My post-holiday notes

This is the first year I’ve realized, or been told, there are so many perfect gifts.
Like: The Arctic Twister.
Users can put ice cream or sherbert into this thing, add M&Ms, etc. and out comes a gooey mess in a dish or cone. All grandparents would be thrilled to receive this “perfect” gift.
Another perfect gift on the tube this year was an under-the-counter, or any-place-else, battery operated, hand-held can opener. At least it’s more practical than an Arctic Twister.
Jewelry, too, is a huge perfect gift, but not as perfect as a new Jaguar. Ford really put some money into advertising this perfect gift for any 16-year-old, newly licensed car driver.
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For a quick pick-me-up at the holiday or any other time go to a mall or market and look at the babies being pushed around in their car seats by their young mothers.
Many are sleeping. Many are just laying there semi-awake or even fully awake looking around. Then top off that mood by telling their mother how cute her baby is.
The lift you give her is as high as the lift you got looking at her baby.
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Spent some time during the holidays with Bill Patterson, retired pharmacist and now Oakland county commissioner.
I think it was July 2, 2001 that he was scheduled for a stent to improve blood flow to his heart. However, that operation had to be postponed because there was a shortage of the size needed for his vein.
So, Bill said, “I called Charlie Swanson who had a funeral parlor in Madison Heights and asked him to be on the lookout for a stent in one of his customers. They wouldn’t need it any more and it might fit me.”
The operation was rescheduled for July 7. In the meantime Bill asked his surgeon to call Charlie to see if he found a stent.
Bill recalled his doctor said, “Right, like I’m going to call a mortician to see if he had a stent for me.”
Bill’s operation went well and Charlie became mayor of Madison Heights.
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As a lad growing up my goal was to be taller than my big brother Don. He was four years older and six feet, three and a half inches.
It was a great day when I reached six feet, three and three-quarters inches tall.
At a recent physical exam I asked the nurse to measure me. I had a shrinking feeling when my 36-inch inseam pants were dragging on the floor.
The measure confirmed it.
I’m not going to ask, I’m just going to go on assuming brother Dan has shrunk an equal amount, and that I’m still taller. It’s one of the few goals I’ve met.
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If I were to have another son I’d name him Frank Isaiah Sherman . . . F. I. Sherman. Get it?
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It’s an old saying, ‘You are what you eat.’
There’s just way too many people with rump roast on their menu.