I’m not only a column writer, but a column reader. In the Jan. 29 edition, I read Geoffrey’s column at the bottom of the page, and Amend’s column directly above his. I would encourage Dante by saying, “Take heart, young writer; we all started at the bottom. You’ll move up eventually.”

Well, the blitz is gonna hit the fan come Sunday. And this fan will toss and turn Saturday night and wake up giddy on Sunday morning. Yes, Feb. 3 is the real Christmas Day for shut-in, adult gamblers. Only three betting days left till Football Fan Christmas.

I never thought it could happen to me. Writer’s block only happens to the other writer — that’s what I thought anyways. Imagine my horror when, just after Christmas, I developed a case of stage three writer’s block that has persisted unrelenting.

Only ONE shopping day left. As everyone surely knows by now, the world ends Friday, Dec. 21. Not much left to do or say at this point except to ignore loved ones and work a double-shift if available, trying to make all the money possible in what little time we have left.

Only 11 shopping days left.

I’m once again doing mop-up duty — my periodic revisit of past columns to tie up loose ends. I only seek to publicize new discoveries, (epiphanies) and forgotten items, (alzheimeries) and of course, that end of the world thing.

Do you know what the “running gears of a katy-did” are? If not, don’t feel like the Lone Ranger, because even though my Dad said it often, I never bothered to ask him what it meant. In describing someone frail and unkempt, he would say, “That woodhick looked like the running gears of a katy-did.”

It’s a small world, and the canine world is no exception. Two weeks ago, my elderly, gimpy, but still studly dog, Trinity and I were again separated for a long, lonely night. He wandered away from Tony Jolovich’s Lane 17 farm while I shingled. His aging hips make mobility difficult, but he was gone and Tony’s tenacious search proved fruitless.

For the most part, I’m just your average Joe. What isn’t average is the disproportionate number of famous people I’ve rubbed elbows with. This penchant started as a stunningly-handsome teen when I often stayed overnight at my friend Ron Hostetler’s farmhouse. They were a large family of athletic, good looking Mennonites who raised chickens.

Good poetry is definitely in the eye of the beholder. I simply cannot wrap my pretty head around poetry that doesn’t rhyme. It’s like women’s beach volleyball without bikinis. I’ll go a step further and say “a poem that doesn’t rhyme is like a bell that doesn’t chime.”

I’ve compiled another of my unorganized, yet invaluable collection of thoughts worth mentioning. Otherwise, I’d not mention them.

Firstly, a few observances about diet and health, because — let’s face it — if you don’t have your health or good looks, then you truly have nothing.