My (B)log Book - Anecdotes, Essays and Other "Ramblings"

By Horst Schenk

This book is a compilation of entries in my blog and other writings that I have produced over the years. Some of my ramblings are of a serious nature, some are meant to be funny, others are meant to be satirical, and yet others are self-deprecating by design.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329693784

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My (B)log Book - Anecdotes, Essays and Other "Ramblings"

My (B)log Book – Anecdotes, Essays and Other Ramblings

Copyright©2015 Horst A. Schenk

Cover Design: Author

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

ISBN 978-1-329-69378-4

Foreword

When I started my blog, The Rambler, I wrote: I do a lot of thinking. I think about this and I think about that. Sometimes I write down what I’m thinking about, most of the time I just keep my thoughts to myself, often intending to write them down later. However, there is no great incentive to write something down that no one will read; as a result, most of my thoughts have not gotten written down in the past. Therefore, I have decided to start a blog and to write down my mental ramblings (thus the name of this blog), as if someone would read them. This way I can pretend that I have an audience with whom I can share my thoughts without actually asking anyone to read what I have written. It is also a convenient way to keep all the random thoughts, anecdotes, essays, observations, etc. in one place. So, here goes!

This book is a compilation of entries in my blog and other writings that I have produced over the years. Some of my ramblings are of a serious nature, some are meant to be funny, others are meant to be satirical, and yet others are self-deprecating by design. Furthermore, to preclude any misunderstandings, when I refer to my friend I am referring to my wife of over 50 years. I use the term my friend in a loving, tongue-in-cheek sense. I learned to refer to her that way from a former boss and friend who always referred to his wife that way. It seemed to me a more interesting way to refer to a person who is truly a friend not just a wife.

Anecdotes

Skinny Dipping

Two years ago I bought a plastic above-ground pool for the backyard of our summer cottage. It has been the best investment I ever made! Not only the grandchildren use it, but my friend and I cool off in it.

When we are alone we sometimes go skinny dipping. One weekend some of our grandchildren visited and cooled off in the pool. When my friend told five year old Lily that we sometimes go skinny dipping, she exclaimed: Oh my god, I'm in skinny dipping water!

I Get no Respect!

Rodney Dangerfield used to say that he got no respect. Well, I get no respect either. All my life I have been trying to do the right things. People don't know that I have an overpowering sense of responsibility, that is, I feel compelled to warn other people of a danger that I, and maybe just I, perceive. But instead of respecting me for it, people laugh at my actions. Well, sometimes I have to laugh too. What the heck, to keep your sanity you have to laugh at yourself sometimes, especially when, in retrospect, what you did really is funny. The two accounts here are examples of what I mean.

No Moo, Bull

One day in late summer my friend, her sister, our Boxer, and I went for a hike in the Swiss Alps. We wanted to show my friend's sister the wonderful hike we had taken once before with friends. Everything was green, mountain flowers were blooming in the lower portions of the mountains, and above the treeline at the very tops of some of the mountains there were some snowfields, which probably never totally melt away. We drove up a valley and parked our car. Our goal was to go to the top station of one of the ski lifts that serve that valley, then to walk along a ridge to a point above a man-made reservoir, descend to the dam that holds the water back, cross the dam, and then hike down the valley back to our car along the stream that originates at the dam. The ski lift in question was operating, not for skiers, but taking hikers up, and some back down, the mountain. Using the lift would have been the preferred method of completing the first leg of our journey, however, Kyra, our dog, was deathly afraid of contraptions that swayed freely in the air and no amount of persuasion could get her to sit still in the open chair lift - so we hiked up.

We started to walk up the side of the mountain on a gravel service road that leads to the upper station of the ski lift. This gravel road snakes its way up the steep mountain. After several curves I decided that during my previous ascent we had taken a shortcut diagonally up the mountain across some cow pastures rather than laboriously following the switching back and forth of the winding gravel road. We entered the cow pasture at what promised to be a path and followed it for quite some time before it became clear that the cows that had trodden the path weren't going to the ridge where we wanted to go but were just meandering across the sloping terrain. So we reversed course and tried another path. Again, it did not lead to where we wanted to go, in fact it ended at a water trough. Somewhere along the way my friend's sister tipped over (the mountain was fairly steep so when you fell toward the slope you more or less tipped over, rather than falling) and bruised the pinky on her left hand, which caused her and us enormous grief, because it hurt her, and her lamenting about it annoyed us. As the searching for the path continued, I wasn't worried that we were lost. Although we had been hiking for about an hour and a half by then due to all the zigzagging and reversing of direction, we were still within sight of our car, which was below us in the valley.

We finally managed to stumble upon the real path and reached the top of the ridge where we could not get lost - you could not stray from the path because on either side it dropped off pretty steeply. The view was gorgeous, valleys on both sides with higher mountains rising beyond the valleys and as far as the eye could see. The air was considerably cooler up there and we had to traverse several of the snowfields we had seen earlier from below. Kyra performed admirably, as long as her feet were firmly on the ground the height or the sheer drop-off on either side didn't seem to bother her. In my imagination I issued her the title of Honorary Mountain Goat.

Somewhere along the line we passed a middle-aged couple having a little lunch at the side of the path. They were obviously French-speakers because in response to the obligatory greeting which I uttered in German, they responded with, Bon Jour. Other than these two souls, we were all alone during the whole hike.

Well, almost alone. As we came to the point where we were to start our descent to the dam, we noticed that a herd of big, black, ferocious-looking beasts with horns occupied the meadow through which the path down to the dam led. One beast was lying plum across the path, another was standing with two legs on it, and the others were scattered around strategically, effectively blocking all avenues down to the dam. Upon examining the beasts from the distance it appeared to me that due to the lack of any visible milk-filled utters, these were not mere milk cows (as are often found on mountain meadows in the summer in the Alps), therefore they must be bulls. Ferocious-looking, probably angry bulls. Angry perhaps because of the absence of any females of their species.

I bade the ladies to stay where they were, took Kyra on a short leash, and decided to reconnoiter the scene. My heart was pounding and Kyra was shaking from excitement (the smell of the beasts rather than the sense of any danger excited her). The meadow had been cleared of most of the rocks, which were piled neatly in several piles scattered throughout the meadow. I hoped at first that the piles of stones would serve as a measure of protection, but I soon discovered that the piles were only about two feet high, hardly serving as an obstacle for a ferocious, charging bull. Furthermore, there was no way to skirt the meadow - some more rock had been piled at the sides and the natural mountain environment made it impossible to go around the meadow that way without engaging in the sport (or art) of mountain climbing. So, the only alternative was to follow the path right through the herd of beasts.

As Kyra and I approached to within about ten yards, the beast standing on the path turned its head toward us, stared at the dog and me (we having stopped dead in our tracks), and uttered a low sound that sounded like, Humm! Immediately all the other beasts turned their heads toward us and uttered, Humm! That was enough of a warning for me to gingerly retreat backwards up the mountain to where the two women were waiting. I had to practically drag Kyra with me, because she definitely wanted to make closer acquaintance with the beasts. As I got further up the mountain and away from the beasts, I dared to turn around to look at the two women who were sitting in the grass enjoying the spectacle of me and the dog inching our way toward the beasts and then retreating at first cautiously, then post haste. Much to my irritation, I thought I perceived a touch of amusement in their faces, which was rapidly dispelled when I ordered my friend to immediately remove her red hat, because everyone knows that bulls become infuriated when they see red.

As we deliberated what to do, down from the ridge came the French-speaking couple we had passed on the trail. It was without question, I had to warn them of the danger that lay ahead. Since I knew that they spoke French, I invoked my best Pidgin-French and said to them, Attention, no moo, bull, with the emphasis on the bull, while pointing downhill at the great beasts that were still staring uphill at us. The French-speaking couple looked at me as if I had dropped in from another planet, so I tried to explain with pointing and another French word that came to mind, the word for dog, chien, to indicate that the dog and I had tried to go past the beasts. The French-speaking man said, Oh, chien, and then in French-accented German said, Kommen Sie and started down the hill toward the beasts. I took a firm grip on Kyra's leash, determined to let her go and fend for herself at the slightest sign of danger, nodded to the ladies, and followed the man. My two companions and the French-speaking lady followed. When we reached the most threatening of the beasts that was straddling the path and which seemed to be somewhat of a leader because whenever it turned its head all the others seemed to do the same, the courageous stranger leading us to what I thought was our certain doom, reached out, grabbed the bull by one of its horns, and pushed its head aside, upon which the beast uttered, Humm, and ambled a few steps away from the path, totally ignoring the parade of humans, but keeping an eye on the dog. As the man reached for the horn with his large, weathered hand it occurred to me that he may have had some experience in handling great beasts such as these - a farmer on vacation, perhaps. It suddenly also became clear to me what he meant by, Oh, chien. The great beasts were reacting to the dog rather than to my lowly presence when we had first approached them.

I felt a little chagrined all the way down to the dam, yet still a little apprehensive until we reached the bottom of the meadow where there was a flimsy fence that would not have