Tongue Tied By a Shoe Tale

 I wrote this several years ago, so no, don't go looking for Fred.

 

Some of you may have seen a shoe perched majestically at the top of the hill in my front yard. If not, I’m enclosing a picture as an introduction. We named it Fred. Say hello to the people, Fred.

(He can't speak, even though he has a tongue.)

Yes, I know what you’re thinking. “You named a shoe?” Well, why not? We always name the strays that end up hanging around our house. Last fall we named the mice that set up housekeeping there, even as I tracked them down and did a Dirty Harry on their rodent rears.

One day I got home and Fred was simply – there. I live on a main street, and lots of young people (read: litterers) go by, so a certain amount of trash is expected. My neighbors have been doing renovations, and whenever a stiff wind pops up some of their waiting to be disposed of debris will take up shop around my house. Just a few days ago I found the remains of a light bulb scattered across my porch. Who knows about that? Maybe somebody had an earth-shattering idea.

But a shoe?

I have a theory about how that shoe could have gotten blown into my yard.

That’s not an object easily blown around, especially to land at the top of an embankment. No, it had to have been thrown there. If so, it was an exceptionally artistic throw, as the shoe landed upright, proudly showing to passers-by that it was high-strung.

I’m generally annoyed at litter, but in this case I confess to being rather bemused. So bemused, in fact, that I left the footwear there, wondering if the owner might show up to claim it. Maybe it was tossed there by some clownish “friend” who thought it would be funny to see his buddy stumping around in one shoe. What a heel.

But no one claimed the poor little orphan, so I felt I had to name him, and picked Fred out of thin air. How do I know it’s a male shoe? How many girls do you know who would throw away a perfectly good shoe? I rest my case.

Some girls even pick shoes right off of dead people.

Later I told my daughter that Fred could stay until lawn mowing time, and she informed me in turn that I could simply mow around it. How, she asked, could I just boot Fred? I thought she was going to sock me. (Get it?) Her passion left me tongue-tied. (Get that one?) I appreciated her sole-searching, but couldn’t build Fred his own closet -- not on my shoestring budget. (Okay, that’s enough.)

For now, Fred stays. Maybe his other half will show up, and they’ll get off on the right foot with some other owner. Hm. Come to think of it, I wonder if they’re elevens?

Oh! I just made this connection. Brought to you by: Fred Toenges Footwear.*

Pay for my future footwear here:

·        Amazon:  https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO

·        Barnes & Noble:  https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

·        Goodreads:  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4898846.Mark_R_Hunter

·        Blog: https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/

·        Website: http://www.markrhunter.com/

·        Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ozma914/

·        Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MarkRHunter914

·        Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/markrhunter/

·        Twitter: https://twitter.com/MarkRHunter

·        Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@MarkRHunter

·        Substack:  https://substack.com/@markrhunter

·        Tumblr:  https://www.tumblr.com/ozma914

·        Smashwords:  https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ozma914

·        Audible: https://www.audible.com/search?searchAuthor=Mark+R.+Hunter&ref_pageloadid=4C1TS2KZGoOjloaJ&pf

*Not really, but if they want to talk about a sponsorship ....

Oh, did you make it to the bottom? Then you get first look:

Mark got a pun book

My daughter bought me a book of puns for Christmas. She should have known better. 

The odd part is, at the moment I can't think of a pun to go with this post.

A Valentine Message -- Or Else

I’m going to tell you a secret: A secret that will seem stunning, coming from a man who writes romance novels:

I’m not romantic. At all.

This comes as no surprise to my wife, I’m sad to say. I do the dishes, don’t mind going shopping, listen when she talks, and don’t watch sports, but in this one area I’m sadly far too much like the typical male.

It’s worse during winter, a time during which I’m not very good at anything, and tend to get sick and tired all
the time. Unfortunately for me, some moron chose to place Valentine’s Day in February, right in the middle of a time when my idea of romance is cuddling on my side instead of my back, so I’m less likely to bother her by snoring.

But I do love her. She knows that, but even though Emily isn’t a typical woman in some ways, she would like me to show it more often. Who can blame her?





I could say that of course I love her, because—after all—I married her. I mean, she knows I tend to be a hermit, and the single life is great, right?

But I have a good memory in some areas. Married men tend to convince themselves that single life is great, but in reality they black out the bad parts … the loneliness being the biggest of the bad parts. They’d never admit to anyone, even themselves, that being single is only fun in retrospect.





I was especially lucky, because my wife is a nerd, like me. (Or is it geek? I can never keep them straight.) I’m not so much into gaming or horror as she is, but we both like science fiction, reading, writing, and humor, among other things.





I may not have the charm of Captain Picard, the hot bad boy-ness of Dean Winchester, or the dark presence of Professor Snape, but mostly we get each other. She’s even learned to tell when I’m not feeling well, even when I try to hide it.




She doesn’t even mind my puns. Much. Usually.





Still, speaking of puns, you have to wonder why she’s willing to put up with me. I have a hard time being serious; I have absolutely no idea how to relax; thanks to my writing career I’m working two full time jobs; and I’m twice her age, meaning my health is starting to fall apart just as she’s looking for someone to go, say, cliff diving or shooting the rapids. (Note to my wife: NO cliff diving.)


And her? She’s perfect.





Yes, I’m aware no one is actually perfect, although some think they are. But I can’t imagine any woman being closer to a perfect match for me. I shall, little by little and mostly in better weather, try to correct the things I know she doesn’t like about me, not the least of which being my less than romantic disposition. Maybe writing more romantic comedies will help. In return, all I ask of Emily: Is that she puts up with me.
 
And edit my stories.