When You Live In The Middle Of Nowhere And Need A Coffee Fix

23 May 2026

1160

R. Linda:

The first sign of trouble was the silence. Not normal silence — silence like you are missing some sound, some familiar sound. I live forty miles from the nearest grocery store, seventy from anything that could legally be called a “town,” and exactly one dirt road away from becoming a cautionary documentary. Silence was part of the deal, but this silence was different and rather upsetting, without me knowing why.

As I got me coffee mug from the cabinet, I noticed something else was missing … the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. Tonya must have been running late and didn't turn on the brewer. I turned around, and there, sitting on the counter, was the Buun (the same as Dunkin's, but the home version). No coffee in the pot, but a post-it note showed writing on its glaring yellow surface. I ripped it off, and the note said: Seems the coffee maker died in the night. I threw the last of the grounds in the trash; they will be stale by the time you read this. We need a new maker and some bags of coffee. I'll pick all that up tonight.

"NOOO!!!" 

I threw the note on the kitchen table and turned around. The machine stared back with all the warmth and humanity of a cinder block. Not trusting what I read, I pressed the ON button. And nothing. So I did it again, just to be sure, you know? And still nothing.

I sighed. I looked out the window. Dawn was disappearing, and inside, a grown man in thermal underwear negotiated emotionally with a coffee machine.

“Listen,” I said, gripping the counter. “We’ve had five good years together, oh no, make that ten!”

The machine remained unmoved.

I checked the outlet. I checked the fuse box. I even smacked the side of it as if that would resurrect the thing to life. Finally, after twenty increasingly desperate minutes, I accepted the truth: I had no coffee.

Not “out of cream for the coffee,” no, no coffee. No “guess I’ll drink tea instead,” no, no, I needed coffee. I searched the cupboards for K-Cups because grief makes people irrational. I found none, not even decaf, just one stale granola bar, a can of kidney beans (a lot of help that would be), and a single packet of Hot Cocoa mix, no sugar, added milk product. Yuck!

I looked out the kitchen window toward the endless woods. The nearest Dunkin' was 45 minutes away. I looked for me keys, then the weather report, because after all, this is New Hampshire, weather turns on a dime. One minute it's 90 degrees in the shade, and the next it's snowing. It looked like it was doing something, so I squinted me eyes, still not sure, got me glasses and yes, yes, it was raining, that light farmer's rain. It must have been raining for hours, and it's that light kind you don't hear on the roof. The usual band of coyotes that I see smelling around the kiddo's chicken coup wasn't even out. Apparently, they had called in sick. I plopped into a chair, ran me fingers through me hair and realised I needed to get dressed if I was going anywhere. But such was me depressed state, I just sat there cursing the coffee machine.

By eight-thirty in the morning, I had developed symptoms. Mild headache. Irritability. An irrational hatred of birds, because by that time the rain had stopped and the song birds were heralding that glaring sunlight that comes after a rain.

By nine-fifteen, I found meself watching a YouTube video titled “How People Made Coffee in the 1700s” while chewing dry cereal directly from the box. By ten, things got dangerous.

That was when I remembered Marty. Now, Marty lived three miles west in a log cabin assembled from equal parts lumber and bad decisions. Nobody knew his exact age. He trapped rabbits, repaired engines for cash, and once claimed he could predict storms using only knee pain and “the behaviour of chipmunks.”

BUT Marty always had coffee. ALWAYS!

I ran upstairs, got dressed, and then downstairs, one last smack at the coffee machine, in the stupid hope that it might come to life, but no, and out the door into humidity that would not only curl hair, but toes. I took a breath, trying to breathe, but the air was stagnant and heavy. Like a man crossing a battlefield, I went towards the path behind the house that leads into the woods and that haunted bridge and graveyard. Yes, I was THAT desperate, I'd fight ghosts to get to Marty's, 

The path was pretty overgrown (no one, and I mean no one, had traversed it since the Headless Horseman fiasco (see Story #1002 The Road To Nowhere, 16 Oct. 2020). The overgrown branches whipped across my skin, hard enough to exfoliate it. The trail had vanished beneath growth, but I knew the route by memory: follow what was left of the ancient granite wall, cross the dilapidated bridge, avoid the suspiciously deep-looking patch near the dead pine tree, and ignore the steam rising from the graveyard; it was moisture, not ghosts, and just keep going, Gabe!

Halfway there, I questioned every life choice that had led me to this moment. Most people, I thought bitterly, could simply walk to Starbucks or Dunkin's.  Most people also had neighbours within shouting distance and blood pressure under control.

By the time Marty’s cabin emerged through the mist, I probably looked less like a human being and more like laundry abandoned during a rainstorm. The low-hanging tree branches dripped on me head and shoulders as I walked what seemed like miles (and probably was), leaving me drenched as they dripped down.

I hammered on the door, and God help me, NOTHING. I did it again, and the door creaked open. Marty stood there wearing an old flannel robe, wool socks, and the expression of a man deeply disappointed that someone had survived long enough to bother him.

“You dyin’?” Marty asked.

“Worse,” I croaked. “I need coffee.”

He stared at me for a long moment.

Then nodded once.

“Fair.”

Inside, the cabin smelled of cedar, engine oil, and glorious, miraculous coffee. A tall, old, pot hissed softly on a cast-iron stove. I nearly wept, I did.

Marty poured two mugs without speaking.

I took one sip and felt me soul reboot.

Colour returned to the world. Me heartbeat stabilised. Birds seemed less personally offensive. For several minutes, neither of us spoke. Out here, silence wasn’t awkward. Silence was just the weather for conversations.

Finally, Marty leaned back in his chair.

“Machine break?”

“Died this morning.”

“Hm.”

Another sip.

Then Marty stood, shuffled to a cupboard, and returned carrying a battered metal object.

It looked ancient.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Percolator, older one, but like the one on the stove, a spare ya might say.”

“I thought those went extinct in the seventies.”

Marty snorted. “Electric coffee makers are fer people with optimism.”

He set the old metal pot on the table like a sacred relic.

“This thing works on fire. Fire don’t care about power outages or breakdowns.”

I stared at it. Honestly, it looked indestructible enough to survive reentry from space.

“You can borrow it,” Marty said. “On one condition.”

“Anything.”

“Bring it back clean.”

I nodded solemnly.

It was then that I realised this was how alliances were formed in remote territories.

An hour later, I slogged home clutching the percolator beneath me jacket like a rescued infant.

The sun was out. The world was still wet, and the humidity was inconvenient to an unreasonable degree.

But now?

Now I had coffee.

And out in the middle of nowhere, there was basically hope in liquid form, until I realised I had no coffee grounds to brew.

I won't tell you the hissy fit I had in the middle of the woods, but I had a gigantic one. I hemmed and hawed like no one's business, which probably scared any ghosts hanging around that graveyard or the bridge. Tonya said she'd pick everything up TONIGHT. What good was that going to do me? I needed coffee to survive the DAY. That meant that drive in the wetness I did not relish was in me immediate future. Am I pissed? That I be.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Excitement In The Theatre Wing

07 May 2026

R. Linda:

1159

I be sleep deprived today and feeling it mightily. Last night was a rainy night, of constant downpours, and all was quiet except for the sound of the rain. Perfect sleeping weather. There was even a faint rumble of thunder that gave me the chills as I turned on me other side, thinking that position a better one for sleeping, but alas, not to be. I was listening for O'Hare to come home. He usually has two late nights of work and rolls in around 11:30, but it was 12:14 and no O'Hare. I got up and looked out the window, and I did not see his vehicle, which made me wonder where he was. 

We turn our phones off at night when we charge them, so I started mine up and no, no messages. I was tempted to message him, but he gets all insulted. He's 21 and, in many ways, independent, so he doesn't need to be treated like a teenager. I get it, but still. 

Tonya has a head cold, so she had taken some medicine that put her in a deep sleep (or coma, I like to say), so I couldn't commiserate with her. I took meself to the kitchen, it was 12:40 now and still no O'Hare, put the tea on, and I used the electric kettle, so the usual one that whistles (the Simplex) wouldn't wake the household. 

12:58, and still nothing, so I texted him. I reckoned it was less invasive to him than me calling. I poured meself tea and nothing, no response. Ah ha, me brain woke up and ticked on the Find My Phone app where I could locate members of me family. There he was still at work. I was like, what???

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, Mr. O'Hare had been locking up around 11:15 when he heard a banging in the theatre wing of the Boys and Girls Club where he works. Basketball had ended at 11:00 p.m., and everyone had gone home. He had to lock up, but he heard the loud bangs and looked inside the theatre, which isn't small. He flipped on the lights, saw nothing, and called out, "Who's there? Anyone there?" 

The banging stopped, and it was silent, he said, except for the rain pounding outside. He turned the lights off and listened at the door, and sure enough, the banging started again. This unnerved him, and he turned the lights on and called out again. Nothing answered, and the banging stopped. He called his associate and told him what was going on. That person, instead of turning around (he was already on his way home), suggested O'Hare call the boss. He did. The boss, in turn, told O'Hare to call the local constabulary. He did. 

A few minutes later, they arrived (three squad cars, guns out, yelling for whoever was trying to break in to show themselves). Yes, drama in and outside the theatre wing, with O'Hare not knowing what to make of all this. Three squad cars? Really?Two officers in each one, guns drawn? He was told to step away from the theatre door as they entered. They proceeded inside the door, one first with his gun outstretched in firing position, then the other stepping in front of that officer, and they do this leapfrog as they "clear" the theatre. O'Hare wanted to tell them that whoever was banging had to be outside; no one had got in. 

He looked out the club doors, and there was one squad car parked outside with the lights flashing. He was thanking his lucky stars that there were no homes around to light up the night and bring curious neighbours down to view the show. And, down in the other parking lot was another squad car, lights flashing blue in the darkness and further down by the stage door of the theatre was the third car, same thing going on, blue flashes of light everywhere, lighting up the rainy night.

The squad car outside the entrance

All this excitement was for nought. Seems the theatre people (one in particular) in charge of the lights and sound equipment hadn't turned the sound machine off, and when there was a sound in the theatre, it activated the equipment. This activation manifested as a banging sound. When it was quiet, the machine would be silent, but if there was a noise, it would activate, and this was what had happened. 

All O'Hare wanted to do was go home to his cosy bed and be done with all this. He was knackered and somewhat embarrassed for the theatre personnel, but it was what it was. So, after another 30 minutes of waiting for the police report to be done, he was left on his own to travel home. Because he was preoccupied, he did not see my text or the phone call I eventually placed (his phone was on silent with no vibration). 

Whilst I was sitting in the kitchen, now at 1:00 a.m., the rain pounding away, worry crossing me forehead, I happened to look down at me phone. The text screen lit up like a Christmas tree, the text was addressed to Tonya, me, Mam, and Guido. It said:

O'HARE: I forgot to get half and half on my way home; it is on me. I had to call the cops, and everything after that was a mess tonight, so that's my bad. I will get some tomorrow on my way home if you guys would like. 

GUIDO: Originally, my fault. I will get it today if not done.

I was like WHAT? Guido is up? What time is it? 1:03 a.m., and we are talking cops and Half and Half? I had a mind to go up to Guido's room, but decided not to. I knew if I texted O'Hare about "cops," I wouldn't hear from him because he was (according to the Find App) driving home. 

Feeling really knackered and trying to keep me eyes open, I found I could not. I went up to bed thinking that as soon as I heard his car, I'd get up and find out what was going on. Only that didn't happen. I reckon me brain was satisfied he was all right, and so I slept.

The next morning, there was more text, which I looked at on me way to splash cold water on me face to wake up. It said:

TONYA: Lucky you peeps weren't around this morning. No coffee=someone may die.

O'HARE: I'm here, just hiding.

MAM: LOL

GUIDO: 😅

I got dressed, went down to find coffee had been made, and there was no container of Half and Half. Just as I was about to go sit down and let that sink in as I contemplated suicide for want of Half and Half, in came Tonya, waving a container of Half and Half over her head, saying she had saved us all from suicide, murder and general mayhem towards whoever was the culprit who didn't replenish the supply. 

Tonya set the Half and Half down on the table like she was presenting the Holy Grail, and I looked at her with the sort of gratitude usually reserved for saints and lottery winners.

“Crisis averted,” she declared.

“You're a hero,” I told her, taking the container before somebody else got ideas. That someone else, being me Mam, who had timed it just right to enter the kitchen for the morning brew. 

“Damn right I am,” Ton said, grabbing her mug away from Mam who had picked up the first one she came upon.

The kitchen slowly filled with life after that — chairs scraping, bacon hissing, somebody muttering about work. Normal noises. Safe noises. The kind that settle your nerves before you even realise they've been rattled.

I poured me coffee and finally let meself breathe properly.

Whatever had gone on with O’Hare the night before, he was here. Alive. Hiding, maybe, but here.

And for now, that was enough until I heard the whole dumb story.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Yelling Kid, Barking Dog

06 May 2026

R. Linda:

1158

I am surprised I have not been cited for noise disturbance in a quiet neighbourhood. Yes, indeed, I think it's a matter of time before that happens. The weather has taken a warm turn, so the windows are open for the first time since winter. For some unknown reason (at first), the wee one stayed home from school yesterday. I had the day off to go register our vehicles, take some packages to the post office, and look over outdoor pizza ovens for me Mam. At first, no one thought to tell me the wee one was home; it was by sheer hearing alone that I stopped in me tracks on the deck, listening to the F-bombs coming out of his mouth from his room window. 

"Why is he even home? He doesn't seem sick to me." I said to me Mam, who was letting the cat out.

"He was too knackered to go to school, he said, he pulled an all-nighter on that crazy game machine I told ye not to get him for Christmas."

I was rendered speechless because the cursing started again, like the true Irishman he is, he let it rip, and I almost covered me ears for the shouting, until I realised not only did Mam and I hear him, but with the windows open, so did the neighbours. Sound carries over fields. 

Wow, I was stunned. For a 12-year-old, I suppose that's not unusual, but to hear your own sonny boy spewing forth such language for the first time in your hearing, you take pause, you do. I was going to turn around and go back inside to confront the boyo over language, but Mam told me he does it all the time and just to run along and get me errands done. 

I supposed it was for the best; he'd only go back to it once I had driven off. But then, another thing happened as I started backing out of the garage: the dog started barking. I cut the motor, and it stopped. I started it up again, and the barking started too. Well, I pulled out, waited for the garage doors to automatically close, and once they did, the barking started again. Perplexed as to what the dog was barking at, I texted me Mam and asked.

"Oh, he does that all day when you and Tonya are gone. Never stops, gets annoying, but he won't shut up until you or she comes home."

"Huh," I said, and well, it was decided I should just go and get back, and that's what I did. When I came home, I wasn't halfway down my driveway when I could hear the dog barking AND the wee one yelling. It sounded like he was being attacked by the dog.

I pulled in, turned off the car, left everything, and ran up to his room to find him in the throes of some online game, the dog wagging its tail at me and dancing around, glad to see me.

"What was going on?" I asked him, out of breath from running up the stairs, thinking the dog was attacking him. Which wasn't feasible on me part, as the dog is a sweetheart (when he isn't barking).

"Can't right now, Da, in the middle of my game."

I was too knackered to argue, and seeing all was well, I went down to the kitchen where I saw me Mam relaxing with a "cuppa tae" as she says. Feet up on a chair, surrounded by the lovely homey smell of scones in the oven baking to a golden colour. You could tell none of that commotion above stairs was a bother to her. No, no, indeed, she was in her main domain, and all was right with her world. 

"Call me when the scones are ready, and please save me some tea," I said, leaving her to her revery.

I went to me office to see if I needed to do anything work-wise when the dog started barking. I saw nothing for two minutes and then, there, out the window, was the UPS truck making its way down the drive. I could hear him put on his parking brake, the door slide open, and, faintly, something being put against the garage door (which was a miracle considering the barking going on). Then it all went in reverse, as he pulled out and down the long driveway and out and away, and the barking suddenly stopped. 

It happened again with the FedEx man (which is quite the thing, since he doesn't seem to know where I live half the time and dumps me packages at other houses, or deep-sixes them in the woods). It was a good two minutes before he pulled down the driveway (for a change) that the dog had sensed his coming, and then kept up the barrage of loudness until he, too, left. 

I put the dog outside on the back deck, thinking a change of scenery would shut him up. But no. As soon as the Amazon truck pulled down the long driveway, there was a chorus of barking until the man got out of his truck and unloaded his packages, took his picture and then he went to the stairs to the back deck and up to MY DOG wiggling itself out of shape to see this guy. 

"Oh, puppy," he was saying, patting the dog's head. "You happy to see me? Aw, puppy." And he took a Milkbone treat out of his upper pocket and gave it to the traitor of a dog. Then he left, but not before waving goodbye to the dancing animal who, if he could, would have waved back. Instead, the silly dog jumped up on the gate and was hopping around like "COME BACK!" I tell ya. 

At this rate, I’m expecting him to start helping carry packages up the steps. Or worse—flagging the truck down. So now I know: the barking isn’t a warning system. It’s a notification service. Not “intruder alert,” but “snack opportunity approaching.”

Same thing with kiddos arriving home from school and then Tonya pulling in. He forgot the Amazon guy and was all about the family again. 

And just like that, the fearless guardian of the property—terror of delivery trucks, defender of the driveway—had switched allegiances for a Milkbone and a kind word. If the UPS man ever figures that out, I’m finished.

Guard dog, watchdog, traitor—it doesn't really matter. He just loves whoever shows up. Loudly. As for the potty mouth upstairs on the gaming machine, I'll let his mother deal with him. And if the police show up with a citation for disturbing the peace, I'll let me Irish Mam deal with that. I'm done with it all.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Guido's Birthday Consisted Of Me First Ride In A Miata

01 May 2026

R. Linda:

1157

It was the middle lad's 17th birthday. My, how time doth fly! The boyos had school vacation that week, but as parents, we didn't have off; we had to work. So, while Tonya took that Tuesday off and took the two lads on a hike, I decided to take the next day off and take them out to brunch since it was Guido's birthday. The wee one (who isn't so wee anymore) did not want to go. He's busy making his cardboard replica of the Titanic so he can sink it in the pond. Don't ask. I don't pretend to know how his mind works. So it was Guido and me (O'Hare was at work). 

I was thinking we'd go to McDonald's, but no, he wanted to go to the more adult eatery, The Maple Station. Now I enjoy the Station, but it is pricey, especially after the $51.03 doggy toenail-clipping bill (See Story #1156 $51.03 And Did They Paint His Nails Too? 29 April, 2026). So at the time, I thought it was the three of us, and it would cost me around $50. And I knew the wee one wouldn't be a fan of the food, he is a Mickey D's man. So big money wasted. When he told me he didn't want to go, me brain calculated $40.00 for the two of us. 

About time to go, I am informed by Guido that we are going to The Maple Barn instead. I thought, great, that will be about $32.00 for the two of us. Yes, that's what I thought. Anyway, we headed off to The Maple Barn for brunch. It was an experience I can tell ya that much. Yes, the lad has his license, and he got himself a convertible sports car, a Miata. Have you ever seen one? They are low to the ground and do not have the legroom for anyone over 5' tall. So, consider me, a 6'2" frame, trying to jam into the passenger seat. It was painful, I can tell ya that much. I did have the panicky thought that I wouldn't be able to get out of the car … ever. There was no way I could bend me limbs to turn or step one-sided out the door. I was doomed for life to be locked in that car forever. 

Anyway, he drove, and once we had me in the car feeling like I was in a sardine can, we took off at warp speed. ZOOM! It's a good thing, I thought, that we weren't going to The Station. I don't think I'd be able to get out of the car, as it is a bit of a drive. However, in a semi-pretzel and paralysed state, I was able to extract meself from El Car at The Maple Barn and lurch inside. But not before he asked me if I needed help getting out. Well, yeah, but there was a parking lot full of people, and how would it look? Me being extracted from me seat by a young teenager? That would make me self-conscious and feel very old. So, I sucked it up and nearly landed on the ground (not that far to fall) by swinging me long legs to the side instead of trying to step out one leg at a time. I actually hit meself in the jaw with me left knee as I swung too hard to the right. That hurt, but I tried not to show I was counting me teeth with me tongue to make sure they were still intact. Honestly, I thought that I'd break a leg if I didn't use some force to move. This sideward motion almost landed me on the wet sandy pavement. I hoped no one witnessed me near disastrous exit. And trying to stand up at the same time was a bit of a trick. Somehow, I wobbly managed that, but not without people noticing. I could hear them whispering to each other, "Look at that drunken man, how embarrassing for that nice young man to have a father like that." Yup, I just knew they were about that.

I was happy we didn't go to The Station after the $51.03 fiasco at the vets, but that didn't make any difference when the birthday boy ordered up $23.00 worth of spare ribs and two other breakfasts, plus a starter! I tell ya, it was like being out with Weasil in disguise, who will order up an entire menu if the mood strikes him, that's the thing to do! I said nothing, just happy he was happy. 

The waitress was nice (everyone knew it was his big day; he works there part-time on weekends), and she gave him his 20% discount (unasked), which I appreciated.  Even after she stopped to talk to us, well, him mostly, and she said with a giggle, "I'm your favourite waitress, right?" Well, guess what, NO! I was stunned when he said, "My favourite waitress is Betty. I've known her longer. You're my second favourite."

WHAT??? I wanted to slide under the table at that, but she took it well, telling him she was somewhat disappointed not to be number 1. Who is he? After she left us to cry in the kitchen, I told him, "Never tell a woman she's number 2; lie like a rug and tell her she's number 1 forever." Geez.

"Oh, she doesn't care," says he. 

"Oh yes, she does. I don't know a woman who'd be happy to know she's second shift." I couldn't wait to get us out of there before something else went pear-shaped. But then I remembered, or I should say me body remembered, we had to jam our big self back into that sardine can. I've been in cars where I had me knees around me ears, but this, no, me knees were way above me head even! I be so glad there are no photos.

So once again I find meself in the awkward position of trying to slide into the passenger seat without looking like a one-hundred-year-old man. Somehow I managed it, but not without misjudging how low to the ground I had to go, so I fell into the seat with a thump! I couldn't reach for the seatbelt (which was way behind the seat) to strap meself in. I know I was taking a great risk by not belting up, but I was too full of food, and my stomach was jammed up under me ribcage, so trying to reach behind me wasn't an option. Even so, with the stomach being at capacity, would I even have enough length to buckle up?!

Off we went with ROOM ROOM BRROOM! That noise clearing anyone and anything out of our way as we were about to achieve warp speed from a stationary position. 

Somehow, we got home in one piece. And I walked off the boxed up and paralysed feeling from being driven around in a vehicle at speeds that were dizzying … with a full stomach yet! I can now say I have ridden in the very fine and cherished sardine can, I mean sports car. ZOOMA ZOOMA!

BUT the "fun" wasn't over. Since O'Hare had to work that night, I told Guido he could invite a friend. Well, he has a friend, a very nice young lad, but this person doesn't eat. He will sit with us, but won't take a plate. The excuse: he already ate. But the real reason is he's a health nut and adheres (much to his mother's chagrin) to his own food regimen. I said to Guido, "Why are you inviting someone who isn't going to eat anything? Why not a friend who will?"

Well, as it turned out, we had enough food for a small army, so Tonya texted Guido and told him he could invite two people. He then told her he had eight friends spending the night. Was that ok? Mind you, he had already asked them. I silently marvelled as to where all these people and we were going to sleep, or not sleep, as the case may be, with teenagers up all night. I didn't want to know, I shut our door when it was bedtime and left them to their own devices, in the hopes the house would still be standing the next morning. 

But let me tell you about cake. The levity came out over the cake, thanks to teen humour and small fry being roasted. Yes, the wee one came to the table and was instantly told by someone not related to him that he looked like a bug wearing his glasses. To which he informed that someone, he was called a bug all the time because of his glasses. So there! Nothing new. He then took the spectacles off and showed the same person the black electrical tape he used to keep the earpieces on until he could get them fixed. He proceeded to swing the glasses around, and his mother told him that if he kept doing that, the bridge would break. To which his Mamo chimed in that he would then have to put a big band-aid over the middle, and he would achieve instant nerd-dome. To which everyone got a laugh, except the wearer of said glasses.

This intellectual discussion was interrupted when Tonya brought the birthday cake to the table, and we all piped up (not in harmony) to sing the birthday song. The lad then proceeded to blow out the candles in one fell swoop, when his Mamo asked if he had made a wish, to which he looked like a deer caught in headlights, realising he did not. 

"Do you want me to relight the candles, and you can make a wish and blow them out again?" Tonya asked.

Well, yes, yes, he did, and so she did, and he made a wish, but he didn't blow out the candles like the first time; it took maybe three puffs to get them out. 

"Ah ha! Your wish won't come true because you didn't blow them all out at once." The wee one informed him.

"Do you want to do it again?" Tonya asked.

"Three strikes and you're out, or is it three's the charm?" Me Mam unhelpfully asked.

No, he didn't want to do it a third time. Well, the cake cutting was a disaster. I've never seen an oblong cake cut like an octagon, but well, it says a lot about Mr. Guid. He had requested Tonya make her delicious blueberry-topped vanilla cake (he didn't want the usual bakery cake), and she did, and may I say it was quite delicious? Even if it looked the right mess on the cake plate? It looked very nice until he cut it up into strange portions. All that care to get that blueberry topping just right, right out the window within seconds. 

Cake before anything happened to it

The next morning, I woke up to teenagers scattered about the place. All looking like they had an all-night bender. I had brought, in addition to the steak dinner Tonya made, three pizzas for the boyos to snack on. All gone, notta slice but a lot of crusts here and there. Let's see, it was 10:23 (23 the price of spare ribs), and they were all still here. Tonya was off to work, the wee one was held up with his Titanic model, and I was in me home office writing to you when I should have been working from home. 

Productivity may be questionable, but at least no one starved—unless you count the guy who paid for the pizzas.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

$51.03 And Did They Paint His Nails Too?

29 April 2026

1156

R. Linda:

This is going to sound really stupid, but this happened to me today, and I want to share my pain. As you know, we have one collie dog, whom we love fiercely. He is such a good boy, and he is beautiful, loyal and sweet. Unfortunately, he has dewclaws that curl and can become painful if they work their way into his legs, so we have to keep his claws clipped to prevent this. When he sees the vet for a regular appointment, we usually pay the extra $15.00 to have his nails trimmed. 

Well, yesterday I went online, and the veterinary clinic we take him to had an advert that basically explained the danger of dewclaws and offered nail trims for $15.00. I took a look at our boy's nails, as he has been clicking along the wood floors as he walks, and I presumed he needed a trim. Not only that, but I felt the dewclaws, and they were beginning to curl in. 

Now I could go down to PetSmart or PetCo, but they are both an hour away, and the vet is only five minutes from me abode. I called and made the appointment for today, and off we went, Tonya and I. We get to the clinic, and ever since COVID, you have to wait in the parking lot and call to let the staff know you and your animal are outside. This, I think, is silly, given that it's 2026 and we still have to wait in the car with a drooling, anxiously pacing dog in the back seat. The excuse now is to make sure there is not another dog waiting to devour your dog inside. 

I rang them and told them we had arrived. I wanted to say, "Red Rover, Red Rover, may I please come over?" but I behaved meself and was told to come right ahead. As we get inside, the tech comes out, says hello to the dog and us, and asks Tonya to put him on the scale. I thought, Why do that for a nail trim? But it was done, and we were led into a room. Immediately, we are asked how our boy is and if there are any problems. I am thinking this be turning into a wellness check, which is a whole lot more involved and expensive than a nail trim. I was just about to ask about that when the door opened to the inner sanctum, and in went the dog and tech. 

"Wow, for a minute there I was wondering what kind of an appointment this was," I said to Tonya.

"Yeah, why do they need his weight and to know how he is for a nail trim?"

I shrugged, and not more than two minutes later, our dog came back, noticeably not clicking nails on the floor, and we were given the leash, and goodbyes were said after we were told what a beautiful and good boy he is. Out to the reception area we go, and I get me chequebook out (I know, old-fashioned me, paying with a cheque). I start writing the thing out, and the receptionist says, "That'll be $51.03."

I literally choked and made like I was clearing me throat, and there is Tonya with the dog looking at me and obviously thinking the woman made a mistake and was autistic getting the amount backwards. Can I read her mind or what?

"$51.03, you say?" I croaked.

"Yes," says the receptionist and there I be writing out a cheque for $51.03 because he already had the procedure done. As I write out this astronomical amount, I'm thinking: what if I said, "I don't have that kind of money!" Would they put me in that inner sanctum and make me wash dogs to make up for it? I could just see meself back there. "Here, Mr. O'Sullivan, is a scrub brush, soap and the nozzle to control the amount of spray. You have 51 dogs to wash, at $1.00 a dog. Oh, and don't forget the 3 cents you will have to wash the lizard to complete your debt."

"What's your cheque number?" The receptionist asks me, bringing me back to me shocked reality.

I was so in shock I couldn't read it. I was squinting me eyes like I was an eighty-year-old man, and it was with slow determination me brain was wanting me to slowly start backing away from the counter (chequebook in hand) and silently signalling to Tonya to take the dog and run. But, no, I wrote that amount out in halting letters. I misspelt "veterinary," but I didn't care; me mind was rebelling and going to find a way to sabotage that cheque, or my name isn't Gabriel Alloyious O'Sullivan. 

Reluctantly, I handed it over; she took it, and I held onto it. She smiled and pulled, and I still held it. Her eyes changed like she knew, and she was going to have payment or jump that counter and thrash me for it. I reluctantly let go, and she almost fell off her chair from the force. Sheepishly, I smiled and shuffled me way out behind the expensive dog.

"Tell me what colour nail polish they used on him," I said to Tonya as she put the dog in the backseat.

"I hope they used a finish on his nails so it lasts. Oh, I don't see any polish, Gabe, so I would guess it would be another $51.03 to have that done. OR," she said, "let me look and make sure they did both sides, not just one side, trimmed for $51.03, and if you want the other side, that will be another $51.03."

I didn't find her funny. All the way home, I was in shock, I couldn't get me brain past that amount written on the cheque.

All I could utter was, "Wow," and "What the bloody hell?" and then it struck me, three cents? What were the three cents for?

"Oh, look, Gabe, the invoice says it was $15.00 for the nail trim and $35.03 for the technician. I am going to apply there for a job because $35.03 for 2 minutes' work … well, I could make a fortune in an hour! Why didn't you question that amount?"

"Truly, Ton, I was and still am in such a state of shock I couldn't unfreeze me brain from that amount and get me tongue to work! What are the three cents for? Was that for the pleasantries she graced us with until the other vet tech came to the door to take our dog in for that ultra-expensive trim? Or was it to weigh the dog and ask if we had any concerns? Is that worth tacking on 3 more pence? I mean, I would be happy sitting in their waiting room, weighing and asking after the animals they bring in, given the amount of business they do. I'd get me a piggybank and by the end of the day, I'd be rich in pence they don't make anymore."

"Didn't it say the tech was extra on that advertisement?" She asked.

"No, it just was a $15.00 nail trim." 

"That was insane. We won't do that again." She vowed.

No, no, we won't. I will learn how to trim those damn nails meself if I have to. That was highway robbery at its most blatant. I needed a Jameson straight up, I did. Not just one, but a whole bottle seemed the right thing to do to numb the pain of money being withdrawn from me bank account. Who does such a thing? I ask you. Damn me, but we are all in the wrong employment. I studied journalism, and now I kick meself for not studying nail trimming in dogs, it pays better. Now I feel doubly horrible that I spent money on a university education when I could have spent not nearly the amount I did on a trade school and forget degrees, all I'd need is a certificate of certification, and I could be a bloody millionaire, no make that billionaire, clipping doggy toenails. 

Our boy enjoying his expensive manicure

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Boat Day Or Mean Girl (Really Mean Boy) Day

26 April 2026

R. Linda

1155

Have you ever been invited somewhere and not dressed for it? And you were too mortified to flee the scene and stuck it out until the crowd started saying things that you didn't find very nice, or pointing and snickering at you? I can imagine the humiliation having once been … more than once been held prisoner inside an Easter bunny costume! But no one knew it was me, but the few who made me do it. I felt dumb inside that hot thing, but I can't imagine being in something with me whole face hanging out and everyone in attendance knowing it be meself. Begorrah!

This actually happened to an acquaintance of mine at work. She’s a copy editor with a very brusque manner—abrasive, even—and she has a way of speaking that makes you think she flat-out hates you. I’m sure she’s perfectly pleasant outside of work—or at least I hope so—but in the office she manages to get on just about everyone’s last nerve. She’s definitely on people’s radar.

There’s been no shortage of muttering about “getting even” after she’s torn into someone’s copy. She doesn’t just edit—she attacks. Your grammar is terrible, your punctuation nonexistent, and she’s more than happy to tell you so, bluntly and at length.

You’ll go back three or four times to collect her revised version of your work, each time feeling like you’re intruding on something far more important. She treats you as though you’re wasting her time, and you leave a little more deflated with every visit. Sometimes she won’t even bother with the handoff—she’ll just drop the edited piece onto your computer like a bomb. Two sentences in, you barely recognise it, because she’s completely rewritten the thing.

And if you dare to question any of it, she’ll inform you that your run-on sentences made no sense anyway, and that during her fact-checking—something you never asked for, since your sources are solid—she uncovered discrepancies that could have gotten the paper sued.

Right.

Anyway, THAT person got her comeuppance. I will say right now, I was not in on it, I had nothing to do with it, the idea never entered my mind (ok, I lied about that last, it did run through me brain more than a few times), and I was not a party to setting her up. I know you won't believe any of that, but for once it's all true … well, kind of.

Now that you have some background, let me go into how this started. I was minding me own business (yes, I was) at the coffee machine waiting to refill me cup, when the person in front of the person, in front of me, half turned and said to the person in front of me (you getting all this?) that "Boat Day" was coming up and he was in charge of putting it together. 

"This is the time to strike," he whispered over his shoulder, but I could hear him. "I am renting that large sailboat we had last year, but there is a second one that is moored across from it at the wharf. I will take ticket orders, and when that shrew in copy hands hers in, I will get her on the other boat, accidentally on purpose. The names on the boats are similar, they look the same, it's just the dock number that's different."

I knew instantly who he meant and was rather impressed with the James Bond tactic. But the fella in front of me had a question.

"She'll see all of us on the other dock, won't she? Then she'll know she's on the wrong side."

"No, because she will go early and be on that boat before we even show up. Plus, my brother-in-law Shamus O'Reilly is the captain, and he'll know what to do."

Shamus O'Reilly! Right there, I knew this was trouble. I don't know an O'Reilly that can keep their nose out of trouble. At least it wasn't an O'Leary, or there'd be BIG trouble. The O'Leary clan is the worst of the worst when it comes to misbehaving. I should know, I grew up with the O'Reilly family on one side and the O'Learys on the other. 

"But … why wouldn't you give your brother-in-law the business instead?" The fella in front of me whispered back.

"Because Shamus is already booked that day and so … and it was his idea."

I thought so! Whadda I tell ya?

We had been slowly shuffling towards the coffee maker, but it was nearly out, so five of us had to wait for the next brew. This gave me lots of time to get the plan down.

I cleared me throat and injected meself into their covert operation. 

“Pardon me,” I said, “but I couldn’t help overhearing your brilliant—and rather devious—plan. Impressive as it is, aren’t you forgetting one small detail?”

They both nodded for me to continue.

“Won’t she realise, at the last minute, that she’s the only one boarding and assume everyone else simply didn’t buy tickets? It won’t faze her, will it? She’ll just enjoy a quiet cruise on her own.”

“Oh, no—she’ll be told to come in costume because it’s a ‘costume party’ on the boat…except it isn’t. So when she arrives dressed like the Revolution is about to begin, she’ll realise she’s the only one in period clothing. The rest of the passengers will just be ordinary tourists on a harbour cruise, and she’ll be standing there alone in full 1700s attire—like a complete nutcase out for a bit of sea air.”

The two of us listening scrunched our faces in mock discomfort. It was simply too delicious to resist.

“But,” the man in front of me cut in, “if none of us is there, she’ll keep her embarrassment to herself. What’s the point of that?”

“Oh, we’ll all be there—just not on her boat. As hers pulls away, we’ll be arriving at the opposite dock. And those two friends she sort of has? They’re being kept in the dark. She’ll ask if they’re going, and of course they’ll say yes—but I’ve arranged for them to meet my intern beforehand for a few drinks.”

“Right,” I said, “but won’t she ask them about their costumes?”

“Probably. But I’ll tell all of them that costumes have to be kept secret—no one knows what anyone else is wearing. I’ll just hint that colonial garb is very much ‘in.’ That way, when she’s on the boat, the tourists will think she’s about to give them a tour of colonial Boston Harbour.” He chuckled at the thought.

“And the other two?”

“My intern will tell them she has costumes ready and not to worry—just come to the wharf pub, and they can throw them on over their clothes. Of course, she won’t. That’s when she’ll tell them the truth.”

“And they won’t text her?” I asked.

“Too late by then—she’ll already be on Shamus’s boat.”

“And they won’t be angry you duped them? Or her?”

He shrugged. “They’re not exactly her best friends. They know what she’s like. Give them a drink or two, and they won’t care—as long as it’s not happening to them. As for her… well, that’s the point. A taste of her own medicine.”

And sure enough, it went off without a hitch.

There she was, dressed like a colonial matron, boarding the O’Reilly sailboat. Later, O’Reilly said she kept scanning the dock for familiar faces, but none appeared. Strangers—dressed normally—filed aboard as her confidence began to falter. People stared. Children pointed. A few even giggled. Some asked if she was “in charge.”

Meanwhile, we were across the way, tucked into a pub, watching her arrival over more than a few drinks.

By the time we made our way to the opposite dock, her boat had already pulled away. We waved and called out to her, asking what she was dressed for—whether she worked for the sail line, whether she was the guide. Some shouted that they would have booked her tour if they’d known. Why had she kept her “other job” a secret?

It was dreadful. It was mean… well, perhaps not entirely undeserved. At least her boat wasn’t very full.

I’m fairly sure she didn’t end up delivering a spirited colonial tour of Boston Harbour. More likely, she taught an impromptu lesson in grammar—pronouns, verbs, the lot—to a rather unenthused group of tourists.

Afterwards, we heard she was furious with all of us—especially the two semi-friends, who were promptly demoted through no fault of their own to non-friend status. She threatened to go to HR, convinced all of us had deliberately put her on the wrong boat. There was talk of resignation, a dramatic exit, and a lesson being taught us.

None of it happened.

She swallowed her pride and carried on as though nothing had occurred, insisting we were all mad. And we, conveniently, were far too deep in our cups to notice that the woman on the other boat… wasn’t her at all.

Um. Right.

Anyway.

Without further ado, a souvenir of the annual "Boat Day." Not ours, hers. Yes, the O'Reilly sails to who knows where.

There she is in Orange giving some poor fella backtalk. Probably informing him that he isn't using the King's English properly or phrasing his sentences correctly.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Well, It Wasn't Wilson Castle

21 April 2026 

1154

R. Linda:

Who'd a thunk it, a ghost hunter in the family. Well, I would have, because I've had me share of strange happenings and even wrote about most of them for you. Well, me eldest, that would be O'Hare Alloysious O'Sullivan, the redheaded genius who is known for his logical thinking, seems to have a quirky side where that logic goes out the window and in comes wild imaginings of ghostly spectres, and such. Yes, indeed, I didn't just discover this side quirk, no, I've seen it coming for a while now, so I'm not surprised.

The young ghostbuster has a group of ghostbusters he does. They have gone to Wilson Castle in Proctor, Vermont, a few times and have got some weird stuff like blinking lights, beeping machines, and bells ringing on their equipment. Oh, and the equipment be top-of-the-line in ghost-hunting circles. There is a bell that tinkles when a ghost touches it or comes near; there is a radio receiver of sorts that lets ghosts answer questions; there are laser lights that detect motion and sound; and I could go on about magnetometers and such, but you get the picture. 

The last venture out was a 7-hour drive to Hinsdale, New York, to the Dandy House, said to be haunted, and, like Wilson Castle, you can rent the place, set up your ghost-detecting equipment, and spend the night! Yes, a wonderful idea. 

Why Hinsdale? It is said that the Dandy family experienced "severe demonic oppression" whilst living there (1970 - 74). There was even a priest sent for who performed several exorcisms, but still the family fled the house, too many bumps and knocks in the night and other crazy things going on, they couldn't take it anymore. 

Unlike Wilson Castle, which is considered the most haunted location in Vermont, it is tame. There have been reported sightings of "shadow people" in Castle Wilson, figures in windows, disembodied voices, music, and cold drafts everywhere (probably because ghosts don't need the heat turned on, and after all, aren't castles drafty?). 

Anyway, after the many visits to graveyards, the visits to Wilson Castle, Hinsdale, was ripe for investigation. Yes, most of the team were up for a long, long drive into the further reaches of New York State; they even rented a car to make sure they got there without any breakdowns. I was asking all kinds of questions, and finally, a frustrated O'Hare said, "Why don't you come with us?" 

Well, why don't I? I had nothing pressing on me plate, so I accepted, which I think surprised the hell out of O'Hare and his team, because I don't think they truly meant the invitation, and me accepting ... well, who'd a thunk it?

Yes, there I was with three young gents, me, the old guy. Now, R. Linda, I do think as an Irish person I have some psychic abilities. I offered these up, and they laughed like it was a joke on me part. I gave O'Hare the "remember the time" stories he's heard throughout his young life, but he wasn't taking any of me history as truth, just blarney. After all, they were the professionals, and I was what? I was a dad who had no wisdom or knowledge like they do. OK.

These newfangled ghost hunters have "scientific" equipment now. They don't go on gut feelings or "seeing things" no one else does, or ghostly voices in one's head with a "message from beyond." 

Cutting to the chase, we started off with one more ghosthunter than I thought was going. They packed all the equipment in the trunk, and I say "packed" because this was a compact car with little trunk room, so they bungied the thing shut (I tell ya, they are creative), not to mention the leg room inside, which I am mentioning. Four in the backseat, and me, long-legged self, in the passenger and O'Hare the designated first driver. 

I could feel the resentment of me taking up space in the shotgun seat by one equally long-legged ghostbuster sitting directly behind me with his knees around his ears. If he had lasers for eyes, he would have penetrated me brain with "messages from beyond," I be sure. The drive was LONG and BORING. The talk was non-stop chatter for about 40 miles, then it drifted off to occasional spurts and finally died. Well, mostly for the snoring in the backseat. 

We all took a turn at driving the ghostbuster vehicle, and finally, in the late afternoon, with the long shadows falling and not without a few rainstorms, we arrived, knackered and unenthusiastic. And why? Hinsdale was not Wilson Castle. Oh no, the beautiful architectural facade of a brownstone castle that these guys were used to was met with this:

1850s  farmhouse. Yup. And I have a picture of this (unknowingly in me house, hanging over the TV)

The picture, similar 

The first thing that was noticeable to me, at least, was the caged-in windows. Was that to keep something inside, or prevent someone like me from getting out in a hurry?

The house was depressing, the weather was depressing, we were knackered and found that depressing. It was like, forget setting up equipment, let's find a Dunkin' and go get coffee and something to eat. But no, we trudged inside and got things set after "walking the house" with a tour guide to see what was what. I helped unload the car, helped where I could, but felt mostly in the way because I was the odd man out. However, I enjoyed watching the equipment being tested, the chatter between ghosthunters, and made meself comfortable in a corner until I looked up and saw this: 

The doll on the right is possessed, it is said

The doll supposedly moves around, but I didn't see any of that. Her friend was placed with her for a spookier effect, and does nothing, supposedly. Anyway, I thought it better not to have me back to her just in case she decided to fly at me face or do something equally heart-attackish. 

At one point, with everyone and everything set, I asked the about-to-leave tour guide about the abode. I was told that apparitions have been seen, things move inside the house, eerie screams, smells come and go, footsteps, and that there are said to have been 7 murders committed in the house. After many paranormal peeps tried to "cleanse" the house of its weird and bizarre activity, the activity picked up instead of disappearing. Oh well, one can try, right?

The kicker is the usual explanation for these things: the house is built over a Native American burial ground. Yup. It became an inn (how? I don't know that's true, it's smaller than a shoebox, but I was given another explanation, which I will reveal in a mo), and awful things occurred during that time. What awful things, maybe the 7 murders? The story goes that the family that lived in it (no names provided or remembered, hum) told travellers the house was an inn of sorts, and they could stop there on their travels and have a good hot meal. But this family would murder their "guests" and steal the goods they had on them. Truth or fiction? I dunno, no one does. However, I was told there are mass graves behind the house. Oh goody.

Well, one of us did feel some kind of touch on his face. Wasn't me, I wasn't "blessed" enough, I guess. There were no indistinct voices floating around; I saw no spectres in the other room, and the haunted doll stayed in place with her companion. No wolf howled outside, but an owl did unhinge all of us for a short time with its hooting. 

After about an hour, the equipment started doing "stuff." Yes, lights blinked, the bell went off, it was like suddenly someone turned on the power because things were "happening." No one got any sleep with all this going on. They did their best to "hunt" down these mysterious occurrences, though. Everyone had been very busy for a long time.

I didn't help matters much when I was out in the first section of the house, where there is no second story, and we all heard thumping above us.

"Let's get up there!" Someone said.

"Uh, pardon the intrusion, but there is no second story on this part of the house." I reminded.

"Then it has to be on the roof!" The same undeterred person told me.

They trooped outside (two of them) and saw, as I thought, notta.

That gave me an idea. I know I should have stayed home because I cannot behave, but they were prime for the taking! As they all went upstairs in the other part of the house with a second story, I volunteered to stay with the equipment downstairs. As soon as I heard them walking around up there, I got on tiptoes and, with me fist, knocked on the ceiling. Oh me gosh, the ruckus that caused. I was down there snickering to meself as they came running down, asking me, "Did you hear that?"

"Well, no, what was I supposed to hear?" I asked, putting on an innocent face.

I will say there were some unexplained happenings that are too many to list and have no plausible explanation. There were times when I felt like I would just go out and wait in the car for sunrise, but I had heard what the tour guide had said about long-gone Native Americans walking the property and how they probably weren't happy to have the house built on their burial and hunting grounds. I found that last perplexing. I don't think Indians would hunt on their burial grounds, so maybe he misunderstood the term, happy hunting ground, which is what Native burial sites are sometimes referred to. 

Early the next morning, just as the sun was rising, O'Hare went outside with the bell and sat by the pond in the back, admiring the countryside (it is beautiful), then the bell suddenly began ringing. He put on his headphones for communication, and someone named Mildred spoke to him. When she stopped, the heavens opened up and drenched him. When she came back, it stopped, and when she left, the same thing. Odd, but I knew downpours were expected; it was just odd they came and went when they did. 

Even the pond water was doing odd things, like a shark was circling closer and closer. O'Hare didn't stay around for whatever it was under the water to get near him. This last had unnerved me more, and I did go sit in the car, yes, the shotgun seat. I knew the other guy was going to be pissed off that I had taken that seat again, but oh welly, as the Weasil would say. However, all the way back I had the hair on me neck rise more than once, as if I felt we had brought back a ghostly presence. O'Hare is very exact in making sure he does not give spirits permission to accompany or possess him, but the other three don't take that seriously, so who knew?

Did we bring back something with us? Well, let me tell you the return was spookier than being in that house. That night in me own abode, I heard footsteps, heard sounds and voices, and there was an owl outside on the porch railing hooting! O'Hare heard nothing, but he was exhausted and slept deeply. Meanwhile, in the next town over, one of the investigators went into his bedroom, and the door slammed behind him. No one in the house but him! So while we got nothing but someone named Mildred at the Dandy House, we sure did bring some leftover activity to our own homes.

OR, so we all thought until they went through their infrared photos and other photos a few days later. Yes, they certainly conjured something, and I'd be glad not to still be at the Hinsdale abode. If you look closely, you will see a hooded figure to the left of the ghosthunter.

Look closely, he's wonderfully oblivious at the time. Can you imagine if he "saw" that thing? 

Would I go on another of their ghost adventures? Nah, I was a fifth wheel and was in the way most of the time, and after that photo, the answer is a resounding NO! I even thought while they were upstairs looking for phenomena, I'd close me eyes and see what came to me, but then I had that brilliant idea to knock on the low ceiling, so glad I did, can you imagine THAT thing standing in front of old Gabe? Well, be a lot of activity goin' on downstairs, I can tell ya that much!

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

The Future Of The Blog

11 April 2026

1153

R. Linda:

As you may have noticed, there are 10 stories on the blog. I took the rest off, because it was getting rather difficult to maintain 1153 stories. I also wasn't getting much in the way of comments of late, but the silent readership has been "reading," so I kept everything intact for them. However, I decided to eliminate most of the bulk, as I noticed no one seemed to notice the disappearing act, but a few "followers" who wrote me privately that they were upset I was purging the blog and said they understood the why of it, but... 

Going through the blog from start to present, I realised how much not only me life but life in general has changed. At the start, the stories are pretty carefree and fun, but as the pandemic hit, they took on a new, more real and worrisome tone, and, up to now, a slightly chaotic tone has crept in. Since I feel I cannot give you, my followers and readers, the carefree and fun experience which was me purpose, it's best to possibly close the blog forever. 

I was told I shouldn't do that, but to continue to chronicle what silliness I could find in such tumultuous times for the sanity of some, who say they enjoy the antics of the O'Sullivan family and friends. I must think this over. The stories of recent date have become less and less frequent. I think that will continue, or perhaps it will pick up; I simply don't know right now.

I have a lot of thinking to do. I have not made a decision one way or the other, but I will let you know what I decide.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Fired Up Over Marshals But Not The Way You Might Imagine

 04 March 2026

1152

R. Linda:

Maybe because all Tonya can talk about is how disappointing the new Yellowstone spinoff Marshals is, that it's on me mind. We both watched it the other night, and I, for one, wanted to run upstairs and turn the telly on up in our room so I could watch Will Trent instead. I was antsy that Marshalls was boring the hell out of me and making me uncomfortable. Uncomfortable, because as a writer, I could see all kinds of "little things" that can come back to bite. 

With Will Trent, I'll be on the edge of my seat, knowing bad things could and do happen, and while I might feign looking away (but really peeking through me fingers), I watch and marvel at how well written that series is and how hooked I am. All the characters are interesting, Will in particular, but every single one has a distinct personality that meshes well with the storylines. I'm impressed.

So watching Marshals was like watching a bad episode of CSI on horseback with lassoes. Too much is going on, too soon. The dialogue does nothing to enhance the actors' roles. Lets start with the two women Marshalls: Both have attitude, and I'm not talking Beth Dutton (if only) I am talking two rather nice looking women (too good looking for me to believe they are law enforcement and I'm not saying law enforcment women are not good looking, but they have a certain hard exterior that these two lack), who have no trouble being abrasive, a little too abrasive, you know the chip on the shoulder, I have a lot to prove kind of abrasive. Ok, maybe they are trying to fit into a man's world, but it isn't a good look. It turns me off. I will say Logan Marshall-Green steals the show for me. He's really convincing as the lead marshal. Kayce is Kayce, and yes, he holds his own, but look what he has to work with. A bad script, a limp storyline, a few bad actors, one who could best him, and no Taylor Sheridan. 

I was hoping for a spinoff on Yellowstone, the same quirk, backstabbing, rotten to the core, inebriated with ambition and power-hungry family and their equally unforgiving cowboys, extended into new situations. Instead, I got CSI Cowboy with a horse. And at least the horse is the same one from Yellowstone. 

My biggest gripe is the teenage son. Obviously, things between Kayce and his son are not good. The kid doesn't talk to him, and when he does, it's begrudgingly. He doesn't tell his father where he is going or what he's into. He's depressed and angry, and it's over the death of his mom (her death, not from complications after the accident she had, but from toxins found on the reservation). She, by the way, is buried on a windy hill by a rock with her name carved into it. Where is the baby boy buried, and why is he not buried with his mom? Odd. A little thing I know, but as a father . . .

Anyway, knowing the teenager had been kidnapped when he was younger and what Kayce and his wife, Monica, went through, you'd think that instead of running off and joining the marshals, Kayce would be nourishing a bonding relationship with his distressed son. The boy obviously has his own agenda, and it's a dangerous one that puts him in harm's way. As a parent, if my kid had been kidnapped, I'd be damn sure that if I wasn't able to be at home, I'd have someone looking after him. Also, the young teen needs therapy, quite obviously, or at least an attempt to sit down and hash out his problems with dad in a controlled atmosphere. This situation could be lethal to the series. Kayce's focus will have to be on either his family member or the marshals. It should be an easy decision, but the title of the show is The Marshals, not Tate finds mental health after the death of his mother and baby brother. It looks like Tate is hanging out to dry while daddy runs off and does his own thing. BUT you know it's Tate who will get Dad into trouble. And this, coupled with the toxins on the reservation, is the crux of the show.

Then there are the cows. Yes cows! Kayce and son are ranchers with a small herd of cows. I wanna know who is taking care of the cows? If the son, Tate, has no interest in ranching and is running off to protests, and Kayce is battling assassins in the men's room at the hospital, who is tending the cows at the mini Yellowstone ranch? I know, it's a stupid point, maybe, but why make a deal about them and then...

This brings me to Rainwater and Mo, whose dialogue is ho-hum. I miss the dynamic duo of Yellowstone. These two are just "there", and while they fit the storyline (such as it is at the moment), my excitement of seeing them first appear soon lost its lustre. Would Sheridan please take over writing from Spencer Hudnut, and give these two talented men and their interesting characters some meat to chew on instead of the crap they have to spout?

Maybe the episodes will pick up. I know it was the first episode, and once things are established, the show might pick up momentum, or not. I believe my true problem is that I expected Yellowstone-type situations, characters, and settings; it says Yellowstone spinoff after all. Instead, I am subject to a monochrome set of dark grey, faded yellow, and no colour. And by colour, I mean the want of colourful characters, colourful acting, colourful lines, colourful situations, the Taylor Sheridan way of making a good show. I miss Sheridan, I would say, the most. Or maybe I should be turning my ire at Sheridan for allowing someone else to take the reins who does not have the Sheridan imagination or the Yellowstone mega-series experience that only he could have.

I will give it one more go when the second episode airs. That's all I can promise Tonya. If it doesn't pan out, I shall be glued to the Will Trent kind of policing, and saying bye-d-bye to the cowboy hats and lassoes.

Gabe

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Cracker Barrel - Great Food If You Don't Mind Eating In A Geriatric Centre

28 February 2026

1151

R. Linda:

Well, I have to tell you, it was an experience last Friday that I don't often have. I had me annual eye exam, and when I was there, they wanted to dilate me pupils. I took Tonya with me so she could drive, and because it was a great excuse to eat out. With the snow, she was off, and I had already taken a personal day, so we left the kiddos with Mam and went to vision care. Drops were administered, no change in eyesight, and we were off to the Cracker Barrel for luncheon. 

As we were pulling up to the restaurant, a small school bus was stopped on the other side of the road, its lights flashing. Traffic on both sides was backed up, waiting for someone to get off the bus. And we waited, and waited, until we were trying to see if anyone was actually at the wheel of the bus. I couldn't see with the dilated eyes, so I took Tonya's word that there was a driver. We continued to wait. I believe we waited a good 15 minutes (all of us) for a grown woman to get off the bus. Tonya was like WHAT? It seemed the woman and the bus driver were chatting all that time, holding up traffic, and in a strange twist, no one honked their horn, but this isn't Boston.

As the bus pulled away and we started forward on our side, I saw the dark-haired woman from the bus walk towards her house (I assume her house) that was nearly at the curb, when suddenly she disappeared, and in her place was a blond woman walking her dog.

"Wait," I said, "Where did the other woman go, and where did that one with the dog come from?

"I saw the same thing you did," Tonya said, laughing, "and I don't have drops in my eyes."

That was bizarre, and neither of us has an explanation. It was a harbinger of what was to come.

We got to the Cracker Barrel Restaurant, and we were both hungry, having had no breakfast and little coffee. Me eye appointment was at 10, and the vision centre was an hour away, so we had sipped coffee quickly and, just as quickly, showered, dressed, and hit the road, leaving us famished! And, we were cold as well. When we first got to the Cracker Barrel, there were two shop girls in the product part of the store. Girls, isn't the right word, both of them were older than me own mother. A couple was waiting to be seated at the restaurant in front of us, asking questions about the menu and trying to decide whether they even wanted to be seated. Who freaking does that?

The hostess was a cheery sort, with crinkly eyes, that when she smiled, all the wrinkles settled on her ample forehead, making her look like someone from another planet. She was more than accommodating in explaining nearly every dish on the huge menu. We couldn't believe we were waiting once again, just to be seated. I even mumbled to Tonya, we were there for the food, so please seat us while these two deadheads make a decision.

Finally, we two hungry people were seated by another hostess (who seemingly came out of the woodwork - it was turning into that kind of a day), and she reminded us of the goblin Griphook from the Harry Potter movie The Philosopher's Stone. Her ancient ears stuck out from her head, and her nose was thin and pointy. We looked at each other, thinking the same thing. We did mention how chilled we were, and she was good enough to seat us in front of a gigantic fireplace.

The large fireplace gave off MUCH heat

As we sat there contemplating the menu, Tonya remarked that everyone in the place had white hair and a cane. I looked around, and from waitstaff to customers, we were the only "children" in the place. Our waitress was the youngest of the crew and a bit of a wit. 

I was handed a menu that I realised I couldn't read because me eyes were dilated. The waitress looks at me questioningly, and I tell her my eyes are dilated from an eye exam I just had. And she says, "Oh, I noticed that, I thought you were on drugs!"

Ok then. I secretly found her druggy remark funny.

Tonya read off the million selections, and I somehow saw the picture of the Nashville chicken dish (which looked inviting), but when I went to order it, I was told it's only available on Saturdays. What? And the waitress pointed to the banner under the chicken that said that. Well, I was disappointed, and when she saw I really wanted that chicken dish, she told me that if I ordered another chicken dish, she'd slip the Nashville sauce in so I could dip and eat. I took her up on it and sat back to wait, wondering why I ordered what I did, which would be the same dish without the sauce, but the sauce was being added. I felt old-person befuddled, I did.

Anyway, she brought us our orders and everything, and I mean everything came at once. The appetiser, the biscuits, the entrees, the coffee, the water. ALL OF IT! Tonya and I were hustling to move dishes to one side so the rest could be placed. I tell ya!

Well, my dear R. Linda, I cut me chicken breast into slivers and dipped it in the Nashville sauce, and I can tell you, thanks to Tonya's observation, smoke was not only going up the fireplace, but was coming out of me ears, nose, mouth and the top of me head, it was! Between the sauce and the fireplace, I was one sweaty mess.

"WOW!" I said. "How can these old people eat this stuff? It be frying me insides and forget me tongue, it's hot stuff there, Tonya."

Our waitress was passing our table when Tonya asked her to substitute the spicy maple sauce for the Nashville, because her husband (that be me), who couldn't articulate because his tongue was a hot mess of swollen taste buds, wasn't tolerating the heat from the Nashville sauce. This said with a bat of eyelashes, which, if our server were a man, might have the desired effect. In this case, the waitress blinked back at her and asked if Tonya was quite alright and if she had something in her eye.

Anyway, after some hemming and hawing on Tonya's part, the maple sauce was brought to me, and I will say that was delicious stuff. I could have drunk it down; it was so good. It at least took me mind off the sweat pouring off me from the fireplace, the inner heat from the Nashville catastrophe, and the suntan I was sure I was getting from the fire across from me. Which, if I had swallowed me overheated pride, would have had me dancing around the joint, it was that HOT!

When all was said and done, the waitress asked me how I liked that maple sauce. I told her to just call me Uncle Herschel. I was good with everything. She did notice I had a small portion of chicken breast left and four biscuits. She told me she'd get me a box so I could enjoy it as a sandwich the next day. I did notice the portions are big (we never finished the delicious onion appetiser or the biscuits; there was too much food ... all at once). I had looked at Tonya, like What the heck? when the waitress left us for the boxes. 

"I think because this place is frequented by the elderly, they know they can't eat all the food, so they box the leftovers for them as a snack for later."

"Oh, you think? And I fall into that category, do I?" I joked with her. Well, being a guy, I do know how much our stomachs come into play when it comes to snacks and food in general. So happily, we boxed out our food stash and left for the gift shop. No snoggers this time, just old timers wandering the short aisles looking at sparkly hats and clothing. I suggested a few cowgirl rhinestone dresses to Tonya, but she had none of it. We left empty-handed, but with food boxes, so we were all set. 

I did have me chicken, not as a sanny, but cut up and dipped into the spicy maple sauce the next day. I really enjoyed it, was SOOO good! I just don't get why this second visit to the Barrel had crazy things happen to moi. What magic trick was the school bus woman's disappearance and magical reappearance as someone else with a dog, no less, perpetrated on me? Why was I made to listen to 25 minutes of "What's this dish?" and "Henry, do you want to eat here, or what?" What indeed. Why was I served hotter-than-hell sauce and placed in front of the biggest, hottest fireplace I've ever seen? Why do I get wits as servers, and a pile of food flooding me table all at the same time, so I can't enjoy each morsel separately? Why am I treated like I be 80 years old or like a child of 7 by people I don't know?

Tonya says, "You're just lucky, I guess."

I hate to say this, but the experience (with the exception that the food is really GOOD) reminded me of our awful experience in Sherbrooke Village, Canada (see Story #586, Sheet Harbour And Sherbrooke Village, Nova Scotia, 09 October, 2010), where we were made to wait an hour to be seated while a busload of seniors finished luncheon, and then were told we could only have the soup with half a sanny each! 

INDEED LUCKY!

Gabe

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