We all have things that get under our skin. The older I get, the thinner my epidermis becomes. When I feel irritated by these behaviors of others or temporal things, I try to remember one of my many self-talk mantras: “Control the controllable…let it go!”

I am of the age where the new-fangled smartphones, shopping apps, and inventions of brighter minds baffle me. I know I am not alone. My son often gets frustrated with me when I stumble with the Google search engine or maps on my phone. At work, I struggle daily with email settings or the 2-step authentication thing-a-ma-jig that the IT guys want me to use. Thank goodness for the barely post-adolescent therapists around me who rush to my side like the proverbial “knight in shining armor” to rescue me. I eventually accomplish what I am assigned, but not without some silent cuss words and consternation.

Straight across the street from my boyhood and current home is a modest, not especially large, two-story home. It sits in a fairly large yard with giant trees that cast such a persistent shadow on the roadway that the snow is reluctant to melt and often turns to ice. There used to be a robust garden in the back half of the property. Next to the garden was a chicken coop whose residents were my alarm clock, as my bedroom window faced the house I am describing. It was the abode of Mr. and Mrs. Jensen. He worked for the local post office as a mail carrier. Their home had to be older than ours because it was already in existence in 1965 when my dad built our home.

Friends have asked me where I get the ideas or thoughts for my columns. Inspiration comes in various forms. Spontaneous memories are the primary source, followed by current events or experiences. This week, the inspiration came from reading a fellow columnist and friend’s words about the forks in the road he has experienced in life. He made mention in his column about the legendary blues guitarist Robert Johnson selling his soul to the devil in order to play the guitar better than anyone else on earth. This legendary tale is alluded to in one of my favorite movies, Oh Brother Where Art Thou. A great cinematic work, with an outstanding soundtrack, that reminds me of my second West Virginia home.

It appears the legislation addressing teachers and weapons on school grounds is on hold for now. I hesitated to even submit this column due to that fact. After more contemplation, I decided to go ahead and offer up my thoughts for discussion on a topic that is most likely not gone for good.

Back in the early 1920s, after women were given the right to vote, Eleanor Roosevelt spoke to a gathering of activist women who came to be known as the League of Women Voters. She used the analogy of viewing an elephant from a single vantage point as being difficult and lacking in perspective. The nation needed to see more than just one opinion. The elected officials needed feedback and input from the women voters, not just the men. Here in Idaho, our legislature is trying to view and wrestle with another kind of elephant: Medicaid expansion.

Word on the street is that pennies cost more to manufacture than they are worth. Each penny costs 3.7 cents to manufacture. A dime costs less than six cents and a quarter is in the neighborhood of fifteen cents. The nickel has skyrocketed to nearly 14 cents! So I wonder if it will be the next coin to disappear. The penny can be a nuisance. They are not as useful to me nowadays, as “penny candy” is no longer in existence. I always have a few, along with other coins, in one of the many cubby holes of my truck to help me round off a drive-thru window purchase. News of the possible elimination of the penny brought a memory of another coin that was important to my childhood.

President Trump’s recent actions regarding the elimination of DEI policies meet my approval. Other executive orders bearing his signature are more questionable to me in regard to constitutionality and practicality. The title of this column is my slightly sarcastic substitution for “Diversity, Equality and Inclusion.”

Let me tell you about my daily routine. My biological alarm clock has me consistently awake at around 2:00 am and again between 5:30 and 6:00 am. The synonym for “biological alarm clock” is…you know, I don’t have to say it. Any male over 50 knows what I am talking about. The next goal is to waddle and limp to the living room without falling, turn on the TV, and plug in my cell phone next to my broken recliner chair. The next 30 to 45 minutes are spent swallowing the handful of pills prescribed for heart, high cholesterol and diabetes diagnoses while clicking through CNN, Fox News, and News Nation. I inevitably land on the Salt Lake news channels to learn how many layers of clothing I will wear for the day.

Behind my house are four beautiful blue spruce pine trees. They are arranged in a snug north-to-south row, leaning and supporting each other. They were planted by my mom in the years immediately after my parents built this red brick ranch home back in 1965. 8mm home movies exist, in a box in my basement, showing them to be spaced apart by several feet. They are about equal in height to five-year-old Todd. Now, nearly six decades later, they are taller than any utility pole in the neighborhood and melted together to look like one singular tree. They look healthy to me, but I pray during windstorms that I don’t hear a dreaded crashing sound that would tear my heart asunder.