This little piggy went to market.
This little piggy stayed home.
This little piggy had roast beef.
This little piggy had none.
This little piggy cried “Wee, wee, wee all the way home.

Now that I’ve reminded you of that little ditty, we’ll get back to it eventually, but first we’ll take a small detour.

When I’m at live events and meeting people for the first time, someone is bound to approach the signing table and say, “I didn’t know you were so tall.” That’s not surprising. Photos on book covers are usually head shots. In those everyone’s the same height. Nonetheless, that observation is true—I am tall. I have always been tall. Back in elementary school in the fifties school pictures were always group shots with kids from each grade level standing in rows on three-tiered risers. I was always in the middle of the back row, usually with Mike Marusich on one side and Harley Heitt on the other. It wasn’t until seventh grade when school photos switched over to head shots.

In Bisbee, Dr. Roberts, the local optometrist, was on the school board as was a local dentist, Dr. Tuell. Once a year each of them went through all the school buildings giving every student an eye exam and a dental checkup. That’s how I ended up wearing glasses by the time I was in second grade. I hated the eye exams because each year’s exam was worse than the one before. As for the dental exams? In those pre-fluoride days those were a cavity-filled nightmare. That same day there was always a nurse on hand to chart height and weight. There were no HIPPA protections back then. When I was in seventh grade and the nurse, called out aloud, “Six feet,” in front of all my classmates, I was humiliated. I’m sure pretty sure some of the other kids had the same reaction to someone making public announcements concerning their weight.

Between seventh grade and my senior year in high school, I gained at least an inch. That year, while helping Miss Holt order caps and gowns for graduation, I was surprised by how many boys claimed to be six feet tall when they weren’t. How do I know that? I was much taller than most of them.

At age eighty I’m still six one. It sometimes seems as though I’m taller than that because whenever I reach down to pick up something up from the floor, it seems to be a whole lot farther away. I’m still getting my steps, though. I recently passed the 39 million steps mark, and I’m currently at clocking in at 18,442 miles, but that’s been a real challenge recently, because six weeks or so ago my left foot started killing me.

It felt as though a tangle of nerves both on top of my toes and under them were on fire. Every damned step hurt. Last summer I believe I reported on my ill-fated ballerina act on the front porch. When my foot pain began, I assumed it was lingering damage resulting from that. I’ve become a fan of a reasonably recent analgesic spray called TIDL. It works well, once you figure out the secret code to make the sprayer work—it actually just takes a twist of the top. Seeking relief, I began spraying my toes—top and bottom first thing in the morning, before putting on my shoes, and the last thing before going to bed. And when it came time to do my steps, I’d give my toes another splash of TIDL. Doing that made walking doable.

As mentioned above, I’m tall. That means my toes are a long way away, even when I’m sitting down. As a consequence, I don’t spend a lot of time examining them. Last week, however, I took a quick look at my toes while sitting on the dressing bench in the closet. That’s when I noticed a very angry looking corn on my next to little toe—that would be the one designated as The Little Piggy Who Had None.

At that point I remembered, that the last time I had a corn was back when I was in high school. My mother went straight to Warren Drug and came back home with a packet that contained a bottle with an evil-smelling clear liquid in it along with some little round bandages with holes in the middle. She put the bandage around the corn and then dabbed some of the liquid in the hole. Eventually, after two weeks or so, the corn went away.

A week and a half ago, on other very day I spotted the problem, I took myself to the nearest Bartell’s and bought a packet of corn remover. Naturally, the childproof packaging was equally grandmother proof. I finally got it open with the help of a scissors and a paring knife. In the process, I shredded the directions. I had to drag them out of the trash and piece them back together. They were surprisingly simple. Apply the bandage and then apply a drop or two of the clear liquid. You’d think that in the intervening half century they could have made the stuff smell better, but I instantly recognized the obnoxious odor.

Within moments of applying it the first time, I was healed—or maybe I should say toed. I’m sure part of that relief was due to the cushioning on the bandage protecting the top of the corn from my shoe. I’m applying the liquid twice a day as directed and am almost half way through the recommended fourteen-day treatment. And guess what? I’m actually enjoying getting my steps again.

So here I am, twenty years after my mother’s passing, still benefitting from her wisdom. With that in mind, it’s only fair to let Evie Busk have the last word. This happens to be a verse from one of her oft-quoted bits of poetry.

Can you sit in the shade of the palm of your hand?
Or beat on the drum of your ear?
Can the calf on your leg eat the corn on your toe?
Then why not raise corn on your ear?

Happy Friday.