picture, can't you?)

Step 12:  Go to pantry for flour and corn meal. Realize you are out of flour.

Step 13: Return to supermarket to buy flour. 

Who would have thunk Clinton is a Lemon Chess Pie fan too?

Step 14: After noting that the recipe on the web site you are following calls for two cups of milk, realize that this isn’t the recipe for which you are famous — your Lemon Chess Pie recipe isn't made with milk. This recipe is for something called “Bill Clinton’s Lemon Chess Pie.” Given the vast quantities of butter, sugar, eggs and milk it contains, it’s probably one of the main reasons he had to undergo open heart surgery. 

Now you can add the lemon juice, as well
as the rest of the ingredients

Step 15: Feeling foolish, thinking you were making the recipe you’ve made for years (but, in your defense, you haven’t made for at least a year), add to butter/sugar/egg mixture two cups of milk, two tablespoons of flour, two tablespoons of corn meal, lemon juice and lemon zest.

Step 16:  Beat for a couple of minutes on ‘high.” (Helpful tip: Mixer should be on “high,” not you.)

Step 17: Call small dog over (if available) to lick up any mixture that splatters on the floor.

Step 18: Pour mixture into two pie shells.  

Step 19: Realizing you have enough mixture left over for two more pies, place filled pies in oven for 35 to 38 minutes.

Step 20: While pies are baking, return to supermarket to buy two more frozen pie shells.

Step 21: Remove pies from oven once the filling begins to brown around the edges. Don't let the pie crusts get too brown!

Step 22: Pour remaining mixture into the two new pie shells, and bake per step 19.

Four picture perfect pies

Step 23: Allow all four pies to cool.

Step 24: Take one pie to neighbor whose lemons you stole.

Step 25:  Take another pie to another neighbor.

Step 26: Slice into third pie and realize you should have tasted it before you gave it to your neighbors but then relax because …. this pie is incredible. Bill Clinton’s pie is much, much, much tastier than the one you’ve been making all these years but then, your wife is better than his — she doesn’t run maniacally for president then write tell-all books blaming everyone else but herself for her losses — and, all things considered, you’d rather be remembered for having a wonderful sweet wife than for having a stupid pie recipe.

Step 27: Over next two hours polish off third pie.

Step 28: Place fourth pie in fridge to share with your significant other. You’re not going out tonight because you don’t like to go out on New Year’s Eve — not that you have had any invitations anyway — and will be staying in to watch episodes 3 and 4 of “Escape at Dannemora” on Showtime for which Patricia Arquette is all but guaranteed a Best Actress Emmy.

Step 29:  Have a Happy New Year and remember to stay away from any chocolate pies found on your doorstep because they might not be chocolate after all. 

Bill Clinton’s Tom Dryden’s Famous Lemon Chess Pie

Makes two deep-dish or four regular-sized pies

(Note: I changed Bill Clinton's recipe ever-so-slightly to, as the judges on American Idol used to tell contestants, “make it my own.”)

Unbaked pie shell

1 cup butter, softened

2 cups white sugar

10 beaten eggs (shells removed)

2 cups milk — 1% is fine

2 tablespoons flour

2 tablespoons corn meal

1/2 cup lemon juice

Zest from 1/2 of a huge lemon or 2 small lemons

Mix ingredients thoroughly (beat eggs separately and add to butter/sugar mixture) in order listed, pour into four pie shells, and bake 35-38 minutes @ 350 degrees.