Our group of friends has a knack for finding places to meet and discuss the world’s problems, who to blame for anything and everything and questionable home remedy cures for the aches and pains that are the price we pay for the privilege of decades of hanging around on this planet.

In our youth, idealistic dorm room posters proclaimed, “If you are not part of the solution, you are part of the problem.”

Now, the reward for our decades of being “part of the solution” is to put away our industrial strength antacids and solution-seeking sleepless nights, and trade them in on Metamucil and sleep-interrupting bathroom visits. Our job, now, is to point out the problems and chastise the next generation for not getting things fixed.

Mornings are spent debating unsolvable socio-political issues over breakfast at the diner, afternoons bring spirited deliberations spiked by spirit infused libations on Harry Winkle’s front porch and summer evenings could mean lounging around the fire pit in Jimmy’s backyard.

A long day of pinpointing all the things piling up in this huge hell bound hand basket can be very tiring. A relaxing evening at Jimmy’s reminiscing about all that was once right with the world can be cathartic, emotionally preparing us for tomorrow morning’s fresh round of hash slinging.

“Remember John’s barber shop on Main Street, next to the Salvation Army?” Jimmy’s reminiscences can be very specific. “You could go in on Saturday at eight o’clock, get a haircut for a dollar, and spend all day reading comic books.”

“Had to get there early, though. By noon that dollar haircut was only worth about 87 cents.” Harry’s memories are more pragmatic. John, the barber, could run the table with butch haircuts at a buck a piece. However, on Monday morning, everyone in school knew who got to the barbershop early and who got there late.

“Toss another log on there, Jimmy.” Harry was the self-appointed Backyard Fire Quality Director. “While you’re at it, do something about the wind. I’m getting smoke in my eyes.”

“You don’t like the fire, go sit in someone else’s backyard.” Jimmy considered himself to be an expert at backyard fires and Harry considered it his job to point out the flaws in Jimmy’s expertise. “See that raccoon, sneaking out from under the back shed?”

Jimmy was even better at changing the subject.

“I think he’s in the Witness Protection Program.”

It was the kind of statement for which Jimmy was best known — say something outlandish and wait for a response.

“Witness what?”

“Look at him — sneaks out at night, wears a mask, runs around taking things from people, and tomorrow morning he’ll be hunkered down under someone else’s shed. The law won’t let me shoot him, since this is a residential neighborhood. I’m telling ya, it’s protected criminal activity. It’s gotta be some kind of witness protection program.”

“You’re better at making fires than explaining animal physiognomies.” Harry bought a “new” thesaurus at Goodwill and had been studying up.

“Watch your language. The raccoons are probably listening to everything we’re saying.”

 

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.