So, for the last couple of weeks when we’re alone and sitting down we just get to pondering. We think about the meaning of life, the cosmos, lizard men, ancient aliens and how we all fit in this giant mosaic of colors.
From our conversations an old kid’s song came back to us. It was from a time long ago when we were all younger, naive and maybe, just maybe a little less jaded. You may remember it, it goes something like this:

Me and my shadow
Strolling down the avenue
Me and my shadow
Not a soul to tell our troubles to

And when it’s twelve o’clock
We climb the stairs
We never knock
For nobody’s there

Just me and my shadow
All alone and feeling blue . . .

After all these years of living, having a good job, watching our kids grow into fine young adults, paying taxes, living through and beyond heartaches — the blood, sweat and tears of life — we talked among ourselves and we finally came to the conclusion we want to join the hip crowd. For the first time in our little insignificant lives, we wanna’ run with the cool kids and get the attention they get for just being who they are and in these times that means hangin’ with the self identifiers.
After careful consideration and self reflection, we came to the realization we want to self identify as a house cat. We just would like to curl up by a window and sleep in the warm sunlight and maybe do a little prowling in the moonlight.
That would be purrrrrr-fect!
And then, just like the all those who would virtue signal (the practice of telling the world how wonderful you are), on social media pages our self-proclaimed pronouns won’t be She/Her or He/Him or They/Them or “Binary.” Nope, no sir-ee. It was a consensus, our pronoun of choice will be (drum roll, please): “Me/We.”
The “we” I was referring to this entire column were my very own trinity: Me, Myself and I. Between the three of us, and with only a little bickering, we usually figure things out.
(Oh boy. Maybe I should stop talking to myself so much.)
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Decided this year, for the first time since, oh about 1992, not to have a garden. I’m gonna’ let the soil recoup and rest for a year. That’s the right thing to do, isn’t it? I’m not sure, it feels kinda’ funny.
* * *
Since I spend so much time with Me, Myself and I, my brain does wander a bit. The other day, just for funsies I hopped on the old interwebs and searched “Real Estate companies in Clarkston, MI.”
I jotted down the names of the different groups who sell real estate from and in Clarkston on a piece of scrap paper. There are like 15, plus some local individuals.
Then I went to each group’s website and clicked on agent searches. Let me tell you, to find an agent on some of these sites is a real pain in the digits. Then I added up all the agents and wrote their numbers next to their names on the scrap paper. With some deft digiting maneuvers on my calculator I did some ciphering. Did you know there are over 1,000 real estate agents in 36 square miles that make up the Clarkston/Independence Township footprint.
With some quick division on the previously mentioned calculator I found out some “hot takes.”
Let’s put it this way . . . there are over 27 agents per square mile in Clarkston/Independence Township. If you divide 1,000 by 36 you get 27.777. Here’s another hot take away. You would be correct to say there are more real estate agents in the Clarkston/Independence Township footprint, than there are residents in the City of the Village of Clarkston (around 800).
I am not saying there is anything wrong with folks being real estate agents, it must be a good gig, or there wouldn’t be so many. I know a lot of ‘em and like ‘em. Heck, at one nano-moment in time back in the early 1990s I had my real estate license, too. I found it too hard of work. I like things the easy way, that’s why me and my shadow just paid for, and did receive our credentials in the mail . . . yup, Me/We was ordained by the Universal Life Church Ministries as a member of the clergy. This should be fun.
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