·         THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES

Here is part 2 of excerpts from my favorite columns from this past year. Looking forward to 2026.

In one column, I celebrated the history of the parking meter. The parking meters in Chicago back in the 30s made very little money. The mafia only parked in front of banks for two minutes, just enough time to get the cash and scoot. My very cheap father hated paying a few pennies to park while my mother was giving birth to me. He took it out of my first allowance.

The Hammacher Schlemmer Catalog had a nose trimmer with this description: “It’s good at getting out nose hairs others would have missed.” I guess people have other people searching for their nose hairs. What are friends for?

In another column, I kidded health magazines for including, in every issue, advice on getting a better night’s sleep. In this one article, they list the pros and cons of wearing socks to bed. I always wear my socks to bed. If I don’t, my shoes give me blisters.

Last year’s Christmas gift to my wife was a pillow with the TV remote sewn inside. Mary Ellen and I don’t share the same TV tastes. But now, with this cushy new gadget, it’s added some spice to the marriage. Never underestimate the value of a good pillow fight.

Because I sometimes have memory issues, I text myself reminders, like ‘pick up milk,’ ‘call your brother,’ or ‘change car oil.’ Last year, I added a church member named Dick to my address book. He’s an older gentleman I often pick up to take to church. He started receiving all my messages and called to ask why he should change the oil in his car. “I don’t have a car,” he said, “that’s why you take me to church.” He did get me milk and had a great conversation with my brother.

At our garage sale, we offered several bookshelves for free to avoid calling the junk removal service. However, when something is free, it often means it has no real value. Since no one wanted the shelves, I posted an ad selling them for $295.00, mentioning they were in our driveway and to leave the payment in the mailbox. They were stolen the next day.

Because I kept falling out of bed, I bought a Hiccapop, a 6-foot-long pillow shaped like a giant sausage that you stick under the bottom sheet on the side of the bed. When Nettie, our housekeeper, failed to vacuum in our bedroom, I asked her why.

“Dick, someone was sleeping in your bed.”

“That’s my Hiccapop.”

“I don’t care who it is. I didn’t want to wake him.”

I asked an AI program to write an essay on why Dick Wolfsie was not funny, just to see what it would come up with. My wife was not impressed when she read it.

“Dick, this is outrageous; it’s full of inaccuracies.  You didn’t bore people for thirty years on TV.”

“Thank you, Mary Ellen.”

“Wasn’t it closer to 40?” 

I wrote about how my wife is paranoid that someone might steal one of our identities.  Now, when I call her, she gives me a little quiz to be sure it’s me. “What’s your brother’s name? What was the name of your first dog? “Still wasn’t convinced.

 “Okay, Mary Ellen, ask one more question. Make it a good one.”

 “Okay, Dick—or whoever you are—when we got married, we stayed in a magnificent vacation spot in Big Sur, California. You said it was the most romantic, glorious hotel you had ever been in, and it was a weekend you would never forget. What was the name of the hotel?”

 “I don’t have a clue.”

 “Okay, Dick, it’s definitely you.”