I have an old buddy named Cicero Fudd. He has lived a largely uneventful life. Until recently, he lived out in the country where he ran a little fertilizer business. He is retired now and has moved into town. He spends lots of time sitting on his front porch pondering the deeper things of life and annoying almost everyone. He learned that he bears the same name as a famous old philosopher. So he sits with chin in hand and furrowed brow, and thinks of ways to confound others. Recently, he went to see his doctor for a checkup. After a thorough examination, the doctor told him that he was in excellent shape for a 65 year-old man. “Who said I’m 65 years old?” replied Cicero. “I’m 75 years old.” Then the doctor asked if Cicero’s father lived to a ripe old age, to which he replied, “Who said he’s dead?” The doctor asked if he was still living and Cicero said, “Yep, he’s 94 years old.” The doctor pursued his questioning and asked if his grandfather had lived a long life. “Who said he’s dead?” replied my old pal. “He is not only living, he is 110 years old and about to get married.” Then the baffled physician asked why a 110 year-old man would want to get married? Cicero said, “Who said he wants to get married?”

     Last week I found him engrossed in an old book, The Papers of Samuel Marchbanks. “This here’s a writer you can put your confidence in. He knows what’s what. Listen to this: ‘Love, like ice cream, is a beautiful thing, but nobody should regard it as adequate provision for a long and adventurous journey.’” Cicero did not know that his wife, Delilah, had walked up behind him as he spoke. “What a feller needs for the long haul is some grits instead of ice cream. Grits has got stayin’ power. Delilah is a lucky woman to have a husband whose grits have cooled off rather than one whose ice cream has warmed up.” Well, I thought Delilah would go right off into orbit. She charged around in front of him, thrust a forefinger right between his eyes and let him have it. “You egotistical varmint! Why don’t you ever ask me what I want instead of always thinking you are so smart?”

     She was really angry. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so aggressive. It took Cicero aback momentarily. As Delilah whirled around and stalked off, he muttered that she had become “one of them women’s libbers.”

     “Cicero, “ I said, “I think you ought to cultivate a little more romance in your life. Delilah deserves more from her marriage than cold grits.” He said he reckoned that I was right but it would embarrass him to get—as he put it—“swooney.” I encouraged him to just try a little tenderness every once in a while. I reassured him that I was certain his heart was in the right place. “Speakin’ about hearts in the right place,” he said, “Sam Marchbanks got to feelin’ bad the other day. So he went to a doctor and got x-rayed. Went back a few days later and looked at them pictures hangin’ on a rack and lit up from behind. He went into a panic when he saw a long, thin, twisted monster with a hook on each end gnawin’ at his vitals. He just knowed he was a goner. It turned out to be a picture of his zipper. That just shows even a picture of a feller’s innards don’t always show exactly what’s what. You can’t always judge a cob by its corn.”

     I could sense that Cicero was beginning to get agitated with me, so I gently withdrew. Maybe a seed planted in his mind will eventually bear fruit. I think Delilah’s on the right track. I just hope she won’t give up on the old geezer. He’s got more love in his heart than he knows how to express. He’s got a lot of grit too. He’s got the right provisions for a long, adventurous journey.

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