A Night at the Gallery...

Tonight at Gallery 15 at 15 E. Main St. in Peru, Indiana...

Come and join us!

...and...

 

"Are You Sixty Yet?" by Liz Flaherty

"Are you sixty yet?"

I wish I'd grinned at him and said, "Just." But I didn't. I gaped and then I grinned and said, "Well past it, but thank you."

I usually forget to ask for the senior discount available in a lot of places, and I think servers and cashiers are reluctant to offer it because they don't want to insult anyone by (1) referring to their age or (2) being wrong about their age. They also don't want to open themselves to the flak offered up by people who don't even want their age noticed, much less acknowledged. I don't blame anyone a bit for not stepping into that particular fray. 

There are downsides to being well past sixty, many of them having to do with worn out joints, deteriorating senses, medical appointments, and pillboxes on the counter. Forgetfulness, slowing reflexes, and invisibility create fears not unlike the ones in adolescence, when it seemed as if no one liked you, everyone was cooler than you, and your parents didn't understand squat. 

With the downsides, there are sometimes tradeoffs. Losing people is incredibly hard, but having had them is like the sun rising and setting--it's a gift every single day. Generally retirement income is less. Sometimes the kind of less that means choices between food and medication, food and new shoes, food and rent. The discount that is often offered is both appreciated and, in some cases, necessary. While being invisible to so many can be hurtful, sometimes being left alone is a blessing. Privacy offers benefits.  

I have to admit, for some of the over-sixty crowd, age is open season for being rude, for feeling entitled, for disrespecting every demographic except their own. As much as I despise hearing Hey, Boomer, I sometimes understand the reason for it. I still remember the man standing in the express line at Marsh in Logansport with his full cart of groceries. He'd stood in line all his life, he said, it was "their" turn now. Behind him, on the feet I'd been standing on for eight hours, I didn't appreciate him a bit. I still don't. 

Just speaking for myself, of course, I don't think anyone's entitled to that kind of rudeness--even ones like me, who are...well, almost 60.

I know I've talked about age a gazillion times on this blog. I can almost hear there she goes again whistling in on the cool October wind. But mostly I just wanted to tell about Ed, the guy with the smile at My Pizza My Way, who said, "Are you sixty yet?" and made my day. I wanted to thank him. 

On the 25th, stop by Gallery 15 from 6:30-8:00 PM for a book signing with Debby Myers, Kathy Oldfather, Joe DeRozier, and me. Buy a book or two, listen to the readings at 7:00, peruse the beautiful art, and visit a while. 

Have a good week. Notice somebody--and be nice to them. 

The Dusty Baker and Book #5 by Joe DeRozier

So, book 5, "The Pond and Wet Clothes...I Can't Stop Smelling Them", will be coming out soon in its usual mediums, and I'm pretty excited.

Every time I get Mellanie Szereto (a REAL author) to go over my scribbles, set up my cover, and arrange the publishing of my next book, I get excited because I feel it's the best one I've done.

To be perfectly honest, I'm almost done with book #9 (that has to scare the bejeebers out of you) and I feel each one is better than the previous one.

Starting with book 5, there is going to be a surprise.

... well, it would have been a surprise, but I'm just going to blurt it out because I want to write about it.

I know this isn't going to change the world or anything...

...but, in addition to an ebook, a paperback, and hardcover, it's going to be offered in Audiobook.

The first thing I was asked by my kids when I told them, was "Are you reading it?"

Oh heck no.

I read one of my stories for a commercial a couple years ago, and they made me re-record it several times.

It was explained to me that I talk funny. Apparently, you can take the boy out of Wisconsin, but it's tough to get that Wisconsin accent out of the boy.

Another thing is that I tend to go rogue when I read one of my scribbles out loud.

I'll follow along for a line or two, and then disregard the script and just start telling my story off the cuff. Inevitably, I'll stumble onto a better way to tell it, and I'll want to rewrite my entire book.

If you've met me and had the displeasure of having to hear one of my stories firsthand, you know I can get pretty animated. I have different voices, I speed up for certain parts and slow down for dramatic pauses.

It's a show...

...a terrible, never ending, show...

So wisdom dictated that it was best to get a professional.

So, my people (ok, ok, "my people" is Mellanie) got hold of her people, (Jocqueline M Protho) and I signed with a company that introduced different voices.

There were decisions to make right off the bat.

Male or female?

One narrator doing the whole book or different readers for different stories?

I was given a sample size of eight different people.

All the voices were professional and articulate, and while they were good at reading a serious story, I didn't know if it would necessarily translate to a funny one.

And none of them sounded like the voices I hear in my head when I'm writing the stories...

...no kidding. I hear my stories as I write them.

Each auditioning talent gave me two samples, and then I had to decide who the very unlucky person would be that would have to read and repeat aloud (word by excruciating word) my entire book.

I tried sending the samples to my family to get their opinion, but most wouldn't even open their emails once they learned what it contained...

...and I can't be mad at them.

Phil Thron was finally selected, and I convinced (conned) a couple very good friends to listen to the final product in order to correct any mispronunciations of the many words I've created (blame the voices in my head for those).

Cindy Mullet, who wrote the intro, and Brenda Henderson, a good friend from Logansport, were the two poor souls I talked into helping.

Both Cindy and Brenda would listen to a few stories, then message me to say how great Phil's inflections were.

After listening to hours of my musings, these two martyrs are recovering nicely. Please continue to pray for them as they sit curled up in rocking chairs with blankets over their heads, weeping uncontrollably.

I don't even read my own stuff, so listening to it had been off the table for me, but Brenda insisted that I listen to a couple stories, and I have to say...

... I'm hilarious!

The finished product will be a great gift for a mother-in-law that you can't stand...

... a jerky boss,

...a co-worker who you dislike but have to get a birthday gift for,

...a crappy neighbor,

...or someone going on a long drive that you don't want to ever come back.

Prison systems could pipe it throughout their compound, making inmates repent, and reconsider their life choices...

Detention rooms in school can use it as a punishment...

Moms can play it in the rooms of their toddlers who were put in "time-out". (A guarantee of an instant attitude adjustment, but I can't be sure if there wouldn't be CPS repercussions)...

Ukraine can blare it over big speakers aimed at Russia to acquire an unconditional surrender...

Now that I think about it...

...maybe it will change the world...

You can get all of my books, and pre-order the latest one at:

Joederozierbooks.com

Or

(Tales From Behind the Bakery Door) https://a.co/d/g1xV1P4

Friendship and 33 Dozen by Joe DeRozier

I'm always happy when Joe steps out from behind the table to come through the Window Over the Sink to visit. His stories are always special, and this one is even more so. Thanks for coming, Joe. Take it away. 

There are days I travel to neighboring cities and meet friends in designated areas to deliver donuts. It isn't a highly lucrative adventure for me... Well, not monetarily. I sell them for just $10 a dozen, am out of the bakery for a couple hours, so I have to pay someone to hold down the fort, and try to stay under 25 orders so I don't disrupt the normal routine of my co-workers ("co-workers" is a rather generous title as far as my inclusion in the "co" part). The real compensation comes in the form of interactions with the wonderful people with whom I'm blessed to communicate. Many share with me where they are taking their donuts while wearing smiles from ear to ear.

I met a Mr. Smith, who was stationed in the same area of Panama that I was. I met a man from Chicago who moved here decades ago for a job. His accent is now only slightly prevalent, but completely resurfaces when the topic touches on one of his passions...like paczkis. I've met business owners, young parents, teachers, radio hosts, and even someone I knew in Peru when I first arrived in Indiana. It is not only fun—I like to feel that I am spreading good will.

My last delivery location was Pizza Quik in Rochester (one of my favorites because, ironically, I love Dunkin and never leave their city without gifting them a dozen donuts), and since this venue traditionally fills up quickly, I was keeping my eyes on the number of orders coming in.

 "Ding." My phone alerted me of an incoming message. The communique was from a wonderful lady I had met through Facebook a few months ago. Though certainly not one of my fortes, I happened to remember her name because of its unique spelling and the kind words she had shared with me. She wanted to place an order of 33 dozen donuts for the Rochester delivery. She was pressed for time, and promised to tell me more about the program she wanted to bless at a later time. The whole time were typing, something nagged at me. Something I should remember... But I'm old and have accepted the fact that I forget a lot of things, so paid no further mind to it. Because this order put us well over the number of donuts I usually deliver, I posted that Rochester had filled up, and would be taking no more requests for donuts.

The evening before the delivery, I was doing something close to nothing (name that tune), when... "Ding." My friend messaged me again. I assumed she simply wanted to confirm, or maybe to share with me more about the establishment for which she was buying donuts. Her message read, "I think I've made a terrible mistake. Please call me." She followed that plea with her phone number. Her phone number had an area code I didn't recognize. When I called and heard the intonation in her voice, I immediately remembered that thing that had been nagging me... My friend does indeed live in Rochester... ...Rochester, New York. Our previous communication a few months back, was about getting my books. That's how I knew she was on the east coast…and that was that tidbit of information my old brain wasn't willing to release to me when she requested the 33 dozen.

She felt horrible, as I tried not to laugh...I failed. After all, I thought, what an honor to have someone from so far away follow my bakery and all of my shenanigans! It was too late for me to get hold of the bakery to cancel the order, as my team would already have started production. What made this situation even easier to swallow was that my friend from Rochester, New York, offered to pay for the entire order and told me to donate them.

"That is awfully sweet," I replied, "but what are you going to do for donuts?"

She said they were scouring the city for donuts, and the prices ran $20-$30 a dozen. So, she was not only willing to spend between $660-$990 to get the donuts she needed, but she was going to pay me $330 for donuts she would donate to people several states from her, that she didn't even know! The donuts she was donating in New York were for a group of kids, ages 12-18, that give up their spring breaks to fix up homes in rundown areas of their town. It's called the Flower City Work Camp, and my friend's husband has been leading this group for 35 years. The number of volunteers has multiplied significantly over the years. Each volunteer works eight hours, Monday through Thursday. They eat and sleep at a parish near the neighborhood they're working. Materials are purchased by the churches and the volunteers themselves. On Friday, the last day of their break, the volunteers will share what they have seen and learned. It can get very emotional.

I was so touched by the kindness of the program and everyone involved that I was left at a loss for words...not a common occurrence for me as you all well know. As she was asking for my address to send a check for the donuts she had mistakenly ordered from me, I was making a request on Facebook to anyone in the administration of Rochester (Indiana) schools. Before my New York friend could finish her twelfth consecutive apology, I arranged to have all 33 dozen taken to the school, where they would be distributed to all school employees. When I told my friend, she was so happy, but still wanted to pay for them...

"Absolutely not, Danise," I replied. As I stated earlier, my compensation comes in the form of interactions with the wonderful people with whom I'm blessed to communicate. I had the pleasure of communicating with my friend from New York, I was able to feel the love from the Rochester (Indiana) school district, and I learned about a wonderful program in Rochester, New York, where the younger generation is giving to those in need... I believe I've been more than compensated.

Into the Darkness by Liz Flaherty

Not my tree...

It's still dark this Saturday morning. The lights on the office Christmas tree are brightening the room. I think I should take the tree down, and maybe I will, but not yet. For now it makes me mind less that there has been so much grayness in the days, that the news is so dreadful, and that treating people badly is not only expected, it's often met with approval. Even though the days are lengthening, the first hours I spend in the office are with darkness hanging tough outside. 

So, the Christmas tree. 

Solutions are often easy, but we don't realize it. We complicate things way beyond what is necessary. Is it human nature that makes us do this? We will hold back from doing what is likely the right thing for everyone because we're afraid it will help someone we don't like. We will destroy or throw away something we couldn't make money from rather than give it away. 

Joe DeRozier doesn't do that, by the way. If he has leftover donuts for whatever reason, he makes sure someone gets to enjoy them. Just saying.

Do you have too many good, usable clothes, but you still like new ones? Simple. For every item you buy,  donate two.

Did you replace your towels because they weren't fluffy anymore but you don't need the garage rags you used to make from old ones? Donate the old ones. (Unless they look disgusting. Donating things that are nasty is just...nasty.)

Do you have things you don't really want anymore but they belonged to your mother so you can't just give them away? Sure you can. Your mother didn't want them saved for posterity. She wanted them to be loved and used, and it doesn't have to be done by you. Want to make sure your kids remember them? Take pictures. 

It's easy to buy an extra box of cereal or some extra canned goods at the grocery store and drop them off in a bounty box or at a food pantry. It's easy, once you've read a book, to put it in a Little Free Library. It's easy to give away an old comforter when you buy a new one. It's easy to share, especially if you're sharing things you don't even want. 

It's easy, I guess, to be a Christmas tree in the darkness. Have a good week. Be nice to somebody. 

What It's All About by Joe DeRozier

Dave and I would tear down our checker patterned hall, wearing only our pajamas that we had outgrown the previous year.

It was 6:00 am... Of course, Dave and I had already been awake for over an hour.

We were early risers, anyway, but today...

...today, was Christmas morning. Starting at five am, Dave and I crossed that checker patterned hall every 10 minutes into Mom and Dad's room.

Mom possessed that sonar "mom hearing" that always jolted her awake when we entered their room, while dad pretended to sleep, hoping we'd leave...

...but we were seven and eight, sooo...

"Now?" we'd plead with mom.

"No, boys. Your dad is tired. Let him sleep until 7 am."

Negotiations took place between ourselves, and our very tired mom, until a compromise was met.

"You can go to the Christmas tree, but do not turn on any overhead lights, and don't touch anything."

That compromise worked for us, knowing there would be further negotiations 10 minutes after we stepped foot in that magical room.

Our tree was a real tree that we grew in our backyard.

Mom and Dad had planted several of them years earlier for this singular purpose.

This made our Christmas tree that much more special.

I remember Mom pruning and shaping the tree throughout the summer, so it would be perfect for Christmas.

The smell, and the pine needles are things I'll never forget.

That piney scent gently wafted throughout the house, and Mandy, our Collie/Shepard would continuously knock needles on the floor with her tail.

For the previous three weeks, our home was filled with Christmas music from morning until nightfall.

The voices of Brenda Lee, Bing Crosby, and Gene Autry filled our home, with songs like “Little Blue Bell,” “White Christmas,” and “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.”

Mom spent every morning vacuuming up the renegade pine needles, saying it was a small price to pay for the aroma of our tree.

...and she was right.

Mom was very frugal as money was tight, but that didn't stop her from going all out for Christmas.

Tree lights were never thrown away, and mom hit every garage sale in Spring to accumulate more.

Some ornaments were garage sale prizes, but the best ones were from mom and dad's childhood.

I especially remember a cheap plastic apple. The ornament itself was nondescript, but when you held it, you could see the teeth marks of a child.

Dad bit that ornament when he was a kid, thinking it was food, and grandma DeRozier passed it down to our family.

We were retold that story each Christmas.

All decorations and lights on our Christmas tree were perfectly symmetrical.

Mom would tell me I was the only one that could help her set up the tree, because my older brother, Dave, and younger sister, Kerin, didn't do it right.

Looking back, that's how mom got me to do a lot of things that no one else wanted to do...

...smart lady.

I'm certain my siblings messed things up on purpose so they wouldn't have to help.

Dave and I would stare in amazement at the beautiful tree, with the brilliant, symmetrical lighting that increased each year, and rag tag ornaments.

There were so many brightly wrapped gifts stuffed under the tree!

Dave and I would kneel next to the presents, careful not to touch them, as per our agreement with Mom, and figured out the division lines for each of our Christmas hauls.

Once Dad got up, he loaded up his six-point antler lighting system for his movie camera.

Once the movie camera started rolling, it was officially Christmas morning.

With squinted eyes, we displayed each of our gifts for the camera. Many presents were practical, such as socks, underwear, and clothes, but there was always one "surprise" gift.

To this day, I can name many of those "surprise gifts" that were so special, and required Dad to work overtime.

When we were done carefully opening the gifts (on which Mom was careful to use minimal tape), we folded the wrapping paper neatly, so it could be reused for the next Christmas.

We weren't allowed to play with anything until that was done.

As we placed the folded holiday paper in its place, Mom and Dad would exchange the gifts they purchased for each other.

There would never be more than one for each of them.

Dad's gift from Mom was often an Avon decanter with aftershave.

Dad loved those decanters, and I know he still owned them until his passing.

Dad's gift to Mom was usually a surprise.

I'd hear a slight squeal from mom, followed by a big hug.

...I just got teary thinking about my parents embracing like that.

That picture is still in my head, and to this day, is the visual definition of pure love.

The years seemed to fly by...

I entered the Army after high school, and I made it back for only one Christmas, since.

Life, too often, seems to get in the way of love, and family.

Over 50 years have passed since Dave and I sprinted down that checker patterned hall, wearing pajamas that we had outgrown the previous year.

...but I remember it all like it was yesterday.

When I reminisce about those Christmas mornings so long ago, the thing that I'll never, ever forget... ...the one thing I remember that epitomizes Christmas spirit and love...

...will always be that slight squeal from mom, and the way they would embrace.

Merry Christmas.

Joe

Find dusty baker Joe on Amazon or stop in and visit him on Broadway in Peru, Indiana. I guarantee you'll enjoy the visit. - Liz

Eyes On the Ceiling by Liz Flaherty

I saw them before the nurse started putting drops in my eyes. Two eyes and a nose in what looked like a pen-and-ink drawing on the ceiling above me. "Who put them there?" I asked. She said it was an anesthetist (or anesthesiologist--I don't know which is which) who was no longer at the clinic where I was having the cataract removed from my left eye. "Cool idea," I said, and blinked because there were more drops. 

From the days of fun annual visits with the gynecologist, I remembered mobiles hanging from above the table-with-stirrups. I don't remember if they moved or what they were. The doctor's wife, a nurse who understood about stirrups and discomfort and cold specula, had chosen the mobiles for each exam room. 

Where I get my hair "adjusted" to keep me a natural blonde, a wall ornament with a message printed on it is on the ceiling above the shampoo bowls. 

I was always a reader, while the kids were growing up, I took advantage of every moment of non-activity to read. While the family watched TV, I read. While I fixed dinner, I read. In the car waiting for myriad practices to end, I read. I enjoyed what I read, but even now when my kids' kids are mostly grown, I wonder how much I missed because I didn't look up often enough. 

We live near a corner that has stop signs on the east-west road. Since I am always up before daylight, I occasionally watch the corner when I see vehicles approaching it. I have no statistics, but the number of vehicles who blow the red octagon sign is amazing. I don't mean they roll the sign or that they slow down to ensure no headlights are approaching from either the north or the south--I mean they disregard it entirely. Most of the time there isn't traffic from the other ways, but it only takes once. I wish they'd look up. 

This is one of those posts where I could give soooo many examples: sunrise, sunset, pretty moon, deer in the field, little kids laughing. babies, rainbows. Entreaties to heaven and "hi, Mom" to the same place. But I've probably given enough, and the whole thing only has one message. 

Look up.

Have a good week. Be nice to somebody. 

Rose, Debby, Joe, and I hope you'll join us for a book signing at Gallery 15 on September 22. Event host Sarah Luginbill will have music from Ryan Record and light refreshments. 

Sixteen Years...Really! by Liz Flaherty

Who knew I'd been blogging for 16 years? Certainly not me. Sixteen years ago, I was still working at the post office and had only published a couple of books. Six of the Magnificent Seven had already arrived to teach Duane and me the coolness of grandparenting. I was driving my very first SUV, which was a lemon and with which I hit my first deer in the 30 years of driving to Logansport every day. But it did convince me SUVs were definitely my chosen way to go. 

This came from September of 2007. My love affair with autumn is still going strong and I go into these next months with hope and determination. Thanks for stopping by. Have a great week. Be nice to somebody. 

If you've never lived here in North Central Nowhere, where Nothing Ever Happens and there's Nothing To Do, well, hey, I'm sorry. We're slippery-sliding into autumn right now. Even though the temperatures are still climbing into the 80s on a lot of days, they're also diving headlong into the 40s at night. This means that if no one was looking, some of us would run the air conditioning during midday hours and turn on the furnace when we get up in the morning. (I can't do this because the boyfriend always notices things like that.)

But the colors here--I'm writing this in only one of them--defy description. I remember being so surprised that Vermont in October really does look like calendar pictures. So does Indiana. Plus I'm pretty sure our entire state smells like apples and cornfields and burning leaves. (There's a pig farm down the road that distributes an entirely different smell, but that's only certain times of the day, thank goodness--and carnivore that I am, I do really love ham and pork chops. Sigh.)

Well, I see I'm wandering here, when all I really wanted to do was brag about fall in the Midwest, where it truly is glorious. It sounds like Friday night high school football and crunching leave and feels good. Even though the truth is that things really do happen here and there really are things to do, those of us who were born here love the reputation we have. I think we like knowing something the rest of the world doesn't.

Except that I just told, didn't I? Oh, well...have a good day, everybody.

Four authors are selling and signing books at Gallery 15 on September 22. Ryan Record is providing music and we'll be surrounded by wonderful art. I hope you come. There will be cookies! And I heard maybe fudge...

These Precious Days by Liz Flaherty

Welcome, September! We're heading into one of my favorite times of year right now, when the view out the west window changes every day, the air is fresh and crisp and smelling of harvested grain and apples and everything pumpkin. (If you don't like apples and/or everything pumpkin, that's fine, but we don't discuss that here.)

I took the title of this week's blog from "September Song." While the song itself doesn't fit, these are indeed precious days. All days are, something we discover when we realize how fast they go.

It's also the season of holidays. While big-box store displays would lead us to think Halloween is in June and Christmas is at the end of July, we know better. However, I admit to looking at holiday fabric and thinking of projects I'm not nearly skilled enough to complete. I print out recipes I'll never bake, although I'll look at the pictures a lot and sometimes I'll buy the ingredients. 

It's the best time of the year at the orchards! McClure's and Doud's are both open and perfect places to while away a few hours. 

It's a giving time, isn't it? Churches will be having soup suppers, harvest suppers, and bake-and-craft sales on their premises. There will be vendor sales  at every available venue, complete with food trucks. Anita's Boutique and Gallery 15  and other local stores will have so many pretty things and things that sparkle and things that you don't know how you can possibly go on without. I mean, things you know someone on your gift list wants or needs. 

It's time for Football Friday Nights, too. Be on guard for fundraisers. Be generous when they catch you. 

Have you noticed yet that I really don't have a subject this week? I do have a question for you. Readership on the Window is decreasing. This isn't a terrible thing; after all, it's been around in one incarnation or other since the 1980s, and I've talked a lot during those years. I'm not ready to stop writing the blog/column, but maybe it's time to write it less often. Or to change it. What do you think? Is it time? All ideas--including Just shut up, Liz; you're boring!--accepted. 

Speaking of the Window, the ebooks of Window Over the Sink and Window Over the Desk are 99 cents this week at all electronic retailers. I still have paper copies and so does Anita at the boutique. 

Then, just giving you a heads-up, Rose Cousins, Joe DeRozier, Debby Myers, and I are having a books signing at Gallery 15. Ryan Record will provide music and there will be light refreshments. The Gallery is always a treat to visit, and Sarah and Ron Luginbill are great hosts.

I hope to see you out and about and that you're having wonderful times on these beautiful, precious days we've been seeing lately. Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.

Joe, Dr. Suess, and an Ikea Couch by Joe DeRozier

I was going to write a post this this week...no, really, I was. But then I read this essay by Joe DeRozier and decided it would be a good Saturday morning for me to just sit back and enjoy--so I asked him if I could borrow it! I hope you enjoy it, too, and I hope you let me come back next time after reading this. Have a great week and be nice to somebody. - Liz

I was sitting on the mini-couch in my wife's Pipe Creek kindergarten class while perusing Dr. Seuss 's Hop on Pop. For just a second, I smiled as I fondly reminisced about the days when my kids could hop on me without causing lethal internal damage.

I fidgeted slightly on that multicolored, mini-couch because I was just a little nervous as I prepared to read this very book to 18 kindergarten students. They can be a tough crowd at that age...and my wife, their teacher, would be there watching my every move... 

...and I fear the Greek girl. 

She had to keep a close eye on me to ensure I'd behave myself because she knows firsthand just how fun, or as she says, immature I can be. 

Walking in single file, my soon-to-be audience quietly entered the room. They were all quiet because they were startled by the ugly, dusty, old man sitting on their uncomfortable, multicolored, mini-couch. 

Mrs. D corralled the students with just a few words and they automatically settled onto the large, round carpet that sported numbers and letters, sitting "criss-cross applesauce" in what must have been designated seating locations. So firm was her command, that I found myself sliding off the Ikea-made, uncomfortable, multicolored, mini-couch to sit on the carpet...though "criss-cross applesauce" was completely out of the question. 

After regaining my bearings, I sat up and introduced myself. A couple of the children had visited me in the back of the bakery at one time or another with their parents, and simply knew me as "the donut guy." Others knew me as Mrs. D's husband. 

My nerves gradually faded as I started to read the book while sharing the pictures on each page. It occurred to me that our maturity levels were on an equal playing field as I discovered I was as intrigued by the book as much as they were. 

I'd read a page, then point out any obvious absurdity. One rhyme had a puppy flying over trees as he jumped over a cup, and another rhyme had a few fish in a tree. Both scenarios were highly implausible and the second one was even more confusing since the word fish didn't need to rhyme with anything else, so could have been easily replaced by bird, squirrel... 

...which caused me to ponder what the good Doctor was doing recreationally¹ while writing his books. 

The responses from the class varied as some claimed their doggy could indeed jump over trees and quite a few considered the fish in a tree not to be all that unlikely. 

There was an unfortunate rhyme involving a Dr. Seuss character sitting on a bat... I'm sure Mrs. D breathed a sigh of relief when I stifled my initial reaction to the picture, but I did mention that by sitting on the bat this way, the odd Dr. Seuss character would experience butt pain... That last sentence made every elementary school teacher reading this story, cringe... 

...because I said butt. 

Chaos ensued and I had to do some quick damage control as the whole class roared. Butt seems to be a magic word to five-year-olds. My wife's and her assistant's eyes rolled to the backs of their heads as they envisioned hearing butt for the rest of the day. I quickly created a diversion by making funny voices for the next rhyming pages, and butt was temporary placed in hibernation. 

Gaining confidence, I went through the rest of the book with my voices and observations...until I got to one of the final pages when I had to read a couple words that "Pop" could pronounce. The words were Constantinople and Timbuktu. I was caught off guard since the rest of the book consisted of mostly one syllable words. I hesitated momentarily as I sat on the small, Ikea-made, uncomfortable, multicolored, mini-couch. I struggled temporarily with Constantinople, making my adult audience snicker. 

After I finished reading, I spent the next 10 minutes just talking to the kids about what they were learning. I was amazed at the things they knew how to do and enjoyed observing all of their personalities. One young man had a lot to say, but his questions were very intelligent and I loved his thirst for knowledge. 

One young lady was much more timid, but I could see her eyes absolutely dance when I asked questions. When she raised her hand to answer a question, I immediately called on her. She was nervous to talk at first, but I kept encouraging her and she quietly told me her answer. She's going to be something else when she comes out of her shell. 

My heart was full as I bid adieu to my new friends. As they lined up to go to lunch, I suddenly remembered the the mocking sniggles² I heard while I attempted to say Constantinople. Thinking quickly, I obtained the attention of the most boisterous student in the class. With a grin, I bent towards him and quietly whispered... 

...butt.

¹ I made up that conjugation

 ² Sniggle is an actual word. I was surprised, too.

A repeat business of the week is DeRozier's Bakery. Not only are Joe DeRozier's pastries worth an extra turn around the block if you're counting those calories and steps I mentioned above, Joe is one of the kindest and most generous people around. A conversation at the table in his back room is a great way to start the day. He's an entrepreneur, an extraordinary donut-maker, and a gifted storyteller. 

The bakery phone number is (765) 473-6688 and the Facebook page is https://www.facebook.com/DeRoziers-Bakery-235272106981456 Stop in for a donut, some conversation, and a copy of one or all of Joe's books. He'll even sign them for you!

Thank you, Joe. 

In the Spirit... by Joe DeRozier

There are several people who have heavily influenced my life.

My dad, of course. Mr. Belleau, who was my mentor at Wautlets Bakery in Algoma, Wisconsin. He changed the whole trajectory of my life and taught me about much more than just baking. Mr. Bean, who started working with me after he retired from Chrysler. He stepped in for my dad when I moved here and provided me with a lot of insights from his vast experiences.

Another is Sal Mazzocca. I call him Mr. Sal. One of the first times I was given a glimpse into the semi-mafia world of Mr. Sal, he told me that his college major was in Physics.

Mr. & Mrs. Sal

I'm sure I looked a little puzzled after being given that information. Neither his many responsibilities at his current job nor his blossoming tax consultant business would require a degree in that field.

Sensing my confusion, he continued. "You see,” he explained, "when I was in Bloom High School in Chicago Heights, I failed a Physics class". Apparently he was incensed by that failing grade, and never willing to accept defeat, he conquered his nemesis by getting his degree in that very subject.

Within three minutes of hearing that story, Mr. Sal became my first and only tax accountant. At that time, Mr. Sal was 54 years old and about to retire from Illinois Bell, where he had enjoyed a very successful career. He had been doing some tax work for people the last few years he was at Illinois Bell, but dove in head first after his retirement.

For several years, I would sit in his office in the basement of his home on Kenneth Court in Glenwood, Illinois, as he completed my taxes. It was a nice basement that was finished just around his work area. His office consisted of a desk, a computer, a printer, a fax machine, two file cabinets, and two chairs.

My youth and inexperience kept me from understanding anything about business taxes, and I wanted to know everything. With smoke curling over his pipe, he would take his glasses on and off his face several times as he went over each and every line of my return. Many times, he'd have to uncross his legs (the leg on top was always in motion) and slide himself back in front of his state-of-the-art Commodore computer to confirm the numbers we were discussing. He would literally spend hours with me either in his basement or on the phone, answering all my questions. When I'd receive paperwork in the mail from S.C. Mazzocca, I'd always hold the large yellow envelope to my nose, because it always smelled of his pipe smoke—I love that smell.

Sometimes out of exasperation during one of our many chats, I'd say a tax wasn't fair or I couldn't justify in my head why something got depreciated a certain way. "The IRS,” Mr. Sal would explain, "isn't real concerned about being fair".

Sometimes I'd start a sentence with, "Mr. Sal, as my friend and not as my accountant..."

He would raise his hands and shake his head., "No, no, no, Joey. I don't want to hear this!"

To be honest, there were times I just said that to watch his reaction.

Mr. Sal is still my accountant 33 years later. He has taught me so much, put up with all of my insane questions, and patiently listened to all of my improbable scenarios. Over these last 33 years, he's given the best advice and has had the misfortune of having to listen to me ramble on the phone while he would have much rather been enjoying one of his few vices...a bowl of ice cream.

This year, at 87 years old, Mr. Sal had a serious health scare. He has pretty much fully recovered and at one time, wanted to get right back to work. However, after carefully thinking it all through, Mr. Sal has decided to hang up his pencil.

For the first time in over three decades, I'll be asking those ridiculous questions to a new accountant. I watched my dad retire, and he was fine. I talked to Mr. Belleau when he retired. He was very happy to give up those hours and spend more time on the golf course. Mr. Bean was glad to retire, but had a difficult time sitting still,which I'm grateful for. His full-time job after retiring from Chrysler was just to enlighten a young baker about life.

Mr. Sal is different. He needs purpose. It isn't the money and I don't even think it's because he loves the work. It's because it is his identity, and I don't think he knows who he is without it. His segue from Illinois Bell to "Sal the Taxman" was the perfect transition for him, because he felt he was still needed. But now... Mr. Sal... I hope you thoroughly enjoy your well-deserved retirement. I want you to enjoy your life and be proud of your many accomplishments. As far as your purpose, your calling, your significance, or whatever you want it to be called, I believe that it was never Illinois Bell nor was it being Mr. Sal, the Tax Man.You are the most clever, honest, best teacher, and most patient person I have ever met...and I'm so proud that I can call you my friend. That, Mr. Sal, is what your purpose has always been...and you can keep doing that.

~*~

I don't have a bio from Joe, naturally, so I'm going to just use what I did the 1st time he came to the Window, before he'd ever published his 1st book. Joe DeRozier makes doughnuts. And fritters. And things with Bavarian cream in them. And braids--he talked about his braids so much his daughter asked him to stop. Just the mention of a pastry he's made makes my mouth water. I've never met him, although I've grinned at him through the door behind the counter in Aroma, the coffee shop on Broadway in Peru, and he's waved back. But I love his writing, so I asked him to do guest posts sometimes. He didn't say yes. Or no. But finally he said I could cut and paste from Facebook if I wanted to. So this morning that's what I've done. He and I hope you enjoy it. And if you're ever in Peru, Get Up, Get Dressed, Get DeRozier's. Thanks, Joe.

And now for his latest book, his 3rd... https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0BHQ98PQQ/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0