Here’s why I’ll never again take advice from Robert Frost

“Two roads diverged in a wood and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” – Robert Frost

“Two roads diverged in a wood and I, I did not have my GPS with me, and that explains why I was late to dinner.” – Mike Taylor

I’m so glad to be alive. This same time yesterday I strongly suspected I wouldn’t be. I figured I’d be feeding turkey vultures and coyotes. As in, I would be the main course.

Like Thoreau, “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach…” Well, no. Really, I went to the woods because I had some work to finish and figured even hiking through the woods is better than working. Also, I had accumulated about 600,439 calories on Thanksgiving and they were crying out to be burned.

Fortunately, there’s a very nice and (it turns out) very large state-owned nature preserve/campground only a few minutes’ drive from my front door. I hike there all the time, usually just a mile or two.

The terrain is fairly demanding in some areas, easier in others, so I can tailor my walk to my mood and energy level, which is determined largely on whether I had Mexican food the night before.

I hadn’t, so I decided to try a new route, one I’d never hiked before. I was thinking just a quick stroll, a mile or so, then right back to work. Honest.

Walking staff in hand, I plunged unafraid into the trackless wilderness. Okay, there were tracks. And a trail. And little signs every couple hundred yards marking said trail. And arrows pointing the way. Basically, everything but traffic lights.

The point is, I was plunging unafraid.

The first mile went by too quickly. For late November, the weather was amazing; mid-fifties, slightly overcast sky, gentle breeze. I decided one mile might as well be two, since I was here anyway. Two became three.

I came to a fork in the well-marked trail; to the left, the trail continued on, wide and well-marked; to the right, it was little more than a foot path, half buried beneath a heavy blanket of fallen oak leaves. Remembering the Frost quote cited in the opening of this column, I veered right. Adventure is my middle name.

The path meandered first east, then west, growing narrower and more obscure as I hiked along. I lost the path, then found it again. Then lost it again. Being the savvy woodsman I am, I figured I’d just keep going the same direction until I encountered another path. I mean, this was a state park, for crying out loud! Not a real trackless wilderness.

I’d left my Brainiac phone in the car, but my almost-as-smart watch was telling me I’d walked over four miles already. Sadly, without my phone to provide it information, my watch isn’t particularly good at determining my location. It stinks at this job, in fact.

Eventually, I stumbled upon a trail, but not one made for humans. The deer, apparently, need no signs or arrows to figure out where they are. But a trail is a trail. I followed it.

A gun went off, nearby. It was then I remembered it’s deer hunting season. Deep in the woods, dressed in a brown leather jacket, tan baseball cap, grey jeans. I couldn’t have looked more like a deer if I’d hot-glued antlers to my head.

Better still, it was getting dark. The only thing more fun than being lost in the woods is being lost in the woods after dark. A half-hour later, I was. Since I hadn’t planned for a nocturnal excursion, I had no flashlight with me.

I considered stopping long enough to carve my Last Will & Testament into a piece of birch bark, but then realized I don’t have that much stuff anyone will want after I’m dead.

I’m writing this, so obviously I eventually found a trail, which lead to a larger trail, which lead to a road, which lead to my car, which lead to a Mexican restaurant that serves beer.

The next time two roads diverge in a wood, I will be taking the one with pavement.

MTaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 745-9530

More at: MTRealityCheck.Blogspot.com

Learning to avert natural disasters under three feet tall

My Granddaughter, Juniper,
Princess of Destruction

I hate the holidays. Well, no, I don’t. Not really. It’s my family I hate. No, I don’t hate my family, either; just the grand-kids. They’re evil. OK, not evil, but they’re definitely children, and in most circumstances, that amounts to the same thing. Children = evil. It’s a simple equation.

They don’t mean to be evil any more than a hurricane means to knock your house over. Like any force of nature, they just sort of happen. And during the holidays, they happen around my house.

See, the problem is I’m not set up for kids. I have too much nice stuff, all the stuff I couldn’t have when my own kids were little. Fragile, fancy-schmancy pieces of art, musical instruments, delicate electronic junk … most of it placed in locations below three feet.

When the grandkids come over for Thanksgiving – all 11 of them! – they home in on my stuff like hungry bees circling a petunia. A couple of ‘em are older and no longer quite so evil. Sometimes, the older ones intervene when the younger ones go all Tasmanian Devil on my belongings. Being teenagers, however, sometimes they just ignore the carnage and continue staring at their phones.

The nine “under-fives” always manage to create a path of destruction that would, under other conditions, qualify me for some sort of federal disaster relief. Currently, the greatest offenders are my daughter Aubreii’s two youngest, Ari and Juniper. Such pretty names for such maniacal personalities.

Luckily (for them) they’re both baby-model cute, which is how they’ve managed to live so long. They have those big, innocent blue eyes their mother once deployed to incapacitate me whenever she sensed the onset of righteous paternal retribution.

And so, every year I wind up with missing and/or broken stuff. Oh, sure, I try to pack as much of it as possible away in drawers before they arrive. But there’s always something I miss. That’s what gets broken.

This year, however, things are going to be different.

As I write this, Thanksgiving is just a few days off. After discussing the problem with The Lovely Mrs. Taylor and brainstorming over a bottle of Merlot, I’ve come up with a few ideas I think might help.

The first was Mrs. Taylor’s idea: steel gates, like those used by mall shops at closing time. You know, you push a button and a big, steel gate rolls down like armor plating over the entire front of the store. Voila! Access is denied!

My grand-kids being who they are, it’s possible I’ll need to electrify the steel gates somehow as a secondary deterrent. I figure I could tie the system in to the front door bell. When the bell rings, gates all over the house would slam shut and my precious stuff would be safe.

Another option (this one was mine) is a network of crisscrossing lasers. I could install them in the floors and ceilings around my DVD rack, porcelain duck collection and antique typewriter. The lasers would use facial recognition software to fire whenever anyone who has never shaved gets within touching distance. I’d program the lasers with just enough “oomph” to sting, but not actually cut any children into slices. I don’t need to deal with angry parents during the holidays!

A low-tech possibility might be a few vicious attack dogs tied up at strategic points around the house. Again, I wouldn’t want the dogs to be too vicious. Despite their evil-ness, I do in fact love my grandchildren, even the most nefarious of the lot (I’m looking at you, June-Bug).

Then there’s the idea of building moats around all the cabinets that are home to my stuff. I really like this one, but Mrs. T isn’t keen on the idea of live sharks in the house. (Did I mention the sharks?) Anyway, the moat’s probably not going to happen.

From a purely aesthetic point of view, a series of those “invisible fences” might work; the kind they use to keep dogs in a yard without actually building a real fence? The only downside I can see is that I’d have to get all nine grandkids fitted with electric collars, which could get expensive. Also, there’s probably an ethical issue here somewhere; people are wimps these days and some goody two-shoes would surely complain if I started shocking toddlers.

At any rate, if any of these ideas work out for me, I’ll be sure to share the news with you other grandparents straight away. I know I can’t be the only geezer dealing with this issue.

MTaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 745-9530

My wife is to blame for the Zombie Apocalypse

I never thought I’d be Patient Zero when it comes to spreading the Zombie Apocalypse virus that finally wipes out mankind. And I wasn’t. Turns out I was Patient One. The Lovely Mrs. Taylor had the distinction of being first. I contracted it from her.

It began three days ago, when Mrs. Taylor arrived home early from work. Abdominal cramps, generalized pain, nausea, a bit of a fever. I figured it was flu. After watching every episode of “House” at least twice, I’m now able to diagnose pretty much any malady in under 60 minutes, though rarely with any accuracy.

I gave her the Mother’s Prescription: warm Vernor’s, a soda cracker, and a cool washcloth applied to the forehead. She lay down to take a nap.

When she woke an hour later with the pain greatly increased, my diagnosis changed to possible appendicitis. For the record, Mrs. T is one of those annoying people who wouldn’t ask for a bucket of water if her feet were on fire. She’s just not a whiner. When she starts complaining of pain, I know it’s the real thing.

I bundled her into the car and we rushed to the emergency room. There, medical personnel with actual medical degrees took over. While I sat unnoticed at her bedside, nurses wired Mrs. T to every monitoring device imaginable, asked questions, filled out forms, poked, prodded, scanned.

A fairly cursory exam early on showed my previous diagnoses (flu and/or appendicitis) to be incorrect. So much for “House.” Unfortunately, while the docs could figure out what it wasn’t, they couldn’t seem to figure out what it was.

One of the scans they wheeled her off for required a “contrast dye” (whatever that is). Turns out Mrs. T is violently allergic to contrast dye. She swelled up like the Michelin Man as five nurses and a doctor worked frantically to keep her breathing passages open and to counteract the allergic reaction.

After being stabbed (I use the term “stab” intentionally) with the same sort of hypo used by John Travolta to save Uma Thurman’s life in “Pulp Fiction,” Mrs. T finally began shrinking to her original size. I can joke about it now, but it was probably the third scariest ten minutes of my life.

It was around this time I noticed the room was spinning. Considering the size of the bill we were no doubt incurring, I thought it reasonable to expect an exam room that remained stationary and I said so as I slipped from my chair.

Now, nurses are accustomed to wimpy husbands who just can’t shrug off a near-death experience; one of them caught me on my way down. When I could again focus, I found that now I was laid out on an exam table, wires attached by sticky tabs to every exposed inch of skin.

I was in my own room, which also was spinning. After separating my stomach from its contents, I felt a little better, but not much. The doctor, who obviously had also seen several episodes of “House,” decided Mrs. T and I had either food poisoning or were sharing some sort of virus. The fact the virus had jumped from her to me in the half-hour it took to drive to the emergency room worried me a bit.

I mean, in addition to “House,” I’ve watched a lot of zombie movies and this is how it always starts. I figured that within an hour or two, we’d both be rampaging through the hallways, snacking on LPNs as we went along.

The National Guard would be called in, but by then it would be too late. The zombie horde – made up mostly of nurses we’d only partially eaten – would be too large for the military to contain. The president would call in a nuclear strike, but again, too little, too late.

By Christmas, I figured, we’d all be shambling around like B-movie extras in an old George Romero flick; torn clothes, a few missing fingers, blank stares in whatever was left of our eyes.

But as luck would have it, it turned out to be some sort of stomach virus after all. Mrs. T and I both lived (though there was a stretch there when we weren’t too keen about that idea) and neither of us have developed a taste for human brains; probably a good thing since in the current political climate they seem to be in short supply.

Mrs. T is back at the office today, though she probably shouldn’t be. I’m writing this, but I’m in my pajamas at noon, so I’m not sure it counts as “work.” And the Zombie Apocalypse is again averted.

For now…

MTaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 745-9530

It’s embarrassing when the worm turns … into something else

We’ve all read those food-centric horror stories. You know, the guy who finds a human finger in his Happy Meal or the lady who noshes a cockroach while munching a pepperoni and anchovy pizza. They’re everywhere. Some are probably true, some undoubtedly fabricated “click bait.”

But after six decades of eating daily, I had never been a player in one of those stories; not until last night. (Cue creepy music and windy sound effects.)

I’ve been eating a lot of soup lately. Winter’s coming and I know I’m going to pack on ten pounds before March, so I’m trying to lose ten pounds now in the hopes of coming out even in the spring. Also, this time of year just feels like “soup season” to me.

In the past month, I’ve downed 20 gallons of Cream of Mushroom, Cheesy Tortilla, Chicken Noodle and most especially, Clam Chowder. I’m a junky for clam chowder; not sure why. Clams are, frankly, just plain icky to my way of thinking. Live ones, anyway. But I’ve eaten more than my share of ‘em over the years in soups, deep fried, sautéed, you name it.

Until yesterday, I’ve stuck with the major, red-and-white label brands. The brands you see in advertisements featuring middle class soccer moms and finicky six-year-olds who realize after one bite they’d rather eat tomato soup than chocolate ice cream.

After all these weeks of budget soup-snarfling, I decided to treat myself. There on the shelf of my local grocery sat a somewhat plain-looking, smaller-than-the-rest can of “gourmet” clam chowder. I knew it was gourmet because of the price tag; at least three times the cost of the other brands for about half the product.

Also, according to the label, it was made in “small batches” in Bar Harbor, Maine. They know clams in Maine. Maine is galactic central point of the clam world. I couldn’t wait to try it.

That evening, I opened the can – no pop-top; I had to use an opener; this was the real deal, baby – and poured the soup into my favorite pan. It looked great! Far more “stuff” in it than in any of the big-name brands I’d previously purchased. I was soon salivating like Pavlov’s hungriest dog.

Then I noticed something kept floating to the top. Something black, about two-inches long. Something that looked the exact opposite of appetizing. Using a spoon, I fished it out.

A … worm! A disgusting, revolting, putrid, wriggly, vomitus worm! My appetite left me faster than any of my ex-wives. Five minutes later I was penning the following letter to the manufacturer:

Dear (Name withheld so I don’t get sued),

I’ve been a clam chowder fan since I was old enough to walk, but odds are I’ll never be able to eat it again, not after what I found in a can of your product! I’m not generally one to complain, and I’m not particularly squeamish, but hey folks, I won’t eat worms!

I’m enclosing a couple photos of both the can and its occupant. I know no system of food production is perfect, but when you’re charging premium prices for a product (which, admittedly, looked quite tasty were it not for the additional non-vertebrate protein) I think a customer should be able to expect worm-free goodness in every bite. I suppose I should be happy I found the whole worm, rather than only half.

I was really looking forward to a nice bowl of chowder tonight, too. Bought the oyster crackers and everything. This isn’t a lawsuit threat or anything stupid like that, by the way; I just wanted you to be aware of the worm issue. Thank you for your time. 

Mike Taylor

Kathleen, the nice lady from the clam chowder factory, emailed me this morning. Turns out the “worm” was actually something called a “clam string” and it’s a normal, non-life-threatening part of an oyster’s digestive tract.

Kathleen also sent a couple coupons, which was nice of her, considering my unfounded worm allegations. I’m sure I’ll use them … in time. But, worm or “clam string,” it’s gonna be a while before I can look at another can of clam chowder without thinking of that (alleged) invertebrate hitch-hiker.

MTaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 745-9530

If it really were the end of the world as we know it, I’d feel fine

Doomsday is taking too damn long to get here. First, I read the world was going to end Sept. 23. I planned accordingly; stopped paying my bills, left the dirty laundry in the hamper, didn’t bother to buy more beer even though my stash out in the garage refrigerator was running perilously low.

I texted a couple people I hate and told them so. I called three of my four former wives and apologized, you know, just for being me. I chatted online with an IRS agent and confessed to not claiming the money I earned while posing nude for a “life drawing” class back in college.

I told my oldest son I’d loan him twenty bucks. I figured, hey, the world’s ending anyway; I won’t have time to get mad when he forgets to pay me back.

All in all, I found the impending apocalypse to be very liberating. It’s little wonder I was willing – no, anxious – to believe conspiracy theorist David Meade. I’d never heard of Meade up until then, but if Facebook says he’s legit, that’s good enough for me.

Meade predicted the end would be Sept. 23. The asteroid “Wormwood” – spoken of in the Book of Revelation – would hit then. Or maybe we’d just have a lot of planet-ripping earthquakes. Meade was a little light on details. Either way, we’d be able to kiss our collective backsides goodbye and abandon this veil of tears forever.

Then I woke up Sept. 24. When I realized I wasn’t dead and neither was the rest of the world, I was understandably disappointed. Checking Facebook to find out what went wrong, I learned Meade had phoned the Four Horsemen and rescheduled the apocalypse for Oct. 15.

Well, great! Now, I’d have to gas up my car at least one more time and listen to my son’s excuse for not paying me back that twenty bucks. Probably have to buy more beer, too. There’s no way I could make it three weeks with what I had left in the garage fridge.

I planned accordingly. Again. Made a beer run, filled up the Bug’s gas tank, considered calling that fourth wife and apologizing to her, too, but decided against it.

Then Oct. 15 passed and I did not. I was starting to lose my patience with Mr. Meade. But third time pays for all, as they say (though I have absolutely no idea what “they” mean by that).

Meade’s now saying the Big Day will be Nov. 19. Near as I can make out from skimming the news sites (and I use the word “news” ever-so-loosely) is we’re either going to be wiped out all at once by a “mystery planet” – called Nibiru – or else there are going to be a lot of earthquakes, which will in turn lead to famine, nuclear war and other nasty stuff.

Frankly, that last one doesn’t sound like a fun way to go, at all. I’m rooting for the “When Worlds Collide” scenario. One big, noisy bang and – poof! – you’re jamming on your harp in The St. Peter Quartet. Also, planet-smashing will make for some great visuals when Disney comes out with the movie version.

Officials at NASA keep denying the planet Nibiru even exists. But NASA only put men on the moon, invented the Hubble and built a space station; Meade posts on Facebook, man! Who you gonna trust here? Frankly, my money’s on Meade.

I mean, NASA’s saying the world probably won’t end for several billion years, and then only when the sun expands. I can’t wait that long.

The IRS is going to want their cut of that money I made getting naked for the art class and I can’t afford to give it to them because I loaned my son that twenty dollars. Also, my remaining beers won’t even last until Nov. 19, much less billions of years! The world's continued existence is getting damn inconvenient, lemme tell ya.

So, I’m giving Meade one more chance to get it right. If I wake up Nov. 20 and the planet’s just a ball of dead ash floating in space, well, OK, we’re good. But if I have to get up, brush my teeth and then try to get the IRS to believe I was only kidding about that art class money … I swear, it’s enough to make me stop believing at least some of what I read on Facebook.

MTaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 745-9530