"The Wheels on the Car"

By Jerry Zezima

Hey, boys and girls, and all of you adult drivers, here’s a song you can sing to the tune of the everlastingly popular but fantastically annoying kiddie ditty “The Wheels on the Bus”:

The wheel on the car goes thump, thump, thump

Thump, thump, thump

Thump, thump, thump

The wheel on the car goes thump, thump, thump

All through the town.

That’s what I was singing to myself, with a few other choice lyrics, when I drove my wife’s car, ever so slowly, to a nearby gas station to put air in the right front tire, which was flatter than my pathetic baritone.

Sue and I hadn’t been home for almost a week. Before we left on our trip in my car, the tire on her car was fine. In fact, all four tires were fine on her car, which was parked in the driveway.

When we got back, we noticed that the right front tire was low. The car itself agreed. On the dashboard was this electronic information: “Tire pressure low.”

It was at 21. The three other tires were at a normal 36.

I drove to the gas station and pumped enough air into the sagging tire to bring the pressure all the way up to 43. I’m surprised it didn’t explode in my face.

The next morning, it was down to 36. Later in the day, it had flatlined.

Back to the gas station I went. Back to flat went the tire.

So I got in Sue’s car and thumped my way up the street and around the corner to Dave Kunzler Tire of Port Jefferson Station, New York.

“My head is flat,” I told James, Dave’s friendly assistant manager. “So is the tire on my wife’s car.”

“Where is it?” James asked.

“On the right front side,” I answered.

“No, I mean, where is the car?” James asked again.

“Out front,” I answered again.

Sue had followed me in my car in case I had to leave hers at the shop.

“We’ll call you when it’s ready,” said Autumn, Dave’s equally friendly assistant manager.

Later that afternoon, James called to say two things:

1) Sue needed a new right front tire because insufficient air pressure in the old one had created a problem along the inside wall that couldn’t be repaired.

2) She also needed a new right rear tire because the old one had a bubble that could blow if she hit any of the 17 million potholes on area streets.

After picking up Sue’s car the next day and paying a very reasonable price for two new tires and excellent service, I sat down with Dave and found out that he is the third generation in the family business.

“My grandfather Bob started it in 1957,” Dave said. “He was a mountain of a man. And he was like the mayor. There wasn’t a place you could go and not know Bob — except church.”

Dave started working there when he was 13.

“Customers would say, ‘That kid’s gonna work on my car?’ I learned fast,” recalled Dave, adding that he’s a lot like his grandfather, who was outgoing. “My dad was quiet,” he said.

Dave, an Air Force veteran who was stationed in Germany in the late 1980s, returned to the family business in the early 1990s, then went to Atlanta to work for a big tire company before coming back home and buying the commercial end of the business from his father in 1997 at age 28.

“I’ve changed more tires than I can count,” said Dave. “I can change a tractor-trailer tire and stay clean.”

“If I tried to change a tire, I’d end up in the hospital,” I said.

“You don’t have to,” Dave noted. “Tell your wife that if she gets another flat, we’ll take care it.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Now the wheels on her car go round and round, all through the town.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"Writer on the Storm Door"

By Jerry Zezima

If there was one thing I had in common with our old storm door, aside from the fact that we both let in hot air, it’s that we were becoming unhinged. One of us had to go, so I showed the door the door.

It gave me an opening to avoid serious injury should the door fall on my head, in which case the glass would be shattered and the frame bent but my head would still be intact.

My wife, Sue, agreed, not just about my head but the storm door, which she used every day, often several times, to go to the gym, to the grocery store, to the mailbox or to escape the silly remarks that constantly pour from my head, whether a door falls on it or not.

“It’s about 15 years old,” she told me.

“My head is a lot older than that,” I replied. “You must be referring to my maturity level.”

“And,” Sue added, rolling the eyes in her own head and ignoring yet another silly remark, “the warranty is probably up. We need a new storm door.”

We went to a home improvement store and ordered a door that was exactly like the one that needed to be replaced.

A couple of weeks later, we met Chris Riehm, an independent contractor who had come over to take down the old storm door and install the new one.

We ended up talking, naturally, about lizards.

“On one job, I had removed the door but hadn’t yet put in the new one and a lizard got in the house,” remembered Chris, who said he likes the scaly creatures and knows a lot about them.

“You could be a herpetologist,” I said, referring to a scientist who studies reptiles and amphibians.

“There was a reptile museum in North Carolina that I loved,” Chris said. “I went back with my kids, but it had closed because the owner shot and killed her husband.”

“Did she say, ‘See you later, alligator’?” I wondered. “Or, ‘In a while, crocodile’? She also could have killed him with a boa and arrow.”

“Stop!” hissed Sue, who hates lizards only slightly less than my silly remarks.

That left the door open for Chris to use the closer to keep the door open (so why isn’t it called the opener?) while he removed the fixtures.

“My storm door doesn’t even have a closer,” said Chris, adding that he and his wife have five young kids who “go in and out all day long.”

“Sue used to lock herself out all the time,” I said. “One time our daughter locked herself out and called me to come home and let her in. I said to her, ‘You remembered your phone but not the key?’ She said, ‘What’s more important?’ ”

“It didn’t matter,” Sue said. “She went around back and climbed in through the kitchen window.”

“The kitchen has French doors that don’t open,” I said. “I don’t know why we have them. We can’t speak French, although our daughter’s husband can because he’s from France.”

Chris took the old storm door out and put in the new one, which came with shiny brass fixtures that Sue picked out.

“Do you want me to put the screen in?” he asked.

“No, thanks. Just leave the glass,” Sue replied. “I wanted a door with full glass because I don’t like the ones with metal on the bottom.”

“In that case,” I told Chris, “the door would be half-glassed.”

“It comes with keys, one for each of you,” he said. “Put them with your keys to the front door so you won’t get locked out.”

“The new storm door looks beautiful,” Sue told Chris. “You did a great job.”

“And,” I added, “you didn’t let a lizard in the house.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"It's in the Cards"

By Jerry Zezima

I am not a good enough athlete to have my own baseball card, and I am not animated enough to have my own Pokemon card, but I am a man of culture, which I get from yogurt, so I could have my own trading card.

That was the estimation of a friendly and knowledgeable guy named Daniel, who works at the card store where I went with one of my sons-in-law and his two sons, aka my grandsons, who love to collect and trade cards, mostly Pokemon, sometimes baseball but not yet one featuring the goofy mug of their maternal grandfather, aka yours truly.

“Could I have my own trading card?” I asked Daniel, who looked at me quizzically.

“That depends on how much space in the culture you have,” he replied.

“I have a lot of space between my ears,” I told him.

“Are you a baseball player?” Daniel inquired.

“I was in Little League,” I said.

“When was that?” he asked.

“Right after baseball was invented,” I said. “But my two daughters had their own cards when they played softball. I was the team manager. We were terrible, but not because of them.”

I went on to tell Daniel that my older daughter is the mother of my grandsons, who are 9 and 7.

“The older one plays organized baseball,” I said. “He’s a slugger, so maybe he can have his own card.”

“What do you do?” Daniel wanted to know.

“As little as possible,” I said. “But when I absolutely have to do something, I’m a writer.”

“What do you write?” he asked.

“Stuff that has no redeeming social value,” I replied. “I’m a nationally syndicated newspaper columnist and an author.”

“Some writers and artists have their own cards,” Daniel said. “But they’re not worth as much as baseball and Pokemon cards.”

“What’s your most expensive card?” I wondered.

Daniel pointed to a glittery one in a glass case.

“It’s Mega Greninja ex, a Pokemon card,” he said. “It sells for $1,600.”

“That’s a little above my price range,” I said, adding that I planned to buy both of my grandsons a pack of Pokemon cards. Cost: $9 each.

I also told Daniel that my younger daughter’s husband, who had given me and my wife a bunch of baseball cards to bring to the boys on our visit, is a physicist who has two cards of his own.

He got them for solving the Ginter Code, an interactive puzzle hidden in Topps baseball card sets. He solved it the first time with two other guys and the second time by himself.

“He’s a really smart guy,” I told Daniel.

So, I added, is my other son-in-law, the father of the boys. He’s a journalist whose parents didn’t throw out the baseball cards he had as a kid.

“They actually brought them to me on their last visit,” he said.

“The baseball cards I had as a kid got thrown out,” I said. “I had a lot of guys who are now dead. I could have been a millionaire.”

My grandsons thanked me for buying Pokemon cards for them. The older one regaled me with stories of his skillful trades with friends.

“I know what I’m doing,” he said. “I get really good deals.”

I was impressed that both boys have their cards — Pokemon and baseball — neatly organized in binders.

“I like players on the Red Sox and Nationals,” the younger one told me. “And there’s one guy on San Diego I like.”

“Do you guys think I could have my own card?” I asked.

“For what?” the older one wondered.

“Being a writer,” I said.

“Is that because you can’t play baseball?” the younger one said.

“It’s because I’m not a Pokemon character,” I answered.

“Sorry, Poppie,” the older boy said, “but I don’t think you’d be a good trade.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"Baby, It's Cold Inside"

By Jerry Zezima

Whenever it’s hot, I’m cold. And whenever it’s cold, I’m hot.

I know it’s not cool to say this, but the cold fact is that I am not hot enough to be a magazine model or cool enough to be a movie star.

The real problem is that I am a geezer for whom no temperature — inside or outside — can make me feel comfortable.

That’s especially true now that my wife, Sue, and I have a new air conditioner. The powerful unit is in the family room, which feels like a meat locker when the AC is on and a sauna when it’s off.

We need the air conditioner because we recently had what sadistic meteorologists call a “heat dome,” which sent temperatures soaring into the high 90s, but with the “heat index,” another measurement of misery, the “real feel” was in the triple digits.

What this means, mathematically speaking, is that when it’s 102 outside and 42 inside, the average temperature is 72 degrees.

Now you know why I can’t be trusted to do our taxes.

The opposite is true in winter, which features what TV weather forecasters love to call the “windchill,” yet another cruel meteorological term that explains why, if you take even one step outside, arctic blasts will freeze you like a Mrs. Paul’s fish stick.

But back to the AC, which in my case stands for “arthritic codger,” an old guy whose blood has thinned to the point that even a two-degree change in temperature can make him shiver like a nudist in a blizzard or sweat like a broken fire hydrant.

The hefty appliance is in a wall sleeve behind the chair where I sit to watch TV, drink beer and eat popcorn, some of which invariably falls under the cushion, only to be found by Sue, who will get hot under the collar, even if she isn’t wearing one.

The main issue, aside from the fact that I can’t hear the TV when the AC is on, is that permafrost forms on the back of my neck and can’t be melted without the aid of a blowtorch.

The safer option is to get up without pulling every muscle in my body (the chair is sunken like a shallow grave, where I will end up anyway) and turn off the air conditioner.

This, of course, defeats the purpose of having one.

We had central air installed upstairs a few years ago and it works except when it doesn’t. It’s an energy-saving system that goes on and off, the latter being when I wake up because it’s too hot.

My idea of saving energy is to get a good night’s sleep.

Anyway, we couldn’t have central air downstairs because of some technical gibberish involving the misalignment of air ducts. This meant, to use layman’s terms, that we couldn’t get our ducts in a row.

Plus, the cost would have been greater than the gross national product of Finland.

So we bought a new downstairs air conditioner to replace the old one, which was even louder and may have had mold, dirt and a colony of bats inside of it.

With the exception of making the family room feel like a hockey rink, the new unit does a decent job of cooling off the rest of the downstairs.

But this doesn’t solve the problem of why I can’t get comfortable no matter where I am. Neither, it appears, can anyone else my age.

That includes Sue, who sometimes wears shorts and a sweatshirt.

How can it be warm enough to bare your legs but cold enough to completely cover your arms and upper body?

Heat rises, doesn’t it?

The only good thing about the whole temperature dilemma is that I don’t have to change my seasonal wardrobe. I just leave all my clothes out and dress accordingly.

Then I’ll sit in front of the air conditioner — in a parka, gloves and a ski hat — and chill out.

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"Water Bottles Everywhere"

By Jerry Zezima

It’s a good thing 70 percent of Earth’s surface is covered by water (the other 30 percent is covered by asphalt and bird droppings) because otherwise I don’t know how I would ever fill my new water bottle.

Thanks to my younger daughter, who gifted me with the 40-ounce stainless steel container, in a beautiful metallic blue, I have officially become the last person in the United States to have a water bottle.

That includes children, some of whom, like my grandkids, aren’t appreciably larger than their water bottles.

It also includes my younger daughter, who has a whole collection of water bottles in many different designs and colors and for all occasions, including holidays.

I am grateful for my water bottle because I have a history of kidney stones and need to stay well-hydrated so I don’t develop more of the agonizing calcium deposits, most of which have not followed the old proverb “This, too, shall pass” and had to be blasted to powder by death rays from outer space.

On the other hand, I am a geezer who is going from bladder to worse. Faithfully drinking from my water bottle will make me seem like Old Faithful and cause me to run to the bathroom so often that I could qualify for the National Senior Games in track and field.

I’d be going for the gold, if you know what I mean.

My wife, Sue, has two water bottles and drinks so much water that she may soon sprout gills. Nonetheless, she told me, “If you drink too much water, it washes out your electrolytes.”

According to the Cleveland Clinic, “Electrolytes are substances that have a positive or negative electrical charge when dissolved in water.”

Great, now I can be electrocuted for trying to keep hydrated. At least it would be quicker than drowning. And less painful than kidney stones.

The U.S. government, which is all wet anyway, says the human body is typically composed of 60 percent water but that the figure can rise to 75 percent, depending on factors such as age, gender and, I would guess, water bottles.

My bottle will help me keep good muscle tone. When filled with water, and considering it is made of metal, it weighs about as much as a barbell, an exercise in irony since it would be lifted by a dumbbell.

Alexa Castrova, the extremely nice manager of the gym where I go to drink water, told me that almost all of the establishment’s members have bottles when they are on treadmills, stationary bikes or elliptical machines.

A quick scan of the sweaty exercisers, done as I was holding my water bottle, confirmed this.

“I try to drink four 40-ounce bottles of water a day,” Alexa said.

“That’s 160 ounces of water,” I said, doing the math in my waterlogged brain.

“That’s right,” she said. “If you see my water bottle, I won’t be far behind.”

Alexa also said that there are even 60-ounce water bottles on the market.

“They’re so big that they don’t fit in cup holders,” she said. “That’s why you can get 3D printed cup holders for cars. Everyone’s cup size is getting customized.”

“I’ve heard of drinking and driving, but this is ridiculous,” I said.

I also pointed out that medical science used to say that people should drink eight glasses of water a day.

“Now it’s considered too much,” I said. “You don’t know what to believe anymore. I guess the findings didn’t hold water.”

When I got home, Sue told me to wash out my water bottle.

“With what?” I asked.

“Water,” she said.

“There’s water in it now,” I countered.

“Dump it and wash out the bottle,” Sue said.

“It’s bad enough that it comes with an instruction manual. But this,” I said, taking one final sip, “is the last straw.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima