Today has the ambiance of fall the heat of summer. Ten to fifteen degrees hotter than normal. Perhaps this is the new normal. My birthday month is in view. I see on Facebook that many of my classmates are 68, but I have yet to achieve that age. I remember when I thought 40 was old. I am becoming addicted to the long walk. My goals for the day were reached in one fell swoop. As the day progresses, I exceed my goals and my iPhone tells me that I am a good boy. Mylo and I like to be told we are good boys. He gets a spinach leaf for a reward. My reward is internal.

Signs are everywhere. The holidays are here. Jennifer and Jonathon have both been published in Grassroots Magazine. We all go to the Readings. They are a big event. My phone just announced that I have exceeded my walking goal. I am a good boy!

The baseball playoffs are coming tomorrow. The Cubs are in. Happy day in the Brooks home. Brooks Pond is shining. Mr. Beaver is building his dam. He is singular of purpose. He knows winter is coming. The Bullfrog Quartet is resting this afternoon for their evening performance. There is more peace than war. There is a lot of war. Some leaders would have us believe that our cities are war-ravaged. Of course, only one political party has the problem of war-ravaged cities. Where is the voice of Wisdom in the cacophony of hate? The Bullfrog Quartet will sing of peace. They laugh at the clownish antics of humans.

Halloween has become a celebration of life in the midst of hate. Children getting free candy and the innocence of youth. Frankenstein, the creation of the real monster, Dr. Frankenstein. A misunderstood creation who liked kids and the occasional cigar. Frankenstein’s Bride was also misunderstood. A woman of refinement who spoke up for herself. She loved an elaborate hairdo. Frank often stole away for a while to enjoy a good cigar or his pipe. He considered the vagaries and vicissitudes of his human neighbors. Why did his creator scream, ‘He’s alive.’ Frankenstein did not think his being alive was so extraordinary. After all, he had been alive before, and now he was back. Frankenstein thought, ‘I am back in the ballgame again.’ The Cubs needed a hitter. Someone who could knock it out of the park.

Now the latest Cub is walking to the plate,’ Harry Caray intoned. ‘Frank N. Stein has the determined stride of Babe Ruth,’ Harry Cary said. ‘Mr. Stein must be 7 feet tall,’ Harry Cary continued. ‘The bat looks dwarfed in his big green hands,’ Harry observed.

‘I have been told that his shoe size is 22,’ Steve Stone added. ‘Frank was a bit miffed that he could not enjoy his favorite cigar before his turn at bat,’ Steve Stone continued. ‘Mrs. Stein can be seen in the dugout screaming instructions for her beloved husband. Steve laughed. ‘She called out for him to zip up and spit out his tobacco chaw,’ Steve observed wryly. ‘I am told they had to go to London to stretch his cap with one of the only antique hat expanders left at an antique London Hat Emporium, Steve observed. ‘Wait…Frank N. Stein has signaled for a time out and has motioned for his manager, Wednesday Adams, to come to Home Plate,’ Steve said.

‘Well, Steve, it appears that Wednesday is giving Frank a cigar and he is lighting it with aplomb,’ Harry Carey noted. ‘I am telling you I have never seen a look of determination like Frank N. Stein has as he waits for the pitch,’ Harry exulted. ‘Holy Cow, it is a grand slam…Cubs Win…Cubs win…