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Have you ever met someone, but you didn’t know quite how to greet her? I meet new people all the time, and usually I have a feel for the appropriate way to say hello. I greet children and adults that I meet through my work with a smile, a nod, and sometimes, a handshake. I usually greet my friends with a cheerful, “Hi!” but some of them are “huggers,” and my greeting isn’t enough.

I have two friends who I met through work a few years ago. We don’t work together anymore, but we still get together. One is a hugger; one is not. I get a big squeeze from the hugger and a quicker, more distant “hug” from the other. We only hug because, well, the “hugger” starts it! That’s fine with me. I am usually not a hugger. I am sensitive that others feel awkward hugging when greeting someone who isn’t in their closest circle of loved ones. I try to adapt to what I think the other person expects. Sometimes I get it right, and sometimes I don’t.

Are you a hugger or not? Do you limit your hugs to close family only? Do you give hugs freely? Can you tell if someone would prefer not to hug?

Over the past eighty-plus years I have known quite a few people who today would probably be described as being “veracity challenged,” or “veracity impaired,” or something like that. Telling falsehoods is really nothing new. One of the more often repeated passages in the New Testament states: “And the truth was not in him.”

I remember an older neighbor who often used the expression, “It takes a lot of people to make up a world.” Usually he would add, “And I’m afraid quite a few of them are nothing but damned liars.“There are different kinds of liars,” he would explain, “with different levels of falsehood and for different reasons. Some are kind of creative and are innovators – entertainers, really. If they would put their stories down on paper, instead of telling them in barbershops and taverns, they would be considered short story writers or authors. Then there are the ‘Compulsive Liars.’ These windjammers seem compelled to continually tell fibs for no reason at all. Some of them can’t look at their watch and tell you the time of day without adding or subtracting an hour or two.

“At the bottom of the list we have what I consider the ‘Repulsive Liars.’ The worst and most damaging of these are the gossips who tell their lies for the sole purpose of damaging another person’s reputation. Slightly more acceptable are those whose lies are created solely for financial or political gain. In dealing with them, you’d better keep your hand on your pocketbook. I prefer these crooked scoundrels to the gossips, though. Remember, Shakespeare said: ‘He who steals my purse steals trash, but he who steals my good name takes from me everything I have.’”

Some liars take great pride in their accomplishments:

Although I lack a real profession,
There are ways of getting by.
I can hide my lack of knowledge
With a crafty, well-told lie.

I look on this “fibbing skill” as
A welcome God-given gift.
A few well-told lies often give
Listener’s spirits a lift.

I use my imagination –.
Creativity’s my game –
If my lies are enjoyed, I feel
Not one twinge of guilt or shame.

Here is how I build my stories:
I learned many years ago
To start with a simple fact, then
Make up the rest as you go.

In liar’s contests, I always
Think fast and get in my licks
It helps to pretend I’m involved
In national politics.

I don’t just rest on my laurels
Even when telling white lies.
I do my creative best, and
Let my mind soar to the skies

No one’s interested in stories
That are moss-covered and old.
I challenge myself, making each
Lie the best I’ve ever told.

After my long years of fibbing,
I have come to realize
Lots of folks really like having
The wool pulled over their eyes.

Oh, I’ll admit a few tend to
Wise up later, and get sore,
But soon forget and forgive, then
They come back looking for more.

If an occasional listener
Questions my veracity,
I admit I’m a liar and as
Proud of that as I can be.

Most folks have a favorite hobby
That requires some special skill.
Mine is fabricating fables,
As I’m sure I always will

Until that bright day when Heaven’s
Great Golden Book includes me.
Saints will read my name, followed by:
“Prevaricator, Ph.D.”

How about you, do you know someone who loves to embellish when they tell a story? Have you been hurt by someone who has perfected the art of gossiping? Share your thoughts.

Can a man really be “just friends” with a woman? A woman with a man? I asked my 24 year old son this question and he said “No way!” I reminded him that I have had a platonic friendship with my good friend Bill for over 14 years. He said “Well it is different with old people.”

Ok, I will give him that to a degree. Those of us that are more “mature” (I am not that old but I do remember thinking my parents were ready for the nursing home when they were my age) are more confident and capable of sustaining a platonic friendship without it developing into something more amorous. As you grow older, you have a wealth of history with a variety of relationships to draw from and make informed decisions.

My husband would agree and has no problem with my friendship with Bill. Even 14 years ago when I was younger, thinner and actually might have had the energy to have an affair, my husband did not give me any flack. I am thankful for my husband’s acceptance of my friendship with Bill because he has become like a brother to me and I can not imagine not having him in my life.

However, I am not so naive that I can’t see where platonic relationships could be a recipe for disaster. Your perspective can shift. Suddenly you see your friend as desirable, but he or she still sees you as only a friend. It becomes uncomfortable when somebody likes you more than you like them. Feelings get hurt and suddenly their is no relationship at all. Disappointment and anger is where this relationship will end.

I would have to say that I would answer yes, that platonic friendships even with married friends are not only possible but can be successful, fulfilling and thrive. There are boundaries that have to be drawn and you must make sure that you do not put yourself in a situation where someone-including your spouse- could misconstrue the truth from the perception.

How about you? Do you have a platonic friendship with the opposite sex? Does your spouse? Are they successful?

Have you ever been in mixed company in a social setting where the conversation took a turn toward politics? What about when someone brings up religion or mentions that they go to Church at a social engagement. How do you feel when education becomes the main course at the table of your neighbor’s dinner party? What is your gut reaction?

My gut reaction is to head for the hills as fast as I can. However, if I am unable to politely excuse myself, I sit there running images of banging my head up again the wall or poking my eyes back in my head till my eyelids flip inside out.

There are some people who feel comfortable engaging in playful dialogue discussing what government should do differently – till it becomes a heated debate due to a strong opposition of their views. There are some people who feel justified in speaking about God and are quick to tell you that you’re going to hell in a hen basket if you don’t turn your life over to him – that usually sets the stage to start a blood bath in a holy war if anyone challenges this one. There are some highly evolved people who will exclude others from discussions because they think they won’t comprehend the conversation – till they realize there’s nobody left to listen to them.

I’m not saying that I don’t have opinions, I do. I’m not saying that I don’t voice my opinions, I do. But I’m learning that the best times to speak out is not when I’m in a social environment with mixed company. Nobody ever wins when zoning in on these subject matters – they are unwinnable. Someone always ends up angry, sad, embarrassed, belittled, ridiculed…and on goes the list. Perhaps if I want my voice heard I should direct it toward the Government, the Church and the Board of Education.

I’m not making any promises but the next time I’m asked what my opinion is on politics, religion or education at a social get-together…I’ll be saying, “No comment.” I think I’ll stick to the less controversial subjects like plastic surgery.

“Never argue at the dinner table, for the one who is not hungry always gets the best of the argument.” – Anonymous

Do you keep it to yourself and risk her/him finding out that you knew? If you choose this path and your friend finds out, not only will your friend feel very hurt and betrayed, but he or she may never trust you again.

If you have a good relationship with your friend’s partner, be prepared for that to change. If you choose to inform your friend, you must also be prepared for your friend’s partner to harbor feelings towards you that will range on a scale from resentment to complete contempt.

All the way around, this seems like a situation where no one comes out feeling good about the circumstances. Even a relationship between best friends can become ruined when you share that you saw a spouse cheat, as unfair as it may seem. In the end, it really might just come down to what type of friends you are and if you are willing to risk your friendship.

What are your thoughts? Would you tell a friend?

I’ve always enjoyed the TV show “Cheers”. Not only the first time around, but also the re-runs. Like most successful sitcoms, it had not just one star, but quite a large cast, consisting of talented, humorous, interesting, and lovable characters. The scene was almost always the same, a Boston bar, where “everybody knows your name.” For all of Cheers’ patrons, it seemed to be a “home away from home.” A place where they could go to meet and associate with other friendly people, good-natured folks who, like themselves, were trying to escape at least a few of the pressures and problems of life in the real world.

Member of the Cheers cast were solid characters, and well thought out and crafted by the show’s writers. All were at least a bit bizarre, but believable and recognizable as types you just might rub shoulders with in any friendly neighborhood bar. There are usually at least a few Sam “Mayday” Malones around-good fellows who have never quite outgrown their athletic world. And tavern patrons who possess, and are ready and willing to share all of the answers are seldom in short supply. Quite often you can find a small group that includes members vaguely resembling a Diane Chambers, Cliff Clavin, and Dr. Frasier Crane, all fully qualified experts. At least one member of the group is sure to be armed with complete details regarding any subject that may happen to come and can explain them at great length. And there will always be a Norm Peterson around–the least successful but most popular guy in the place. With luck, you may be able to avoid a Carla Tortelli LeBec, who just can’t resist agitating and antagonizing certain people.

It is not my purpose in life to promote the use of alcohol. I have witnessed some of the sad and serious problems and damage that result from the abuse and over use of the spirits. And I’ve known quite a few cases that were less serious, yet good examples of occasions where a person and his or her family would have been much better off had that guy or gal spent less time at the pub and more evenings at home.

Overall, though, I don’t see anything wrong with the basic idea of the neighborhood bar. Some people seem to have a real need for a place to unwind. A friendly haven for relaxing and a bit of socializing. A place to meet old friends, and now and then a complete stranger. A place to discuss politics and compare notes on the local weather. To learn how hot or cold Efren’s thermometer registered yesterday. Also how hot or cold it was last year at this time. It’s nice for everyone to be able to find out how much water all of their neighbors had in their rain gauges on any given morning. A country bar is often a meeting place where farmers can talk about hog and milk prices. And to learn what each of the area grain elevators is paying for shelled corn and soybeans.

For working people and for unemployed job seekers it can be a valuable place for exchange of information regarding employment opportunities, pay scales, job conditions, etc.

What about you? Where do you like to hangout on a Friday or Saturday night? Do you have any stories to share about favorite neighborhood bars, clubs or restaurants and the cast of characters that make them special?

The subtle sound danced softly across our summer evenings. Too musical to be referred to as merely a “rumble,” it bore a vague resemblance to someone playing the lower tones on a distant marimba.

As children, we enjoyed the unusual melody. We learned at an early age that the sound was made by a vehicle crossing the old bridge, more than a mile away, down where Muscallunge Road crosses the Rattlesnake Creek. Many generations of area youngsters knew that random, rippling sound. And down through the years it was not uncommon for the more imaginative ones to refer to it as the “song of Thunder Bridge.”

The reason for the bridge’s harmonic tune was the design of the old structure. It was built in such a fashion that there was no need to fasten down the individual heavy wooden planks that made up its floor. Loosely laid, those timbers were free to move around a bit as a vehicle crossed over them. Some “self-proclaimed experts” explained that the choice of this method of construction was just good economics, that wooden bridge floors with free-moving planks stayed cleaner and dried out faster when wet, thus lasting longer than did floors that were tightly-spaced and with each plank firmly fastened in place. Others agreed that the design was a matter of economics, but argued that the major savings came from eliminating the need for many bolts and the labor required to drill holes and install them. Few, if any, of the local people knew the age of the bridge. Some of the old-timers estimated that it had most likely been built for the benefit of the early wheat farmers who hauled their wagon loads of grain to the Atkinson Flour Mill in North Andover. Others felt certain that it was constructed early enough to have rendered its first rhythmic rumbling when crossed by the steel-banded wooden wheels of a wagon heavily laden with locally-mined lead ore that was being transported to nearby Beetown or to the smelters at Potosi.

For many years, “Thunder Bridge!” was the rallying cry of partying teenagers. In a secluded valley in a bluegrass pasture that bordered the lightly-traveled Muscallunge Road, young people from the surrounding area, as well as those from a number of the neighboring small towns, found the privacy desired for frequent evening get-togethers. The first young men to arrive always managed to find and gather an ample supply of dry wood to feed a large bonfire. According to whispered reports, a good time was almost always had by all.

Most of the Thunder Bridge pasture parties were uneventful. At one of the more memorable ones, one of the happy young male revelers, for some unknown reason, pitched an unopened bottle of beer into the roaring bonfire. The resulting explosion was loud and filled the sky with sparks and bits of burning embers. A few of the surprised merrymakers suffered small burns from the flying sparks, and a number found their clothing suffered small burn holes. If there are such things as “party gods,” they all must have been smiling that evening, as only several very minor facial wounds were caused by the flying bits and shards of broken glass from the exploding bottle.

Occasionally a concerned neighbor would inform the pasture’s owner that the youngsters were holding beer parties on his property, and perhaps the time had come for him to do something about it. But he refused to become excited or get involved. “I was young once myself,” he would say. “Young people will party and I can’t think of a better or safer place for them to do it. As long as they close the gate when they leave, their parties don’t bother me a bit.” To friends, he would sometimes confide that he did regret the fact that he was now considered too old to be invited to join the young folks in their jolly evening events. More than likely he had done a bit of partying there himself in earlier years.

Except for singing its occasional song, Thunder Bridge led a quiet existence. A long-time fixture in the area, it was loved by most, and had no known enemies. But one dark, rainy autumn night it suffered a brutal and completely unprovoked attack. As may be expected on Halloween, the night had no shortage of spooks, witches, goblins, and any number of various other shadowy evil spirits traveling slyly about, performing their various pranks and wicked deeds. A number of the huge, heavy wooden planks that made up the bridge’s ancient floor were actually lifted out of place that night, and were spirited away – at least for a short distance – and carefully concealed in a nearby patch of tall weeds.

The next morning an alert school bus driver spotted the gaping hole in the bridge floor and managed to get his huge vehicle stopped in time to prevent any damage to either it or to his precious cargo.

The years went by, as years tend to do, and brought with them the changes and progress we had all come to expect. Both the kinds of change we eagerly awaited and the type to which we did not look forward with great anticipation. Eventually the time came for our beloved old Thunder Bridge to go. Perhaps it was just considered by some to be obsolete. Or it could be that it was thought to be too narrow for even the small amount of traffic that made use of the graveled rural road. It is possible that the bases and abutments built of quarried limestone and mortar had deteriorated beyond repair. It may be the heavy old riveted steel framework and beams had become badly rusted and weakened by age. Then again, it may be the ancient structure had just never been built strong enough to carry the large milk, fertilizer, and logging trucks that began traveling our roads as time moved along, or the even-larger, heavier burdens anticipated for the future.

Regardless of the reason, Thunder Bridge disappeared from Muscallunge Road, from the Rattlesnake Creek, and from our lives. It was replaced by a modern new bridge that is sturdy and substantial. One that appears to be almost indestructible, with steel beams that are securely anchored into, and supported by, what appears to be a more-than-ample amount of steel-reinforced concrete. No one can question its strength, but it is silent – so silent. Automobiles, trucks, and farm tractors cross it with scarcely a whisper.

Unlike most old bridges and many elderly people, the new span has no stories to tell. Even sadder is the fact that it has no song of its own. Youngsters of the area will never know the rhythmic rumble of a loose-plank bridge floor. But the music remains and lives on for a fortunate few. In our minds and memories we still hear and enjoy that distant melody, the song of Thunder Bridge.

Share the special spots of your youth and favorite memories.

I was unable to attend the most recent reunion of the Bloomington High School Class of ’41, so I made good use of an invitation to get together with some of my classmates this summer. We gathered at the Timbers in Platteville, where we enjoyed some excellent food and conversation. And knee-deep nostalgia.

Our class get-togethers include not only graduates, but also those who were aboard for at least part of the four-year journey. A total of fifteen classmates, plus spouses, were present for this one, prepared to re-live fond memories, look at old class pictures, and bring everyone up-to-date on any new developments. Our three Margarets were there. Also two Williams. And the twins.

In recent years, at such gatherings, we always count our blessings. We feel fortunate to still be around, and be able to join in and enjoy such reunions. The Reaper has gathered up only a few of our members. A number have lost spouses along the way. But only one of our twenty-six graduates has been called home.

Born in the early twenties, we are children of the Big Depression. At the time of our graduation from high school, the world around us had not yet begun to change at a rapid pace. For the most part, we are still hanging in there and trying to adjust. No, we are not running any marathons or signing up for any decathlons these days. But, as I looked around the tables, I decided we don’t look too bad, considering year model and mileage.

There is one thing about a group such as this. It would be useless to try telling them any tall tales. These old minds and memories are too sharp, and we all know each other far too well for falsehoods. But here is a tale about an old fellow who does rely more on imagination than on memory and historical data:

THE HISTORIAN

Poor old Jud’s hands are trembling badly;
He wraps them ‘round his coffee cup,
And thinks, “Maybe the time has come for
Me to give all this caffeine up.”

But coffee and the Corner Café
Have now become his way of life.
‘Cause his old house is cold and lonely–
Since last spring–when he lost his wife.

The waitress doesn’t mind his teasing
Or him telling outrageous lies,
She thanks him for his ten-cent tip, gives
Him his choice of the home-baked pies.

Jud likes to tell the “counter cowboys”
About bad horses he once rode,
And how he got his “brisket stove in”
Down in Tucson when he “got throwed.”

He boasts of rodeo calf roping ¬–
Could really make that lasso sing — ¬¬
His young hands then moved swift as lightning
When he yanked tight that piggin’ string.

He likes to tell the young truck drivers
Of all his days “over-the-road,”
When no run was too big a challenge;
Never arrived late with a load.

Time and again he crossed this country,
From north to south, and forth and back,
Mostly in Peterbilts and Kenworths.
He once owned a cab-over Mack.

Big, old Ed Dietrich leaves the kitchen —
Comes out for a breath of fresh air —
Wipes his hands on his greasy apron,
Thinks, “Old Jud’s still got lies to spare.

“Pin him down and prove he’s a liar —
He’ll just dream up a dozen more.
The biggest rig he’s driven is that
Old hand-truck down at Brown’s Feed Store.

“He’s never seen a real wild bronco,
But–when five-years-old–took a dare,
Straddled a merry-go-round pony
Down at the Dubuque County Fair!”