Let me explain the title of this blogerature. (I've decided to class this stuff up a little by referring to these pieces as a cross between "Blog" and "Literature"...as though, say, Charles Dickens may have blogged in this day and age: "It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. LOL!") The Great Pick-Up could refer to an exceptional truck. For example, my dad bought a pick-up truck after all my brothers had moved out and we didn't need as much room for trips. He was a very gifted carpenter and turned the back of the vehicle into a neat little camper. You could give him a 2x4, three nails and a can of spray paint and, in about a half hour, you'd have a three-room bungalow. My brothers inherited the "handy-gene." One of them put in a new bathroom all by himself that would make Sochi Tabuchi...he, of the fancy Branson bathrooms...Tidy-Bowl Blue with envy. I think my brother, at his advanced age, spends a lot of time in there and wanted it to be "livable." Anyway, I do not have any fix-it-up abilities. In fact, I was the only graduate from my high school to receive an industrial arts scholarship just by promising never to touch a hammer, saw or screwdriver again. It was presented to me by my former shop teacher, Elwood "Three-Fingers" Schmidlestetter. I'm not going to explain his nickname, as my role in the "case" remains unresolved.

Anyway, the title is not about a truck. It could be about a social exchange between people, in an attempt by one of them to get to know the other in a more personal and intimate way. Wow. That was certainly a delicate way to phrase that! It comes from having had little kids around a lot of the time. Now, our kids are old enough that they teach my wife and I new words and phrases...sometimes by accident. But, back when they were tiny, we became expert at couching things in not-t00-descriptive terms. This ability to not quite say what I mean has come in very handy doing weather all these years. I remember back during the President Clinton/Monica Lewinsky story, our kids were quite young and we were sometimes left a bit unsure about how to explain some of the news items to the kids. At one point we heard our daughter, still just a toddler, pretending to be a news reporter. She was holding a wooden spoon like a microphone and staring into an invisible camera when she, assuming her version of a serious news voice, intoned "It now appears that Harmonica Lewinsky did not have a sensible relation with Bill Clinton." While a couple of words may have been off a bit, the "analysis" was pretty much right on. As for the "pick-up" in this story's title, it has nothing to do with "meeting new people." I never had a good line. When I'd ask "What's your sign?" The girl would say "Yield."

No, by The Great Pick-Up, I am referring to what I do as part of walking our dog. We had a story on FirstNews about a town that is really cracking down on folks that don't clean up after their pooch. It reminded me that the only award I have ever won was in our old neighborhood. It was at a street party and they presented me with the Pooper-Scooper Award for always picking up the pup's left-behinds. I want to be honest here...even if I am running the risk of having my award taken back...there were times, when I was walking two dogs, both of whom apparently had gotten plenty of fiber in their diet, and I ran out of plastic bags. So, yes, there were a couple of times I pretended to pick up the evidence. There was nobody around but I just knew that someone would be watching from inside their house or from a tree-top or, maybe, one of those NewsChoppers would capture my negligence on tape. I pretended to take a piece of paper out of my pocket...leaned down...in a very dramatic, swooping motion I "picked up" the offensive material. Sort of a cross between Marcel Marceau and Ed Norton. Of course, it was all an act and, probably, nobody was watching which makes me kind of sad for all the effort. A mime is a terrible thing to waste.

Most of the time, I do the back-yard scooping duties, too. It is one of those jobs that would be perfect to hand off...so to speak...to a son or daughter, but, oddly enough, I kind of enjoy it. It is like a strange Easter Egg hunt, if the Easter Bunny had some sort of gastrointestinal malady. When I am in a particularly thrill-seeking mood, I do the job barefoot.

Jerry Seinfeld has a routine about aliens observing dog owners doing the pick-up and then following along obediently behind their four-legged friends, carefully carrying the valuable product. The ET's reach the obvious conclusion that the furry ones are in charge and the humans are simple minions. That's the way it feels to me. It is hard to look cool toting a plastic bag filled with your dog's digestive memories. Everyone you meet knows exactly what's in there and what you did to put it there. Their admiration for your efforts is usually hard to notice through their obvious disgust with your job, well-done.

Speaking of jobs, at the previously mentioned block party, after getting my certificate, I was approached by a disgruntled fellow dog-walker. He felt I had an unfair advantage in the "competition." When I asked what he meant, he replied "Well, look at what you do everyday on the TV. The only difference between that and what you do walking your dog, is that with the dog, you have the good sense to stick it in a bag." I was going to frame my honor and put it up on our front door, just to spite the guy. But, on the way home, our dog did a little business and I didn't have a bag. The only paper I had was the award so...well, you get the picture. I am pretty sure the dog did it knowingly. They left his name off the certificate. I can't really blame him. After all, without him, I'd just be a chubby middle-aged man wandering around the neighborhood with an empty bag in my hand.