Roger H. Aylworth

Laugh with us! 

If you think getting tickets to the Super Bowl is tough, try to get a shower in my house.

It's not that showers in the household Aylworth are spectator sports, certainly not with my grand physique.

The issue is one of supply and demand. Simple mathematics: one shower divided by five Aylworths. Combine those numbers with the reality of the bathroom rush hour and you begin to get the picture.

If you want a shower at 3 in the afternoon, you'll probably have no problem, but shoot for it during the prime time  -- I've got...to go to school... to get to work... to get out of this place, and you find that showers are as precious as diamonds.

                         - From the title essay, "A Place in the Shower Schedule"

       In the past these four-footed marauders have stopped by to take one or more of my chickens to lunch, and while the birds may feel honored by the invitation, I don't think they really enjoy being the central attraction at a coyote feast.

         So when a coyote glee-club began a jam session just outside in the darkness, I darted out to save my little feathered friends. Just what I could have done -- half-naked, barefooted and empty handed -- to dissuade any dedicated coyote gourmet from turning one of my birds into cold cuts, I have no idea.

         If the entire coyote drum and bugle corps had decided to parade through my front yard yodeling the Washington Post March, there wouldn't have been much I could have done about it.

- From "Stilling the Coyote Chorus

       I have an ongoing fascination — even if it is something of a love-hate relationship — with cell phones.

       I come from the days when you could have any kind of telephone you wanted as long as it was black, had a dial, and weighed a ton. The phone had two purposes. You could make and receive calls and the heavy beast made a great paperweight.

- From "Stepping into New Cell Phone Disaster"

. . . I threw a handful of wheat in the hopper and tried to turn the handle.

It was then I discovered that cranking a wheat grinder requires substantial effort and not just with the arm doing the turning. Despite the fact it weighs more than a Volkswagen Beetle, the whole mill wants to flip over with each crank. So, while one arm struggles to turn the crank the other is required to keep the grinder from tossing itself -- and me -- on the floor.

In the process of turning two cups of whole wheat into three cups of rather coarse flour, both my arms and shoulders informed me in no uncertain terms that this was in fact exercise. The level of self-inflicted pain was high enough to convince me I was doing my body the sort of worthwhile harm necessary to build muscle and -- voila -- a potential exercise craze, right up there with spinning, yoga and Pilates, is born.

 - From "Grinding Your Way to Health -- and Fatness

 Roger sees the worldthrough a different lens.