July 2024 – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

July 25, 2024July 24, 2024

Taste For Mischief

Crossbreeding a Chihuahua and Miniature Dachshund brings forth a hybrid.

The Chiweenie pup we named Tamu (Sweetie) became ours to the thrill of and by way of our daughter and husband. On most days Tamu proved herself to be a delightful wee companion. Today was not one of those days.

Not long after the tooth-loss drama preceding my unique but successful speaking experience (thanks to a make-it-yourself false tooth kit), I was called to my wife’s side. Ann and I were navigating the early days of her joint replacement. It naturally fell to me as amateur caregiver to offer up some simple service every little while.

When she called for me on this occasion, I happened to be cradling my make-believe front incisor in my right palm. I was set to reinstall it to its assigned spot at the lower front of my open mouth.

“Coming”, I called, heading her direction while momentarily postponing the tooth-insertion task at hand.

A square, glass-topped coffee table sits at the center of our living room. It is an elevated surface I had never witnessed our young Chiweenie visiting. Depositing the homemade denture atop the table, I pivoted and, in short order, filled my wife’s request. Seconds later I was blurting the command, “Tamu, give me that tooth!”

Too late.

Though the enamel-like article didn’t find its way to her throat, the damage to the small denture was done.

To my surprise, this mini-crisis (as with the genuine-tooth’s exit of the previous week) would enjoy a silver lining. To the credit of breakthroughs in plastics research, the properties comprising my artificial, homemade, fashion-it-yourself tooth, gave promise that my full-toothed smile might see another day.

Tamu would surrender her would-be morsel. The traumatized denture would, under my care – including some aggressive sanitizing measures – enjoy a reasonably impressive remake.

Now. To find that dentist.

July 18, 2024July 17, 2024

Sweet Tooth

NOTE to Reader. My apologies for last Thursday’s missed entry. A medical matter (referenced below) factored in. Also, a few of my posts for the moment are offering up a bit of nonfiction levity, a momentary diversion of sorts. Thanks. Cheers!

You know something is amiss when you spy your Chiweenie puppy savoring your new false denture.

We had only acquired little Tamu (a name hijacked from the Swahili word for ‘sweet’) in February.

Ann and I could not have envisioned the odd string of happenings leading up to my terse command in the moment (uttered with a slight lisp), “Tamu, Give me that tooth!”

It started a couple days leading up to my wife’s surgical procedure last week – a joint replacement. Sparing my readers any unnecessary detail, it’s enough to say my standing as spouse to a ‘hip’ lady is affirmed. Ann’s post-op recovery is, thankfully, progressing well.

Meanwhile.

I had been earlier scheduled to offer up a public address for an event – a meaningful occasion before a modest-size gathering of good folks. Then came the surprise just a handful of days out.

A single tooth – lower incisor stationed right at the front of the mouth – quickly gave way during an evening meal. This tooth of mine had been jiggling about for several days, and now there it was, poised unceremoniously atop my dining fork. What to do?

Google has a way of yielding up surprising finds. Still, a do-it-yourself tooth-building kit? Surely not. . .

I Googled.

When the Amazon delivery fellow showed up 18 hours later bearing a TempTooth (i.e. ‘temporary tooth’) parcel, I stepped into self-assigned Orthodontist mode.

While short on sophistication, the hastened experiment – to my wonderment – redeemed the moment. A gathered, attentive audience the following day was spared enduring forty minutes of puzzled distraction (What’s with the guy’s snaggletooth, is he short a dentist?)

Enter Tamu.

July 3, 2024July 17, 2024

Froggy’s Fateful Fourth

The Kevin Costner ‘Dancing With Wolves’ title sparks memories from my childhood days on our family’s acreage north of Okmulgee. My LIMP memoir* features a tweaked label, ‘Dancing With Snakes’. The pages capture a bladder-triggering moment when an unsuspecting serpent concealed in tall, meadowland grass suddenly spiraled its body straight up my blue-jeaned leg.

Meanwhile, at this Fourth of July season, I call up a different encounter – one mildly competing in terms of drama with that of the pastureland jig.

I was ten, and our family was enjoying an Independence Day outing at a modest cabin on the banks of the Neosho River. . .

“Come here you. Now stay put, little froggy.”

I was fishing with a simple cane pole and line, and had run out of worms when the frog risked hopping into view.

Threading it to my hook, I cast the line and waited for a fish to attack my new bait. I lingered a minute or two. Nothing.

Drawing the pole back, I retrieved the line and lay it and the pole down. The frog continued stirring.

“I’ll be back, frog.”, I called as I moved out of the clearing and headed for a potty break.

On my return I puzzled at the scene before me,

“Where’s the hook, the sinker? Where’s the frog?”

The far end of the fishing line no longer rested above the ground. It had vanished into a hole some feet away.

Raising the cane pole, I felt resistance. Hoisting it higher, I let out a short gasp. From the hole in the ground rose the sinker —and, to my wonderment, a snake – busy swallowing my frog. (a bad day to be a frog, laboring to free itself from both a fish hook and a highly focused snake).

While the hopping amphibian never made it to another sunrise, the snakes’ day likewise failed to end well. Armed with a couple decent-size sticks, my brother and I stepped up to our self-assigned task.

Here’s hoping for you a very special weekend. With gratitude for Liberty. And for you, my reader.