Echoes from the Loafers’ Club Meeting:

It’s a great day for the race.

What race?

The human race.

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: cellphones should have a turn signal app for cars.

The news from Hartland

Man hit on head with can of soda says that he was lucky that it was a soft drink.

If not for venetian blinds, it’d be curtains for all of us.

City sends “Get Well Soon” cards to everyone who is delinquent in paying their water bills.

Cafe chronicles

The cafe bragged that none of its food smelled like feet.

It wasn’t idle boasting.

He was a small man whose belt had reached retirement height. He had been swallowed by his shirt. He told me that he’d stayed home to ripen on the vine.

He watered his garden because he was more dependable than Mother Nature. He said that his grandfather had taken Carter’s Little Liver Pills all of his life. When he died, they had to beat his liver to death with a stick.

He ordered a pie. The pie was two-feet long. The rhubarb had been tall this year.

The Duke point

The dew point indicates the amount moisture in the air. It’s the temperature at which the water vapor in air condenses into liquid at the same rate at which it evaporates. When the dew point equals the air temperature, dew forms on solid surfaces. Relative humidity is the amount of moisture in the air compared to what the air can hold at that temperature. When the air can’t hold all the moisture, it condenses as dew.

I grew up paying attention to the humidity. I don’t enjoy days with high humidity. When the humidity hits a certain point, I start singing Warren Zevon’s song, “Poor, poor, pitiful me.”

Because I grew up with it as a measurement of discomfort, humidity has more relevance to me than does the dew point.

I have a terrific neighbor named Duke Tukua. When I want to know the humidity, I use the Duke point.

I point at Duke. If he appears to be wilting, I know that the humidity is high.

Fitz-Reading Gardens

I visited Fitz-Reading Gardens in Rockford, Iowa. I added Iowa because there are at least eight cities in the U.S. named Rockford. They are in Iowa, Minnesota, Illinois, Michigan, Ohio, Alabama, Tennessee, and Washington.

Fitz-Reading Gardens is one of my favorite places. Every year, Stan Fitz exceeds the seed limit in his gardens. He not only has a green thumb, he could get blood out of a tulip.

Stan replaced lawn with gardens. He should have a TV show called, “Lawn Order.”

Church, baseball, and birding

I spoke at the UCC Church in New Ulm. A lovely place of worship and fellowship. The church was prayer-conditioned.

Not long after, I watched a baseball game. A shortstop kicked a ground ball.

That’s what happens when you watch too much soccer.

A Baltimore oriole flew overhead. I pointed it out to an uninterested couple seated next to me.

They looked up. I think they were hoping to see a Baltimore Oreo. Chocolate on the outside and vanilla on the inside.

No worries

I’ve been feeding the mosquitoes. They’re hungry and numerous this year.

Beth Knudson of Hartland told me that all the mosquitoes would die soon because there isn’t enough blood to go around.

Building fences

I was building a fence. Good fences make good neighbors. If only good fences made good fences.

That was how I estivated, digging postholes and stretching wire. The fences were built not only to keep in the free-range cattle, but also to keep the pigs from running hog wild.

My dog kept me company. She helped by watching.

I took a break from my duties to watch county employees install a culvert.

My dog thought that humans bury the strangest things.