For Christmas, I received a marvelous machine that INSTANTLY BREWS A CUP OF COFFEE from any one of SPECIALLY DESIGNATED BLENDS that I may chose (there is a box of various blends to choose from that comes with the machine). It does this when I simply turn the device on, wait until I have given it a couple simple instructions, then I hit the BREW button. A moment later, I have a PERFECTLY BREWED cup of coffee.

My nephew Dale told me the machine — called a Keurig — was invented by a senior VP of Atlanta’s Coca-Cola Company, an older chap I was told was unhappy with his humongous salary as a Coke Senior Vice-President and had to find a way to make ends meet. When he sold the device, he apparently said, Hooray for me! . . . He became an instant billionaire.

I first became aware of the machine when my youngest daughter in Birmingham was given one for free as a reward for holding a party at her home for several gals to introduce them to the innovation; unfortunately, she does not drink coffee — but her husband and her father do! . . (The fact that it also makes tea and hot chocolate fails to excite her.)

My good and perspicacious wife decided on the spot I should have one of my own. And Christmas seemed like as good a time as any.

Well, not quite. It seems this Yuletide season, what with expenses incurred due to my on-going battle with Primary Lateral Sclerosis — going to the Mayo Clinic and all — we decided to forego all presents, aside from gifts to the multitudinous children and grandkids on our list (yes, even great grandkids!).

An outlay of $300+ was extravagant — until I tasted my first cup!

And then, there was the early arrival of our granddaughter — Elizabeth Anne Faucette — on New Year’s Day. We had to be in Birmingham for that,, at the Dr. John Faucette (pronounced Fawꞌ- Set) Waiting Center, as it is called, in Alabama, at St. Vincent’s Hospital, near where Dr. Phillip Faucette, Alex’s husband, trains in Endodontics. Carol Faucette, Dr. Phillip’s mom, was there also; she is the separated wife of Rev. Chip Faucette, who are the parents of Dr. Phillip, Missy Michaels and Mary Faucette (the latter two were not present); Missy is the wife of Ned Michaels, the golf pro, of Nashville; they are the parents of Bradley and Flynn — Hutsom’s — Alex and Dr. Phillip’s three-year-old — cousins. (Did I forget anyone?)

All is well that ends well. I have my Keurig (and my 378,000 K cups and V cups of exotic coffee); Chris, likewise, is no longer an extravagant hostage at Starbucks — and has the Down Comforter for the guestroom.

I am currently able to use my Keurig with Aldi’s cheaper than cheap coffee. And all is right with the world.

Well, almost.



Robert A. Mills – Feb l5, 2014
Copyright, all rights reserved. This piece cannot be re-written, published or broadcast without permission of the author.



FUTHERMORE II

I am not sure I will have electric power by Saturday (so far so good) so I may send this Op-Ed piece out earlier. Then again, I may not. It is too early to tell.

I often write these columns weeks, if not, months and years, in advance — mainly because there is no guarantee I will be here on publication day (Saturday), and I would hate to deprive you of the immense joy I know you experience reading these gems!

Anyway, the powers-that-be (having been caught with egg on their faces last month) went all out to make sure it did not happen again. Even Ch. 11 (the NBC affiliate) had a power-outage and slept on the floor with a few air-mattresses!

Ice, snow and sleet was the Big Bug-a-Boo that covered the area, but the roads, for the most part, remained well plowed, were clear and safe; no one knowingly took hours to get home — in one piece.

This time, all schools in Georgia were closed — some as long as the end of the week. The people in the Carolinas were not nearly as fortunate as we (nor did they learn much from our sad experience).

As I did not lose power, I called my friend Tom Landry and invited him and his family to share the warmth of our home, if necessary. I also called my granddaughter in-law and invited her and her kids also (her husband, my grandson, works up in Geneva, NY, while the bulk of his progeny maintain a place in southwestern Cobb County (as far as possible from my place in northeastern Cobb)). I may have to go to her house if we should lose electricity.

My good and diligent wife (without whom I would, thanks to my infirmity, vanish completely) has just reminded me, How would we get there? Or vice versa? The road are all closed and impassable! No one is supposed to drive!

So, in this Republican stronghold of Georgia, and this Democratic bastion of Atlanta, our erstwhile governor and mayor are safe at last for re-election!

Robert A. Mills
Copyright @2014, all right reserved, this piece cannot be re-written, published or broadcast without permission of the author


FOREMOST III

The following was originally written as an Op-Ed column in 1992, shortly after we had moved to the Atlanta area from Rochester, NY. I wrote it for my wife, Christine, and although I did not know it at the time, she would become my absolute Saviour about 2009 when I would become ill with a neurological disease — Primary Lateral Scleorsis — not, thank heaven, Lou Gehrig’s disease, Amyotrophic Lateral Scleorsis, which is usually fatal and extremely painful, which PLS, albeit a cousin, is not.

I say Saviour because Christine has to dress me, bathe me, feed me and attend to all my basic needs without exception, without a word of protest or aggravation.
This Valentine piece is the best I can do. . ,

1992. . .
Don’t blame Christina Aquilera for murdering the Star Spangled Banner at Super Bowl XLV — tell me the truth, was the one at XLVI much better? The worst we can slap Aquilera with is A.A. — Anthem Abuse — the piece was already dead the day José Feliciano strangled it at old Tiger Stadium prior to game 5 of the World Series in 1968.

I was sitting in the press box when Red Smith got and walked out, snarling, They don’t pay me enough to listen to crap like this! he said. Remind me to send Scott Key a Valentine’s Day card!

Smith, a truly great American and New York Times sports icon, had long departed his mortal coil by the time of Aquilera and XLV, or he too might have wondered why she was hired in the first place. The idiots who retained Aquilera should have been summarily dismissed and never given a responsible job again — especially since Lea Michelle and Kristin Chenoweth were probably available.

In fact, the Star Spangled Banner itself should have been retired years ago, in favor of America the Beautiful or even God Bless America. An old English drinking song, the Star Spangled Banner, despite noble words by a lawyer and minor poet, has never cut it since becoming our sacred hymn in 1931. Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light? . . . Land of the free! Come on. Get real.

In any event, Red Smith may have been right. We have always had misgivings about certain holidays, and without assigning Scroogisms to any specific occasion, we will, to the relief of many, address our comments solely to Valentine’s Day.

Universally, Valentine cards, flowers and candy — they number over fifty billion! — are given to those who need assurance they are obviously cared about. It is reported a lady named Esther Howland began selling Valentine cards (was she possibly employed by Hallmark?) and they immediately caught on.

Today, Christmas cards are still the drivel of choice, but Valentine cards are a close second and gaining ground.

It is interesting to note that women purchase 89.7% of all Valentine cards. 9% are scooped up by men (male guilt-reducers?). The remaining 1.3% is sent back to the stockroom for sale next year.

History tells us a fellow named Atiquilla Valentinus was a Roman priest in the 3rd century, at the time of Emperor Claudius II, and he (Claudius) had the brilliant idea that unmarried blokes made better warriors than family men with kids. So, he banned all nuptials.

Hold your war horses, said Fr. Valentinus, not on my watch! Any of those boys and girls want to get married, tell em to come and see me! I will hitch em up — so long as none of em is gay!

And come they did, by the hundreds. And Valentinus married them all —
in secret!

Of course, some spoilsport blew the whistle, and ol’ Claudius, as you knew he would, got wind of it. Valentinus was promptly arrested and sentenced to death.

Off with his head, for God sake! said Claudius. Or at least, his pecker!

While he was incarcerated and awaiting his ill-deserved fate, he actually (if accidentally) sent out his very first known Valentine. It seems his jailor, Flavius Enictus, had a young and lissome daughter named Vivian who often visited the old priest and brought him chocolates, his only worldly passion. Shortly before his execution, he wrote her, asking for some particularly coveted bonbons — and he signed the note: From your Valentinus.

A lot of people (like afore mentioned Esther Howland) decided February 14 was a good day to celebrate Valentine’s Day, because that is the date of Fr. Valentinus’s martyrdom in 270 AD. Naturally, once the story got out, he was canonized, and St.Valentinus came to symbolize the sort of chap everyone admires: sympathetic, industrious, inventive, heroic — and, of course, dramatically and incurably romantic.

Finally, about two hundred years later, Pope Galesius threw up his hands in despair and said, Okay, okay, you guys win! I declare it is henceforth official: February 14 is now and forever to be known as Valentine’s Day. Send a memo to Hallmark and Whitman’s, and make sure we get our cut.

But the story does not end there. Along came the Middle Ages, and all local peasants, and their clergy in England and France, had some idea that in mid-February the grouse, geese, robins, sparrows, pheasants et al began their mating season, confirming once and for all that Valentine’s Day was a time of co-habitation, fornication, connubial bliss and unrestricted conjugal visits.

Quite taken by this, it is reputed that while pining away in the Tower of London, Charles, Duke of Orleans, penned an original Valentine poem to his wife shortly after he was taken prisoner during the Battle of Agincourt. It is alleged he wrote this heart-melting diatribe in 1415, and the next time you are in London you can actually see it at the British Library, along with the Valentine to Catherine of Valois commissioned by King Henry V, being illiterate, that John Lydgate write on his behalf (could this possibly be where Rostand got the idea for Cyrano?).

That is all well and good, you say, but what about Cupid?

Well, Cupid, it turns out, is to Valentine’s Day pretty much what Santa Claus is to Christmas. He is just a myth made up by the Romans — well, first the Greeks, only they called him Eros (guess what word we get from that!). Anyway, his mom, Aphrodite, gave her kid, Cupid, this bow and arrow set for his birthday.

She warned him: Be careful with that thing or you’ll put somebody’s eye out!

According to the myth, if Cupid shoots you with one of his golden tips, you will go ga-ga over the next person you encounter. Right.

The idea of Cupid became so popular (like Santa) with so many kids that he now symbolizes Valentine’s Day. 99.4% of the cards, flowers and candy sold today embody his image — and to hell with St. Valentinus.

The point is, like Christmas, Valentine’s Day has fallen into the slimy pond of commercial enterprise and drowned in a myriad of misconceptions that have nothing to do with its original meaning.

The distribution of syrupy verse few can read without gagging plus caloric candy that will grow moldy and stale and flowers that will wilt and fade before we can recall with fondness why they were sent in the first place have become, as have the doling out of gaily wrapped gifts in late December, a rite of expected passage — as meaningless as it is phony.

All right, perhaps we have succumbed to the comfort of a crotchety Ebenezer Cupidity, but what misdemeanor have we committed in calling a spade a spade? Is it a felony to prefer Memorial Day, Flag Day, Labor Day, Thanksgiving Day and New Year’s Day over Valentine’s Day and Christmas?

If so, Your Honor, we plead guilty and throw our self on the arrows of the court . . . . But don’t get us started on Presidents Day!



Robert A. Mills
Copyright© 1992 and 2014, all rights reserved, this cannot be re-written, published or broadcast without approval of the author