Echoes from the Loafers’ Club Meeting:

Every Christmas, I suspect the same thing.

What’s that?

That the makers of clamshell packaging and the manufacturers of adhesive bandages are in cahoots.

Driving by the Bruces

I have two wonderful neighbors — both named Bruce — who live across the road from each other. Whenever I pass their driveways, thoughts occur to me, such as: Each year, my Christmas tree gets smaller. Each year, my list of good wishes for others grows longer.

The cafe chronicles

I limped into the café.

Someone asked, “What happened to you?”

I didn’t know. I reckon I’ve reached the stage of life when I can limp for no apparent reason.

In a day when we like to be able to see another Starbucks from the Starbucks we’re standing in, I love small-town cafes, places where the food is so good, it could all be cheese.

I took a drink of water. As a clump of ice from the glass struck me in the face, I thought of something that comedian Jim Gaffigan had said, that mashed potatoes are the ice cream of potatoes.

The Village Inn had real mashed potatoes and it had the appreciation of a community. I’ve often said I’ve never met a potato I didn’t like except for a potato salad I once met in a dark alley. Real mashed potatoes are real good.

I don’t have many strong feelings about food. I like what I like, but I do believe you can never go wrong with red Kool-Aid or red Jell-O — that goes without saying. There is no shortcut to town for me, but I went in for the Village Inn’s last day. I encountered Duane and Kathy Spooner of Hartland there. Kathy was eating a fish dinner as Duane watched. I asked why he wasn’t feeding at the trough. Duane replied, “It’s my turn to eat tomorrow.”

Some may say marriage gives a man a woman who will stand behind him while rolling her eyes, but Duane knows that marriage is the art of compromise.

I’ll miss the Village Inn.

A doll for a doll

I was whittling down my Christmas shopping list. I write things down so I won’t be troubled by rememories. Rememories are when I try to remember something I just remembered and then forgot. I love my family, but shopping makes me as happy as I was on the day the car wash shrunk my car. I figured coal would be a proper gift for most of those on my list. They’d be pleased I’d consider them still capable of devilment. I’d get my brothers-in-law the usual lutefisk TV dinners, which include peas and mashed potatoes. Those dinners are the opposite of a rememory. They will try to forget them, but will be unable. A young girl in my family indicated she wanted a specific doll for Christmas. The one she wanted had a price tag three times what I’d paid for my first car. And that included a spare tire. I suggested we buy the head of the doll this Christmas and then each year, we buy another body part for the doll. My wife nixed that suggestion because of its macabre quality. She was right, of course. Wives have that disturbing habit. I’m giving my little granddaughter something she can use for Christmas — a brand new grease gun.

A day in the life

I’d visited at a nursing home after ringing the bells for the Salvation Army. I was feeling about as thankful as a fellow could feel. Later, I did a book signing at Book World. As I scribbled my name in a childish scrawl in the books, I asked, “How do you say ‘caramel.’” Is it CARE-uh-mell, KAR-ah-mehl or CAR-mull? Some people just call it that chewy, sweet candy.

How did Winston Churchill say it? If Winston Churchill were here today, I’d be surprised.

Caramel is like this holiday. People give different names to their good wishes. I appreciate them all, but I say a heartfelt, “Merry Christmas.”