H. Neal Glanville

H. Neal Glanville

H. Neal Glanville: The 'crud' of adulthood


H. Neal Glanville

H. Neal Glanville's column appears in the Craig Daily Press on Mondays.

Every so often, I let the "crud" of adulthood get a little too close.

Not so close that the hoogie boogies start following me around, but close enough that the little hairs on my neck start dancing together.

Hold up there, bucko. Don't start glancing around the page for something else to read. Give it a bit, this might be good.

How many times do you just get fed up, tired of it? It's winter, and you've waited till the first big storm to get new snow tires and wiper blades.

Your sense of urgency doesn't seem to matter to the men at the tire shop, who already are two weeks behind. Or last week when you had to shovel yourself out of your own driveway - those dang city plow trucks, they don't care.

But you had a plan: You'd be the first person ever to "make up time."

Then, all you could think about as you handed the officer your driver's license and registration was how much later the speeding ticket was going to make you.

Yup, the "crud" of adulthood doesn't care about the stray dogs knocking over your garbage cans or about you out there in your 10-year-old robe trying to pick it up - hopefully before that old bitty next door sees you, but that never works out.

Even the dang city deer are against you. They wander in knee-deep snow into your yard just to find something to eat. Maybe this spring, you should redo the yard in green gravel that will end all the mowing and pruning, and next winter's deer problem.

But wait.

It's starting to snow again - how much more of this can we take? Well, according to the "crud," it doesn't matter how much more we can take.

Winter is going to last as long as it wants to. My prediction, you ask? Well, I'll go against the "crud" and say end of April, second week of May.


Now, for something completely different:

I was in seventh grade when Peggy Hansen broke up with me. She was my first, and my one and only.

I bawled like a baby for a week. Wrote insane love letters, but to no avail. I was dumped, like a bag of trash along the highway.

And all for a song. Can you believe it, a song?

The song was "I Want To Be Bobby's Girl," and to make it worse, she started going steady with, who else, Bobby Thomas.

When I told my grandmother about my sorrow, she just giggled and said "Go ask your grandpa, he knows all about girls."

Of course, grandpa would know - he'd been married to grandma for more than 50 years. Asking grandpa about girls was kind of awkward. No, scratch that. It was scary as all get out.

So, instead of asking about girls, I asked, "How come you and grandma have been together so long"?

He got a soft smile on his old cowboy face, looked out the window of his shop for a minute, then at me, and said, "She'll do."

I wondered about that statement then and for 40-odd years later. I found out what he and grandma meant when I met Jane.

Happy birthday, darling. You most certainly will do.

Yep, there I was surrounded, when I said to myself, "Self," I said, ('cuz that's what I call myself when I talk to myself), "Maybe it's time to take our thumb out of our mouths and think of things more important and fun than the 'crud' of adulthood."

Thank you for your time.


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