Tony Talks

Greetings all. Welcome to the wacky world of 18th St. Tommy. Here’s the report for July 18. Dig in!

Tony talks

My cat talks to me. He speaks plain English. Trick is, he only does this when no one else can hear.

Tuesday night while I was preparing dinner, Tony and I were in the kitchen. Laura was over here at the store, so the two cats, Tony and Sam, and I were at home alone.

Often when I am cooking, I simply leave the refrigerator door open. Saves time. Makes my job easier. I can reach the beer quicker.

This time, Tony decided to take the opportunity to get into the refrigerator and explore.

It was pork chop night, and I had the meat in a bowl in the refrigerator. Tony looked at the fresh meat. Then he looked back at me. And he said:

“I am interested in eating this.”

I shooed Tony out of there and shut the door. Then when Laura came home, I tried to tell the story, but I gave up when she gave me that funny look.

The Frontier Days train

Thursday about noon the Union Pacific passenger train came through our neighborhood, Denver-bound from the Frontier Days hoo-rah in Cheyenne.

Trains in our neighborhood are usually an annoyance, a deafeningly noisy fact of life having to do with hauling coal for generating electricity and steel for recycling.

This time, the old black steam engine and the Vista Dome passenger cars provided a few moments of respite for us, a reason to pause and watch.

Laura had heard the antique train coming, and came and got me from the house so we could watch the spectacle. I did enjoy watching the old puffer blast its way by. Even more, I enjoyed watching Laura’s face while she watched the train.

I wish you could have been here to see it.

Anhydrous ammonia

That same morning, I had been reading in our living room and I watched several huge tractor-trailer tankers come and go from the chemical plant up the street.

The label on each bright white tanker said, “Anhydrous Ammonia.” The tractors were all in immaculate condition, shiny and clean and powerful. The drivers were attentive and cautious.

It’s delightful to watch over-the-road trucking equipment, up close, at slow speed. It’s fun to live where I live, to experience what I do.

I wish you could have been here to see it.

James Herrera

Our friend James has died.

Laura and I first met James about eight years ago. When we met, he and his brother John were at NCMC visiting their ill sister, Esther Quintana.

The next time our paths crossed, James had become a resident at Bonell Good Samaritan Community. It was during countless visits to Bonell that we had the privilege of getting to know James.

A lifelong sufferer of Multiple Sclerosis, James was restricted to his bed or his wheelchair for most of his life. He was 73 when he died, and the entire population of Bonell grieved at losing him.

A devout Catholic, James was also a natural born greeter. Everyone, everywhere he went, got a smile, a wave and a greeting from James. Because of his outgoing nature, literally everyone employed or living at Bonell knew him by name.

We came to respect the Herrera family – because they were just that, a family. If Esther was in the hospital, John and James and other family members would be there. If it was James on our hospital list, John and Esther would be there. John often visited James at Bonell.

One day we caught on to ask James to pray for us. Let me tell you from first-hand experience, when the disabled pray, it is powerful prayer.

Now, we know that his feet are no longer gnarled and useless, his hands are no longer twisted and unpredictable. We know that his voice can be heard clearly now, and that his teeth no longer give him agony day and night.

So we ask James to pray for us now, from where he is. We love you James.

The Transfer

For some reason, I often get to be there to witness those uncomfortable parking-lot child-exchange events in which divorced parents find themselves immersed.

It happens in our parking lot here at the store. It happens at the liquor store or the cigarette store. We see it often.

It happened again last Sunday, just outside The Pepper Pod Restaurant in Hudson.

A girl of 8 or 9 was moving her belongings from her Mom’s mini-van to her Dad’s mini-van. A cute little thing, she grunted under the weight of a large duffel bag, a suitcase and two or three stuffed animals.

Suddenly, she looked up at her Daddy and said plaintively, “Sorry I always have to bring so much crap, Dad.”

Crap. That’s what she said. Crap. It isn’t much of a leap from “bring so much crap” to “I am so much crap.”

The things we do to our children. It just stinks, it really stinks. Crap.

The endodontist

I had the distinct privilege of visiting the endodontist twice in the last eight days.

Yep. Two root-canals. Count ‘em, two.

You think I’m going to whine about the pain, right? You’re wrong. I was so swollen for a while that I looked like a chipmunk, but the doctor’s attentions to me relieved any pain. He didn’t hurt me.

We had just gotten our “stimulus” check a few days earlier. When I got the bill from the dentist, all the “stimulus” went out of it. A “stimulus” of three times as much would have covered the dentist’s fees.

It would have been difficult for me to survive without the attentions of the dentist. Still, I think the fee was exorbitant.

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Word of the week: Pyromania or pyromaniac. It comes from modern Latin, “Pyro,” meaning fire, and “mania” meaning compulsion. So a pyromaniac is a person having a persistent compulsion to start dangerous fires.

The only true pyromaniac in my personal experience was a man recently returned from World War II. He joined the Volunteer Fire Department in Fort Lupton back in the 1940’s.

His nickname was “Smoky.”

Next week’s word: Protestant.

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Gripes? Complaints? Whines? or Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Reciprocal rant? Feel free to express yourself in the comments!