Here at Kelly's, we talk everything Pat McManus. Each month you'll see new entries and essays from us — Pat's daughters — and even archived blogs from Pat and Bun. We'll also answer questions, reminisce about some of our best memories and share lots of "interesting" recipes.
Below is a short essay I wrote when I was first thinking about creating a legacy website for Dad — Peggy F. McManus
... And So It Begins
The chunky gray cat sat on my desk batting at the computer screen as I typed.
“Quit swatting the screen, Sugar Bear, you’ll scratch it,” I said to the cat, gently moving his paw away from the monitor. “I’m trying to write a blog entry and you’re distracting me.”
Sugar Bear yawned and closed his eyes. Soon my fingers rhythmic tapping on the keyboard lulled him to sleep.
I understood Sugar Bear's reaction to my typing. I'd fallen asleep to my dad plucking away on his old manual typewriter nearly every night of my childhood. The memory was clear, even now, a half century later; a flurry of typing, then a pause as Dad leaned back in his chair to read what he’d written and take a few puffs off his pipe. A delighted chuckle meant he liked what he’d read. Then, after a sip of whiskey, the typing would begin again.
The memory of my father writing in his makeshift office each night is a favorite of mine. None of us knew that the endless hours Dad spent writing at the small desk crammed into our laundry room would one day pay off and he would become a bestselling author and much loved American humorist.
But that’s exactly what happened.
McManus Quote of the Month:
There is no greater fan of fly-fishing than the worm.
McManus Recipe of the Month:
Gin Rummy
Pour yourself a big glass of gin and drink ‘til you’re rummy. Cheers!
From the McManus Archives
Pat’s Blog - Authentic Old Men
October 2013
Some years ago I may have written an article about authentic old men. I was young then and all my information was second hand. What I knew about old men back then consisted of what I had observed of them, all of them bachelors, happy-go-lucky characters who lived in rundown shacks all around us. They all chewed and spit tobacco, grew stubbly gray beards, bathed on leap years if they didn’t forget, wore the same suit of long underwear all winter, occasionally standing it in a corner of the cabin for a day or two to air out.
I guess what triggered my thinking about old men was an accusation my wife, Bun, made about me recently.
“The other day when I washed clothes,” she said, “I noticed I had six pairs of my panties in the hamper and only one pair of your white shorts. Why do you suppose that was?”
“Accidents?” I said.
Well, Bun hit the ceiling over that one. Wives of old men have very little sense of humor.
It turns out that I never became the kind of old man I wanted to be. I haven’t used any form of tobacco in over 40 years. Instead of the beard around my mouth having a nice tea-colored stain, it’s perfectly white. It’s downright sad.
The kind of vehicle an authentic old man should have is a battered old black or gray three-quarter-ton pickup. I, on the other hand, have a blue-green, four-door sedan equipped with a speed restricter. If I go one mile an hour over the speed limit, the restricter goes off.
“Slow down!” Bun yells. See, if I had the kind of pickup truck I’m talking about, the speed restricter wouldn’t get within ten feet of it.
What once was the happy existence of authentic old men has been eroded away bit by bit and someday soon there won’t be any place left for them to live out their particular kind of blissful life. Oh oh, I just heard Bun screaming in the living room. She probably found my long underwear standing in a corner of the living room. It’s hardly been there ten minutes, scarcely time enough for it to air out.
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