My family has a history of having a wild, and often times extreme, sense of humor. In recent years I have tended to fade away from some of the more extreme amusements, although I am still a fair hand at one-liner responses to straight lines.
But I was never a master at practical jokes and things like that. That honor goes to my brother Mickey and sister Judayl. They loved (and still do) to make elaborate plans for the sole purpose of making someone look foolish. Sometimes they have been the butt of these things, but it's not easy to get a master. Which is why I feel especially proud of having achieved the greatest family joke against Judayl. But that's a different story. In fact, I think I've already posted it. Can't remember.
Anyway, practical jokes are one way my family tells people they are accepted. Generally we do not joke people we don't care about. Those people we merely insult. Unfortunately, sometimes it's difficult to distinguish insults from jokes. That's just the way it is.
A good number of years ago now Judayl was working in an office. It was fall. October or November. A new employee had just arrived from Southern California, where he had spent his entire life up to then. Living in the hot, dry, desert he had no concept of Minnesota's trees, lakes, and weather. But he had heard things. So he questioned Judayl and her co-workers.
What he was interested in was his car. He had heard rumors that Minnesotans did things to their cars before winter. What did they do? Why? It was Friday and he hoped to resolve this over the weekend.
So Judayl very calmly, rationally, and without so much as a grin, explained to him that winter air is different than summer air, and that Minnesotans bring their cars in to have the air in their tires changed around October or November. This will prevent flat tires when it gets very cold. All he had to do was go to any garage and tell the mechanic he needed to have winter air put into his tires. It wasn't expensive and didn't take long.
On Monday morning Judayl and her comrades felt bad about the joke. Yes, it was funny, but the truth is there ARE things that Minnesotans do to their cars in October and November, and they HAVE to be done. They decided they had best let him know what those were so his car didn't get damaged.
He came in sullen and didn't say hello to anyone. Judayl and the other went to him and apologized about the air in the tires thing (yes, he had gone to a garage and asked for winter air), but they were ready to give him truth now. What he had to do was bring his car to any garage and have them change the oil from summer weight oil to winter weight oil. Also, he needed to make sure his radiator had fresh antifreeze in it.
It was a case of Fool Me Once, Shame On You. He got very angry with them and told them he wasn't going to fall for the same joke twice.
At first Judayl and the others continued to feel bad. Then, of course, they found it extremely funny.
I don't know if the man got his car winterized in time or not. I suspect he did. Hope so.
But that is the kind of humor my family likes to enjoy.
Showing posts with label Humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Humor. Show all posts
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
What to Do When Times are Rough
Sitting here eating a plate of pretzels and the remains of a bag of ripple potato chips. Got an extra large bottle of refrigerated, filtered, water, too. Breakfast.
The chips are leftover from Son's snack time last night. The pretzels are leftovers from Spouse's work on Thanksgiving to the next day. Spouse worked from 9 p.m. Thursday until 5 a.m. Friday. All employees were told to bring in some sort of snack to see the staff through the night. (Interestingly, when Spouse worked at Old Navy the store supplied the food.) Anyway, there was so much food that only half the bag of pretzels was eaten. So Spouse brought the rest back here.
They're holiday pretzels, shaped like Christmas trees, bells and stars. Or maybe they're snowflakes. Kind of cute. I'm eating all of the broken pieces first. I like to do that. Eat the damaged pieces first and leave the whole pieces for last. That way it's not so depressing when the bowl, plate, bag, is nearly empty. Same for chips, although finding whole chips in a bag is not easy.
Maybe I'm wrong but it seems to me potato chips used to be larger. I suppose that's a sign of age. Everything was better in the 'olden days'. When I was very young it never occurred to me that I was living in the 'olden days'.
Spoke with my mother over the weekend. Couldn't reach her on Thanksgiving Day. Either she was taking a nap or was down in the community room. But she mentioned how my sister, Judayl, had called and they were talking about life in The Old House. Judayl said it wasn't all bad. She remembered lots of good times. Times we laughed anyway.
That's true. Everyone in my family can complain with the best of 'em. Or worst, depending on one's point of view. But we can laugh at pretty much anything, too. Even while we're complaining. I guess we just accept the the old adage: Life Sucks - And Then You Die.
My first job was at a pizza restaurant. The owner's son and I were good friends. He liked to pull out a bowl of lemons from the refrigerator and walk around the place saying, "Life is just a bowl of lemons."
The thing is, it is so true. Life really does suck. And then we die. But that doesn't mean we can't have laughs along the way. It's the lack of laughs, I think, that really makes people unpleasant. And I don't mean just laughing when things are going well. Any slob can do that. It's laughing when life really sucks. If you can do that you can survive to find the next good time island in the sea of disasters. It's what I find most wrong about Spouse's family. They cannot laugh at bad things. Bad things are serious, and they have to be treated serious. Both of those positions are true, but they leave out the fact that there is still humor. Grandma Amy was telling jokes while laying on her deathbed in immense pain. She referenced her last husband, who had died a few years earlier at the ate of ninety-something. She and the young nurse attending her got to talking about marriage relations for some reason and Grandma said of step-grandpa, "He still had a wiggle to his waggle." When the nurse told us what Grandma had said I saw Grandma smile. Twenty-four hours later Grandma would be gone.
It's okay to laugh and make fun of oneself when things are bad. Sometimes it's the only way to survive.
That, and a plate of Christmas pretzels, a leftover bag of ripple potato chips, and a bottle of filtered water. Maybe I'll open my last bottle of pop and really splurge. Son's been teasing me because the pop has been sitting in the back of the refrigerator for about a month or two. I told him I would drink it. When?
Soon.
The chips are leftover from Son's snack time last night. The pretzels are leftovers from Spouse's work on Thanksgiving to the next day. Spouse worked from 9 p.m. Thursday until 5 a.m. Friday. All employees were told to bring in some sort of snack to see the staff through the night. (Interestingly, when Spouse worked at Old Navy the store supplied the food.) Anyway, there was so much food that only half the bag of pretzels was eaten. So Spouse brought the rest back here.
They're holiday pretzels, shaped like Christmas trees, bells and stars. Or maybe they're snowflakes. Kind of cute. I'm eating all of the broken pieces first. I like to do that. Eat the damaged pieces first and leave the whole pieces for last. That way it's not so depressing when the bowl, plate, bag, is nearly empty. Same for chips, although finding whole chips in a bag is not easy.
Maybe I'm wrong but it seems to me potato chips used to be larger. I suppose that's a sign of age. Everything was better in the 'olden days'. When I was very young it never occurred to me that I was living in the 'olden days'.
Spoke with my mother over the weekend. Couldn't reach her on Thanksgiving Day. Either she was taking a nap or was down in the community room. But she mentioned how my sister, Judayl, had called and they were talking about life in The Old House. Judayl said it wasn't all bad. She remembered lots of good times. Times we laughed anyway.
That's true. Everyone in my family can complain with the best of 'em. Or worst, depending on one's point of view. But we can laugh at pretty much anything, too. Even while we're complaining. I guess we just accept the the old adage: Life Sucks - And Then You Die.
My first job was at a pizza restaurant. The owner's son and I were good friends. He liked to pull out a bowl of lemons from the refrigerator and walk around the place saying, "Life is just a bowl of lemons."
The thing is, it is so true. Life really does suck. And then we die. But that doesn't mean we can't have laughs along the way. It's the lack of laughs, I think, that really makes people unpleasant. And I don't mean just laughing when things are going well. Any slob can do that. It's laughing when life really sucks. If you can do that you can survive to find the next good time island in the sea of disasters. It's what I find most wrong about Spouse's family. They cannot laugh at bad things. Bad things are serious, and they have to be treated serious. Both of those positions are true, but they leave out the fact that there is still humor. Grandma Amy was telling jokes while laying on her deathbed in immense pain. She referenced her last husband, who had died a few years earlier at the ate of ninety-something. She and the young nurse attending her got to talking about marriage relations for some reason and Grandma said of step-grandpa, "He still had a wiggle to his waggle." When the nurse told us what Grandma had said I saw Grandma smile. Twenty-four hours later Grandma would be gone.
It's okay to laugh and make fun of oneself when things are bad. Sometimes it's the only way to survive.
That, and a plate of Christmas pretzels, a leftover bag of ripple potato chips, and a bottle of filtered water. Maybe I'll open my last bottle of pop and really splurge. Son's been teasing me because the pop has been sitting in the back of the refrigerator for about a month or two. I told him I would drink it. When?
Soon.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Young and Childish Humor
We're watching Young Frankenstein as I write this post. It's a wonderfully funny movie I first started watching back in the fall of 1975 at the Varsity Theatre on the UofM Campus. The theatre is still there, but it looks like it's live shows now, instead of films. Back in the 1970s it was a dollar theatre. Saw lots of good movies there. I didn't actually attend the University, except to go to movies and eat pizza at the Green Mill in Dinkytown. Great pizza, but always busy.
Anyway, there is the scene very early in the film where Gene Wilder, in a fit of emotional frustration, stabs his leg with a scalpal. It reminded me of something Stephen did shortly after we graduated from high school.
Stephen was an artist. Mainly, he painted with oils, and he often purchased his supplies in bulk. It was ultimately cheaper and he spent less time running to the art stores. One of the things he purchased in bulk was paint. They came in soft plastic bags, like plasma.
Stephen had recently been hired at a leather and luggage retail outlet. Life was dull there. Everyone was so serious. He decided what they needed was a bit of humor to lighten things up. So, he tied a bag of red paint to his thigh, inside his pants. Then he went to work.
While at lunch a female co-worker sat down beside him. The lunchroom was small and there was only the one table. Stephen very casually withdrew a large syringe from his lunch box. He then proceded to stab his thigh and withdraw a full supply of red liquid. The girl screamed and ran out.
Stephen was fired on the spot.
I laughed when he told me and I laugh every time I think about it. Stephen probably suspected he might get into some trouble, but I doubt he realized he would be fired. Stephen often had trouble envisioning the consequences of his humor.
Once he nearly got us both arrested as pedaphiliacs. I was driving and he was sitting with his window down, bored to death. There was this young girl sitting at the curbside. Don't know what she was doing, but she was minding her own business. Stephen sees her and tells me to slow down. Dumb old me hasn't figured out what's about to happen and so I do. As we near the poor little girl Stephen sticks his head out the window and, in his best (worst) Peter Lorre voice says, "Want to go camping?"
He thought it would be funny to scare her. She was scared. She was also bright enough to get up and run into the house. Needless to say I not only burned all othe rubber off my tires getting away from there, but Stephen had to listen to my anger for the next two hours. When I got too tired to yell at him anymore I drove us to Chris's house and told him. Chris could stay angry at Stephen much longer than I could. And he was much better at yelling.
Poor Stephen. He just couldn't understand that some things just aren't funny.
But in my book, the paint and syringe thing was funny. I wouldn't have fired him.
Anyway, there is the scene very early in the film where Gene Wilder, in a fit of emotional frustration, stabs his leg with a scalpal. It reminded me of something Stephen did shortly after we graduated from high school.
Stephen was an artist. Mainly, he painted with oils, and he often purchased his supplies in bulk. It was ultimately cheaper and he spent less time running to the art stores. One of the things he purchased in bulk was paint. They came in soft plastic bags, like plasma.
Stephen had recently been hired at a leather and luggage retail outlet. Life was dull there. Everyone was so serious. He decided what they needed was a bit of humor to lighten things up. So, he tied a bag of red paint to his thigh, inside his pants. Then he went to work.
While at lunch a female co-worker sat down beside him. The lunchroom was small and there was only the one table. Stephen very casually withdrew a large syringe from his lunch box. He then proceded to stab his thigh and withdraw a full supply of red liquid. The girl screamed and ran out.
Stephen was fired on the spot.
I laughed when he told me and I laugh every time I think about it. Stephen probably suspected he might get into some trouble, but I doubt he realized he would be fired. Stephen often had trouble envisioning the consequences of his humor.
Once he nearly got us both arrested as pedaphiliacs. I was driving and he was sitting with his window down, bored to death. There was this young girl sitting at the curbside. Don't know what she was doing, but she was minding her own business. Stephen sees her and tells me to slow down. Dumb old me hasn't figured out what's about to happen and so I do. As we near the poor little girl Stephen sticks his head out the window and, in his best (worst) Peter Lorre voice says, "Want to go camping?"
He thought it would be funny to scare her. She was scared. She was also bright enough to get up and run into the house. Needless to say I not only burned all othe rubber off my tires getting away from there, but Stephen had to listen to my anger for the next two hours. When I got too tired to yell at him anymore I drove us to Chris's house and told him. Chris could stay angry at Stephen much longer than I could. And he was much better at yelling.
Poor Stephen. He just couldn't understand that some things just aren't funny.
But in my book, the paint and syringe thing was funny. I wouldn't have fired him.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
What We Did For Fun
Taking a short break so I can post something. Not that what I'm posting is all that important, but it's nice to keep up.
Got to thinking about a couple of things today while on the way home from grocery shopping. Not keen on grocery shopping anymore. The foods I want to buy and eat I pretty much shouldn't, and so I'm not. The foods I can/should buy are about as appealing to me as chewing on old leather. Actually, I'm more inclined to chew on old leather. So once again Spouse and I walked through the entire store and I didn't choose a single thing for me to eat - except some chicken, honey mustard and hot sauce.
But on the way home I was remembering some of Stephen's and my antics, back in the day. At times our humor was kind of wicked. Even mean. One thing had to do with driving cars. Stephen was better at this than me. The only time I was able to pull it off was when I owned a little Opel GT.
Now the Opel GT was a tiny car. It only seated two people, although I was able to fit four inside. My car was an automatic, so it had no acceleration and now power. As Mother used to enjoy saying about it, "That car couldn't pull the hat off someone's head."
But it looked fast. And that was key.
I remember coming to a traffic light in Anoka. I was in the left lane. A big Dodge Charger stopped to my right. He gunned his engine. I gunned mine. Stephen looked at me and started to laugh.
You don't honestly think you can beat that car, do you?
Watch and see.
We continued to rev our engines and watch the light. Then, as the light turned green, he tore out with the smell of burning rubber. I, on the other hand, made my left turn. Drove around the block to confirm my suspicion and laughed. Sure enough, the cop who liked to hide near the park had nabbed the Charger. I got out of there in a hurry.
Stephen did that all the time. When he drove parts truck for Art Goebel Ford he would speed down East River Road - until he reached a certain curve. Stephen knew that a policeman was waiting just beyond the curve to catch speeders. What Stephen liked to do was to get into a race with some idiot. Then, as they neared the curve, he would hit his brakes and slow down. By the time he made the curve the other racer would be pulled over, pointing frantically at Stephen, who was cruising by at a mile or two below the speed limit.
Kind of mean, weren't we?
Got to thinking about a couple of things today while on the way home from grocery shopping. Not keen on grocery shopping anymore. The foods I want to buy and eat I pretty much shouldn't, and so I'm not. The foods I can/should buy are about as appealing to me as chewing on old leather. Actually, I'm more inclined to chew on old leather. So once again Spouse and I walked through the entire store and I didn't choose a single thing for me to eat - except some chicken, honey mustard and hot sauce.
But on the way home I was remembering some of Stephen's and my antics, back in the day. At times our humor was kind of wicked. Even mean. One thing had to do with driving cars. Stephen was better at this than me. The only time I was able to pull it off was when I owned a little Opel GT.
Now the Opel GT was a tiny car. It only seated two people, although I was able to fit four inside. My car was an automatic, so it had no acceleration and now power. As Mother used to enjoy saying about it, "That car couldn't pull the hat off someone's head."
But it looked fast. And that was key.
I remember coming to a traffic light in Anoka. I was in the left lane. A big Dodge Charger stopped to my right. He gunned his engine. I gunned mine. Stephen looked at me and started to laugh.
You don't honestly think you can beat that car, do you?
Watch and see.
We continued to rev our engines and watch the light. Then, as the light turned green, he tore out with the smell of burning rubber. I, on the other hand, made my left turn. Drove around the block to confirm my suspicion and laughed. Sure enough, the cop who liked to hide near the park had nabbed the Charger. I got out of there in a hurry.
Stephen did that all the time. When he drove parts truck for Art Goebel Ford he would speed down East River Road - until he reached a certain curve. Stephen knew that a policeman was waiting just beyond the curve to catch speeders. What Stephen liked to do was to get into a race with some idiot. Then, as they neared the curve, he would hit his brakes and slow down. By the time he made the curve the other racer would be pulled over, pointing frantically at Stephen, who was cruising by at a mile or two below the speed limit.
Kind of mean, weren't we?
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Like Father Like Son
Today is Venting Day, which means I get to post about anything I want. Of course, that's the way it is every day, so I'm not sure why I have a schedule.
As usual, I don't feel like venting on Venting Day. Somehow, knowing it's all right takes some of the joy out of it. Maybe I should rename Wednesdays to "Talk Nice Day". Then you'll read some real venting, I'll wager.
Been meaning to write something for a while now, but just keep getting distracted with other things. Almost did right now, too. Only the new thought flew away as I was writing about Talk Nice Day. When the windows are open it's hard to keep the thoughts inside.
Reminds me of one of the funniest cartoons I've ever seen. Won't be funny reading about it, but I'll tell you anyway.
I believe it was one of those old Merry Melodies or Follow the Bouncing Ball cartoons. Just a series of fifteen second shorts compiled together to fill time. Some of those were hysterical.
Anyway, the skit opens with a man standing by a wall in a room. Behind him is an open window showing a beautiful spring/summer day. Before him is a table. On the table are two things: an elaborate and intricate little circus, complete with tight rope walk, ferris wheels, and merry-go-round; and a cage containing several pigeons.
The man joyfully adjusts some of the circus pieces, sighs with satisfaction, and opens the bird cage so the pigeons can play on the equipment.
The birds all fly out the window.
I love that. It is so great. It's so like my ideas. All of these expectations. And then they just fly away.
Oh, well. Back to what I wanted to write. Another short nothing.
Son has begun his saxophone lessons. They are going very well, by the way. But that is not what I wanted to write. Before his first lesson, we chanced to be driving by the college where his lessons take place. It was a Saturday, and we were on our way home from Como Park. On a whim, I decided to drive onto the Northwestern College campus to see if we could find the fine arts building. As we drove around the campus we chanced to see some people out on the veranda of one of the buildings. There were three: a beautiful bride in a flowing gown of white; a handsome groom in a shiny black tuxedo; and a photographer. Nobody else.
At this point Son speaks up.
Not exactly packing them in, are they?
That's my boy!
As usual, I don't feel like venting on Venting Day. Somehow, knowing it's all right takes some of the joy out of it. Maybe I should rename Wednesdays to "Talk Nice Day". Then you'll read some real venting, I'll wager.
Been meaning to write something for a while now, but just keep getting distracted with other things. Almost did right now, too. Only the new thought flew away as I was writing about Talk Nice Day. When the windows are open it's hard to keep the thoughts inside.
Reminds me of one of the funniest cartoons I've ever seen. Won't be funny reading about it, but I'll tell you anyway.
I believe it was one of those old Merry Melodies or Follow the Bouncing Ball cartoons. Just a series of fifteen second shorts compiled together to fill time. Some of those were hysterical.
Anyway, the skit opens with a man standing by a wall in a room. Behind him is an open window showing a beautiful spring/summer day. Before him is a table. On the table are two things: an elaborate and intricate little circus, complete with tight rope walk, ferris wheels, and merry-go-round; and a cage containing several pigeons.
The man joyfully adjusts some of the circus pieces, sighs with satisfaction, and opens the bird cage so the pigeons can play on the equipment.
The birds all fly out the window.
I love that. It is so great. It's so like my ideas. All of these expectations. And then they just fly away.
Oh, well. Back to what I wanted to write. Another short nothing.
Son has begun his saxophone lessons. They are going very well, by the way. But that is not what I wanted to write. Before his first lesson, we chanced to be driving by the college where his lessons take place. It was a Saturday, and we were on our way home from Como Park. On a whim, I decided to drive onto the Northwestern College campus to see if we could find the fine arts building. As we drove around the campus we chanced to see some people out on the veranda of one of the buildings. There were three: a beautiful bride in a flowing gown of white; a handsome groom in a shiny black tuxedo; and a photographer. Nobody else.
At this point Son speaks up.
Not exactly packing them in, are they?
That's my boy!
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Literally Translated
Since I can remember I have had what the principal at my school described as, "A very different sense of humor." He told that to my mother after she had been called in for a school conference regarding my disruptive behavior in various classrooms.
It wasn't that I was assaulting people, or breaking furniture, or running around naked or anything like that. It was words. I couldn't resist them. And there is no better straight man than a teacher (male or female). Brilliant as they are (and I read a study which proved that, as a group, teachers are the smartest people in the world), teachers become so focused on what they are teaching they fail to heed alternate interpretations of their words. In my youth I was completely unable to resist pointing out these alternate (and literal) translations to anyone who may have missed them.
What made teachers such fun targets was that (in my school days) few teachers had much of a sense of humor in the classroom. That doesn't appear to be so true today. At least, my son's teachers seem to use a lot of humor in their classrooms. It releases stress and allows the students some freedom of expression. Ultimately, it gives them a tool to control the class. That wasn't the way they looked at it back in the 1960s and 70s. Back then, students who's minds worked quicker than the teachers' were considered "bad". I spent a lot of time on detention. Lynhar's husband made the joke that they actually scheduled it in at the beginning of the year.
According to Mother, what the principal told he was, "Bevie is not so much a 'bad' student as disruptive. Bevie has such a 'different' sense of humor." Mother laughed and said the whole family was like that. Of course, none of my sisters, nor Mickey, spend as much time in trouble with teachers as me. Ranlen had troubles, too, but of a different kind. He actually knew more than the teachers who taught him (Ranlen was an avid reader of college level science books) and they didn't like that at all.
Sometimes my sense of humor goes over quite well. Sometimes it gets me into trouble. Still recall sitting beside the department manager at a big department meeting. It was question and answer time. One employee, I'll call him Rufo (not his real name), was one of those people who just could not be satisfied no matter what effort was being made. His hand shot up first and the manager acknowledged him. Now this manager was not a people person, but he understood that about himself. He had been working especially hard to make life better for employees, offering what he believed were major concessions. So imagine his dismay when Rolo stands and voices this question: "What is being done to improve conditions for employees?" The manager was dumbfounded and stood not making a sound.
I couldn't resist. In a very cheery voice I blurted out for everyone to hear,
Well, I guess that answers that then, doesn't it?
Some people thought it was funny. The manager didn't.
Probably the person most victimized by my love of making fun with words is Spouse. Well, probably isn't the word. The sentence would read far more accurately simply by omitting the word "probably". But you see, Spouse is one of those unguarded people who is so serious about life and the world around them. It's a target I can't resist. The child in me surfaces all the time. Sometimes Spouse acknowledges the humor. Sometimes Spouse can get - angry.
I am reminded of this by something Spouse said yesterday. Son thought it funny, too. (Son has learned my word humor very well, which I believe is why Spouse no longer finds it so funny anymmore. There's no end to it.) We had gone out bicycling after lunch. I had eaten spaghetti while Spouse and Son had cereal and a sandwich. My lunch was telling me to go home, and so we split up. Spouse wanted to know if I would be all right getting home. I said I would be fine.
When Spouse and Son came into the house I was at the computer. Son sat down beside me. Spouse walks up to me and asks, "Did you get home?" Son and I started to laugh. We knew the real question: "Did you get home without getting sick?", but since Spouse didn't word it like that it became a comic moment.
This is what makes Spouse angry. We know the real question, but we only react to the words. It's hard not to.
When Spouse gets stressed, or extremely busy, her mind works much faster than her mouth, but her mouth always goes first. This makes for some very amusing statements. Such as when we did the garage sale a couple of weeks ago. My sister was visting to help. We were all exhausted and none of us wanted to cook a supper, so it was agreed we would order from Carbones, the best of the local pizza delivery restaurants. Spouse went into the house and came out with a pen and paper.
Now it should be pointed out that we always get the same thing, with only a couple of modifications. We get a large sausage-mushroom (and sometimes black olive) pizza for Spouse and myself, and a small cheese pizza for Son. Sometimes I will get spaghetti with meatballs and mushrooms. But now we had a fourth person sharing the meal. Spouse wanted to confirm her recommendation.
I was thinking of getting two large sausage-mushrooms and a pizza.
Judayl and I both immediately envisioned giant sausages and giant mushrooms and began to laugh. Spouse re-entered the house with a noticable slam of the door. A woman who was perusing one of the display tables commented, "You're in trouble now."
I went inside and found Spouse sitting on the stairs with the portable phone.
I'm just going to order what I want and not worry about the rest of you.
I was appropriately contrite and apologized profusely. It was only half accepted (because I was laughing at the same time). But Spouse forgives.
Good thing for me. It still makes me laugh. Kind of like a friend of mine, after he had fallen down the stairs and broke his arm. His wife stood over him in shock and horror. "Do you want me to call you an ambulance?" she asked. He started to laugh.
It wasn't that I was assaulting people, or breaking furniture, or running around naked or anything like that. It was words. I couldn't resist them. And there is no better straight man than a teacher (male or female). Brilliant as they are (and I read a study which proved that, as a group, teachers are the smartest people in the world), teachers become so focused on what they are teaching they fail to heed alternate interpretations of their words. In my youth I was completely unable to resist pointing out these alternate (and literal) translations to anyone who may have missed them.
What made teachers such fun targets was that (in my school days) few teachers had much of a sense of humor in the classroom. That doesn't appear to be so true today. At least, my son's teachers seem to use a lot of humor in their classrooms. It releases stress and allows the students some freedom of expression. Ultimately, it gives them a tool to control the class. That wasn't the way they looked at it back in the 1960s and 70s. Back then, students who's minds worked quicker than the teachers' were considered "bad". I spent a lot of time on detention. Lynhar's husband made the joke that they actually scheduled it in at the beginning of the year.
According to Mother, what the principal told he was, "Bevie is not so much a 'bad' student as disruptive. Bevie has such a 'different' sense of humor." Mother laughed and said the whole family was like that. Of course, none of my sisters, nor Mickey, spend as much time in trouble with teachers as me. Ranlen had troubles, too, but of a different kind. He actually knew more than the teachers who taught him (Ranlen was an avid reader of college level science books) and they didn't like that at all.
Sometimes my sense of humor goes over quite well. Sometimes it gets me into trouble. Still recall sitting beside the department manager at a big department meeting. It was question and answer time. One employee, I'll call him Rufo (not his real name), was one of those people who just could not be satisfied no matter what effort was being made. His hand shot up first and the manager acknowledged him. Now this manager was not a people person, but he understood that about himself. He had been working especially hard to make life better for employees, offering what he believed were major concessions. So imagine his dismay when Rolo stands and voices this question: "What is being done to improve conditions for employees?" The manager was dumbfounded and stood not making a sound.
I couldn't resist. In a very cheery voice I blurted out for everyone to hear,
Well, I guess that answers that then, doesn't it?
Some people thought it was funny. The manager didn't.
Probably the person most victimized by my love of making fun with words is Spouse. Well, probably isn't the word. The sentence would read far more accurately simply by omitting the word "probably". But you see, Spouse is one of those unguarded people who is so serious about life and the world around them. It's a target I can't resist. The child in me surfaces all the time. Sometimes Spouse acknowledges the humor. Sometimes Spouse can get - angry.
I am reminded of this by something Spouse said yesterday. Son thought it funny, too. (Son has learned my word humor very well, which I believe is why Spouse no longer finds it so funny anymmore. There's no end to it.) We had gone out bicycling after lunch. I had eaten spaghetti while Spouse and Son had cereal and a sandwich. My lunch was telling me to go home, and so we split up. Spouse wanted to know if I would be all right getting home. I said I would be fine.
When Spouse and Son came into the house I was at the computer. Son sat down beside me. Spouse walks up to me and asks, "Did you get home?" Son and I started to laugh. We knew the real question: "Did you get home without getting sick?", but since Spouse didn't word it like that it became a comic moment.
This is what makes Spouse angry. We know the real question, but we only react to the words. It's hard not to.
When Spouse gets stressed, or extremely busy, her mind works much faster than her mouth, but her mouth always goes first. This makes for some very amusing statements. Such as when we did the garage sale a couple of weeks ago. My sister was visting to help. We were all exhausted and none of us wanted to cook a supper, so it was agreed we would order from Carbones, the best of the local pizza delivery restaurants. Spouse went into the house and came out with a pen and paper.
Now it should be pointed out that we always get the same thing, with only a couple of modifications. We get a large sausage-mushroom (and sometimes black olive) pizza for Spouse and myself, and a small cheese pizza for Son. Sometimes I will get spaghetti with meatballs and mushrooms. But now we had a fourth person sharing the meal. Spouse wanted to confirm her recommendation.
I was thinking of getting two large sausage-mushrooms and a pizza.
Judayl and I both immediately envisioned giant sausages and giant mushrooms and began to laugh. Spouse re-entered the house with a noticable slam of the door. A woman who was perusing one of the display tables commented, "You're in trouble now."
I went inside and found Spouse sitting on the stairs with the portable phone.
I'm just going to order what I want and not worry about the rest of you.
I was appropriately contrite and apologized profusely. It was only half accepted (because I was laughing at the same time). But Spouse forgives.
Good thing for me. It still makes me laugh. Kind of like a friend of mine, after he had fallen down the stairs and broke his arm. His wife stood over him in shock and horror. "Do you want me to call you an ambulance?" she asked. He started to laugh.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
My Name is Nobody
Do not confuse my title with the 1973 movie of the same name starring Terrence Hill. If you're curious about it, here's the link. As movies go, it was all right.
No. What I am referring to is that I believe I have discovered my real name. Turns out I was really adopted after all. I had asked my Mother about it, trying to be clever, so as not to reveal my suspicions.
Mom, which of your children did you adopt?
What are you talking about? I adopted Nobody!
Nobody? Hmm.
Later, as I was growing up and would get together with other kids trying to decide what to do, I would offer suggestions.
Let's play baseball!
Aw! Nobody wants to play baseball.
Nobody? Hmm.
When teachers would (rarely) give the class a choice on something, such as which book to have read during story time.
Okay, Class. I have two books. One is Sea Pup, by Archie Binns. The other is Dull and Stupid, by Hecant Write. Now, who wants Sea Pup? (I would raise my hand) Nobody. Okay, we'll do Dull and Stupid.
When I left home and would go grocery shopping I learned that major decisions about products were being made based on my buying habits.
There used to be this wonderful spaghetti I would buy. It was quite long. So long, in fact, that it had to be bent in an incredibly long "U" shape. I loved it, despite the requirement of a large kettle in order to cook it. It came in five pound boxes and I would buy at least one box every month. Then, Cub Foods quit selling it. Desire overcame fear and I actually asked an employee about it. They didn't know anything. So I did what was for me unthinkable: I contacted the manufacturer. I was told they didn't make it anymore. Turns out, they discovered Nobody wanted it.
Nobody again. Hmm.
Same thing happened with Cream of Shrimp soup. Cub quit selling that, too. Having dared ask once, I asked again. This time I was shown to a manager who explained that Cub just couldn't afford to stock merchandise that Nobody wanted.
Still with the Nobody.
My son was laughing at me yesterday. (Why should Monday be different than the other days of the week?) I forget exactly what we were talking about, but then he pointed out that every time I start to really like something, whoever is responsible for making it - stops. My favorite television shows? Off the air because Nobody watched them. My favorite foods? No longer sold because Nobody bought them. My favorite pastimes? Others don't wish to participate because Nobody wants to do that.
Now I understand why President Obama is getting all this heat lately. Someone let it slip that Nobody voted for him.
It's just a matter of time before all visits to my blogs stop because people learn that Nobody wants to view these blogs. In fact, Nobody writes them!
Had I known all of this earlier I would have supported the Bush-Chaney ticket and spared the world a lot of grief.
No. What I am referring to is that I believe I have discovered my real name. Turns out I was really adopted after all. I had asked my Mother about it, trying to be clever, so as not to reveal my suspicions.
Mom, which of your children did you adopt?
What are you talking about? I adopted Nobody!
Nobody? Hmm.
Later, as I was growing up and would get together with other kids trying to decide what to do, I would offer suggestions.
Let's play baseball!
Aw! Nobody wants to play baseball.
Nobody? Hmm.
When teachers would (rarely) give the class a choice on something, such as which book to have read during story time.
Okay, Class. I have two books. One is Sea Pup, by Archie Binns. The other is Dull and Stupid, by Hecant Write. Now, who wants Sea Pup? (I would raise my hand) Nobody. Okay, we'll do Dull and Stupid.
When I left home and would go grocery shopping I learned that major decisions about products were being made based on my buying habits.
There used to be this wonderful spaghetti I would buy. It was quite long. So long, in fact, that it had to be bent in an incredibly long "U" shape. I loved it, despite the requirement of a large kettle in order to cook it. It came in five pound boxes and I would buy at least one box every month. Then, Cub Foods quit selling it. Desire overcame fear and I actually asked an employee about it. They didn't know anything. So I did what was for me unthinkable: I contacted the manufacturer. I was told they didn't make it anymore. Turns out, they discovered Nobody wanted it.
Nobody again. Hmm.
Same thing happened with Cream of Shrimp soup. Cub quit selling that, too. Having dared ask once, I asked again. This time I was shown to a manager who explained that Cub just couldn't afford to stock merchandise that Nobody wanted.
Still with the Nobody.
My son was laughing at me yesterday. (Why should Monday be different than the other days of the week?) I forget exactly what we were talking about, but then he pointed out that every time I start to really like something, whoever is responsible for making it - stops. My favorite television shows? Off the air because Nobody watched them. My favorite foods? No longer sold because Nobody bought them. My favorite pastimes? Others don't wish to participate because Nobody wants to do that.
Now I understand why President Obama is getting all this heat lately. Someone let it slip that Nobody voted for him.
It's just a matter of time before all visits to my blogs stop because people learn that Nobody wants to view these blogs. In fact, Nobody writes them!
Had I known all of this earlier I would have supported the Bush-Chaney ticket and spared the world a lot of grief.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Chafing Over the Ironing
Remember starch? I don't know if it's even made anymore. Clothes are all permanent press now. Wash them, dry them, hang them up, and the wrinkles are gone. Back in the day when I was young that wasn't so. You wanted to get wrinkles out, you ironed.
I began doing laundry when I was in grade school. I may have been eight, nine, or perhaps ten. With older siblings it wasn't so necessary that I learn these things - except to my older siblings. They're the ones who taught me.
We had an old ringer washer. The image to the right is probably as close to what it looked like as anything. The black hose was used to drain the thing. Made for quite a mess. In the summer time we brought the washing machine outside and washed there. Then, when the laundry was done, we would drop the hose and let the water run into the ground. Yeah, not exactly ecologically sound.
The tubs were filled manually. We would run a short hose from the faucet to the tub and turn on the hot water. When the washing tub was full of soap and water the clothes would be added and the wash cycle engaged. There was no rinse cycle. That was where the wringer came into use.
Next to the washing machine there would be a wash tub. Couldn't find a good image of one that looked like what we used. The closest was what I have displayed. Only ours didn't have the cool scrubbing board. I think we may have had a scrubbing board, but it was as rusty as the tub.
Well, when the washing was done, you would take the clean clothes out of the water and begin running them through the wringer. If you let the next article of clothing rest on the previous, the conveyor would pull them through. The dirty water would fall back into the machine and the "clean" clothes would fall into the clear, hot water in the wash tub.
If you were good, you could actually send more than one article of clothing through at a time. But you had to be careful. The wringer sometimes would jam. Then you had to pop up the top (see the big handle?) pull the clothes back and do it again.
Feeding clothes into the ringer was a bit of a risk. If you weren't careful, you'd get your fingers pinched. And, if your name happened to be Judayl, before your pain sensors told you that you were in trouble, your entire hand and wrist would be pulled through. It wouldn't take your arm. That was too thick and the wringer would jam. Whenever Judayl helped with the laundry you could count on this happening. In fact, I believe it happened to all my siblings at least once, except for Ranlen (who was up north) and Helvie (who never had to do laundry like this). It never happened to me either, although I did get my fingers pinched a few times.
Once the clothes soaked in the hot clean water they would be sent through the wringer again. This time, instead of letting the clothes fall, you had to catch them and put them in the wicker baskets (not plastic) to be brought to the clotheslines.
Washing in the winter wasn't just a bother. It was a great bother. For one thing, there was draining the water. The washtub took two people to bring it to the bathroom where it was unceromoniously dumped into the bathtub. (Just made you feel like jumping in and taking a bath to see the brown water sloshing about.) The washing machine was either scooped out the top a little at a time, and then the dirty water poured into the sink. Or, the side hose was let down so the water could drain into the washtub, and then two people had to carry it to the bathroom. (If you thought dumping the rinse water was bad, you should have seen this.) This was done twice or more times.
Hanging out the clothes was another matter in winter. If it was a nice day we hung them outside. They didn't dry. They froze. Then we would bring them inside and beat the ice off them. They were still damp and had to be draped over furniture to finish drying. If the day was poor, we hung them around the house on wires stretched across rooms. This was highly inconvenient. You would walk through the room and either get slapped in the face by some dangling article of clothing (hopefully not Daddy's long johns), or at least get dripped on.
I remember when Daddy had sprung for a new sofa for Mother at Christmas. The rule was, no one could sit on the sofa. (People come up with the strangest rules. What's the point of having a sofa if no one sits on it?) Well, we had just brought in the clothes and they were frozen. This meant they could be positioned. So Daddy and Mickey set up their pants and shirts on the sofa. Then they went behind and kneeled down so only their heads showed. Mother came walking down the hall, saw them, and exploded in wrath. By the time she got into the living room she saw it was a joke and then everyone laughed at her. This only made her more angry. That was when Daddy told her that her rule was kind of stupid.
So, back to starch. That was using in ironing. I hated ironing. Some things really s*cked to iron. Remember pleated skirts? Things with ruffles. Stocking were easy. So were cotton t-shirts. Sheets would have been, except they were so big. But ironing was also a way to get revenge.
Remember how I wrote in an earlier post how my older sisters (and Helvie, too) would frequently beat on me? Well, I wasn't big enough to win back for a good many years. But once I was given the job of ironing, I found a way. You see, we washed all the clothes, of course. We also ironed all the clothes. Everything that could be ironed, was ironed. Shirts. Blouses. Dresses. Stockings. Pants. Shorts. Skirts. Underwear.
If you use the right amount of starch, clothes will stand up on their own even when they're not frozen. I found that out by accident one day. After that, I would do it on purpose - when one or more of my sisters had thrashed me soundly. Put those on and tell me how you like it. Of course, that usually resulted in another beating.
It was worth it.
I began doing laundry when I was in grade school. I may have been eight, nine, or perhaps ten. With older siblings it wasn't so necessary that I learn these things - except to my older siblings. They're the ones who taught me.
We had an old ringer washer. The image to the right is probably as close to what it looked like as anything. The black hose was used to drain the thing. Made for quite a mess. In the summer time we brought the washing machine outside and washed there. Then, when the laundry was done, we would drop the hose and let the water run into the ground. Yeah, not exactly ecologically sound.
The tubs were filled manually. We would run a short hose from the faucet to the tub and turn on the hot water. When the washing tub was full of soap and water the clothes would be added and the wash cycle engaged. There was no rinse cycle. That was where the wringer came into use.
Next to the washing machine there would be a wash tub. Couldn't find a good image of one that looked like what we used. The closest was what I have displayed. Only ours didn't have the cool scrubbing board. I think we may have had a scrubbing board, but it was as rusty as the tub.
Well, when the washing was done, you would take the clean clothes out of the water and begin running them through the wringer. If you let the next article of clothing rest on the previous, the conveyor would pull them through. The dirty water would fall back into the machine and the "clean" clothes would fall into the clear, hot water in the wash tub.If you were good, you could actually send more than one article of clothing through at a time. But you had to be careful. The wringer sometimes would jam. Then you had to pop up the top (see the big handle?) pull the clothes back and do it again.
Feeding clothes into the ringer was a bit of a risk. If you weren't careful, you'd get your fingers pinched. And, if your name happened to be Judayl, before your pain sensors told you that you were in trouble, your entire hand and wrist would be pulled through. It wouldn't take your arm. That was too thick and the wringer would jam. Whenever Judayl helped with the laundry you could count on this happening. In fact, I believe it happened to all my siblings at least once, except for Ranlen (who was up north) and Helvie (who never had to do laundry like this). It never happened to me either, although I did get my fingers pinched a few times.
Once the clothes soaked in the hot clean water they would be sent through the wringer again. This time, instead of letting the clothes fall, you had to catch them and put them in the wicker baskets (not plastic) to be brought to the clotheslines.
Washing in the winter wasn't just a bother. It was a great bother. For one thing, there was draining the water. The washtub took two people to bring it to the bathroom where it was unceromoniously dumped into the bathtub. (Just made you feel like jumping in and taking a bath to see the brown water sloshing about.) The washing machine was either scooped out the top a little at a time, and then the dirty water poured into the sink. Or, the side hose was let down so the water could drain into the washtub, and then two people had to carry it to the bathroom. (If you thought dumping the rinse water was bad, you should have seen this.) This was done twice or more times.
Hanging out the clothes was another matter in winter. If it was a nice day we hung them outside. They didn't dry. They froze. Then we would bring them inside and beat the ice off them. They were still damp and had to be draped over furniture to finish drying. If the day was poor, we hung them around the house on wires stretched across rooms. This was highly inconvenient. You would walk through the room and either get slapped in the face by some dangling article of clothing (hopefully not Daddy's long johns), or at least get dripped on.
I remember when Daddy had sprung for a new sofa for Mother at Christmas. The rule was, no one could sit on the sofa. (People come up with the strangest rules. What's the point of having a sofa if no one sits on it?) Well, we had just brought in the clothes and they were frozen. This meant they could be positioned. So Daddy and Mickey set up their pants and shirts on the sofa. Then they went behind and kneeled down so only their heads showed. Mother came walking down the hall, saw them, and exploded in wrath. By the time she got into the living room she saw it was a joke and then everyone laughed at her. This only made her more angry. That was when Daddy told her that her rule was kind of stupid.
So, back to starch. That was using in ironing. I hated ironing. Some things really s*cked to iron. Remember pleated skirts? Things with ruffles. Stocking were easy. So were cotton t-shirts. Sheets would have been, except they were so big. But ironing was also a way to get revenge.
Remember how I wrote in an earlier post how my older sisters (and Helvie, too) would frequently beat on me? Well, I wasn't big enough to win back for a good many years. But once I was given the job of ironing, I found a way. You see, we washed all the clothes, of course. We also ironed all the clothes. Everything that could be ironed, was ironed. Shirts. Blouses. Dresses. Stockings. Pants. Shorts. Skirts. Underwear.
If you use the right amount of starch, clothes will stand up on their own even when they're not frozen. I found that out by accident one day. After that, I would do it on purpose - when one or more of my sisters had thrashed me soundly. Put those on and tell me how you like it. Of course, that usually resulted in another beating.
It was worth it.
Monday, April 20, 2009
I Am Such a Deadbeat
Having spent a post honoring my current wife I think it only appropriate that I honor my first wife, too. I'm sure I have an inkling everyone's reaction to that, but bear with me, okay?
Monday is House of My Youth Day, which means it's the day chosen especial for me to talk about events from my past. Particularly, events from my childhood. For some reason, this morning I have been thinking about when we lived in a suburb north of St. Paul, MN. I was five. That is where my memory mostly stops. Whereas others have memories of four, three, and even two-years-of age, I do not. There is one memory which I think predates my fifth birthday. It was at my great-grandmother's house. I remember being presented to her and then ushered outside so that my youthful energy did not tax her too much. Other than that, my memories seem to begin at five and continue.
I was thinking I had told this story before, but I can't find it. So, if I have told it before, I apologize. But, like all good storytellers, even if I did tell it before I'll be telling it different now. That's the cool thing about memory. It's selective. And fluid. Which means it changes with time. But this did happen.
It was summer time, I think. Warm weather anyway. I was playing outside with the boy next door, Ricky. He was four. We were in our yard, which was fenced, and playing something. Probably trucks in the dirt. Whatever it was I am sure it was in the dirt. Well, Ricky's older sister, Cheryl, comes out and sees us. Was looking for us actually. Well, looking for me. Cherrie (pronounced Sherry) was six, and filled with a vivid imagination. She came to the fence and asked if we would come play with her. Having no reason not to, we did.
She brought us to the far back of her yard, where the trees were. They made a kind of grove, and the grass was allowed to grow tall here. It made for a neat place to hide out sometimes. Well, Cherrie had apparently been preparing for our (my) arrival. Things were all set up for us. The first thing she did was tell me (not ask) we were getting married. She told Ricky to sit down and be the "audience". She bent over and picked up a pretty little white veil and wrapped herself in white linen. She handed me a top hat. (Apparently her mother had given her these things to play with.) The top hat was too large, so we stuffed it with things so it didn't cover my mouth.
She told me to stand next to her and hold her hand. I wasn't keen on this, but how does one say no to a girl? I never could. So there we stood, holding hands. Then Cherrie proceeded to recite some sort of liturgy. Don't remember anything of what she said, except that she finished with, "I now pronounce you man and wife." (Spouse hates it that some say "man" and wife instead of the more proper "husband" and wife. Can't say I blame her.)
Thinking we were finished, I started to leave, but Cherrie hung on to my hand.
"Oh, no! You can't leave yet."
"But aren't we married now? Why can't I leave?"
"We're not married until we kiss."
Kiss!!!???
Talk about getting sucked into something. I hadn't been keen on holding hands, so I really wasn't keen on this. Especially with Ricky sitting right there and laughing at me. So Cherrie slapped Ricky and told him not to look. Then I had to kiss her. So I did. Wishing I could be anywhere else.
She made me do it twice because the first time was too fast. So we held a good, long kiss. (No tongues. No lip movement. Just touching. Sweet and romantic, huh?)
Finally, it was over, and I started to leave again.
"Not yet!"
"What now?"
"We have to do our honeymoon."
"Our what?"
"Our honeymoon."
"How do we do that?"
"We lay down here in the grass together."
Talk about a frog in pan of water on a stove. This didn't seem to have any end at all. (You know, it's kind of reminiscent of my honeymoon with Spouse. Hmmm. Good thing she doesn't read this blog. [smiles])
So, we lay down in the grass. Side by side. Staring up into the trees. We did that until Ricky began to complain about being bored. Remember Ricky? He wanted to go back and play trucks. So did I.
Well, we weren't finished yet. Now we got a wagon (Cherrie had tied tin cans to it) and I got to pull her around the neighborhood. We had a bicycle horn and hooted it as we went. Ricky, having more sense than I, left.
When we had completed our rounds of the neighborhood we returned to the grass where Cherrie announced she was having a baby. Out comes the doll. Now we had to make our rounds again. As we passed my house the word was called out that lunch was ready.
Now let me tell you, I would never have found it in myself to tell Cheryl things were over and I was going to go do something else. But now it was a matter of something greater than my fear of offending. There was food to be eaten, and it was calling to me. I left.
We never played that game again. I don't think she ever forgave me. Guess I can't blame her. I didn't even give child support. Don't even remember the baby's name. Just another deadbeat dad.
Monday is House of My Youth Day, which means it's the day chosen especial for me to talk about events from my past. Particularly, events from my childhood. For some reason, this morning I have been thinking about when we lived in a suburb north of St. Paul, MN. I was five. That is where my memory mostly stops. Whereas others have memories of four, three, and even two-years-of age, I do not. There is one memory which I think predates my fifth birthday. It was at my great-grandmother's house. I remember being presented to her and then ushered outside so that my youthful energy did not tax her too much. Other than that, my memories seem to begin at five and continue.
I was thinking I had told this story before, but I can't find it. So, if I have told it before, I apologize. But, like all good storytellers, even if I did tell it before I'll be telling it different now. That's the cool thing about memory. It's selective. And fluid. Which means it changes with time. But this did happen.
It was summer time, I think. Warm weather anyway. I was playing outside with the boy next door, Ricky. He was four. We were in our yard, which was fenced, and playing something. Probably trucks in the dirt. Whatever it was I am sure it was in the dirt. Well, Ricky's older sister, Cheryl, comes out and sees us. Was looking for us actually. Well, looking for me. Cherrie (pronounced Sherry) was six, and filled with a vivid imagination. She came to the fence and asked if we would come play with her. Having no reason not to, we did.
She brought us to the far back of her yard, where the trees were. They made a kind of grove, and the grass was allowed to grow tall here. It made for a neat place to hide out sometimes. Well, Cherrie had apparently been preparing for our (my) arrival. Things were all set up for us. The first thing she did was tell me (not ask) we were getting married. She told Ricky to sit down and be the "audience". She bent over and picked up a pretty little white veil and wrapped herself in white linen. She handed me a top hat. (Apparently her mother had given her these things to play with.) The top hat was too large, so we stuffed it with things so it didn't cover my mouth.
She told me to stand next to her and hold her hand. I wasn't keen on this, but how does one say no to a girl? I never could. So there we stood, holding hands. Then Cherrie proceeded to recite some sort of liturgy. Don't remember anything of what she said, except that she finished with, "I now pronounce you man and wife." (Spouse hates it that some say "man" and wife instead of the more proper "husband" and wife. Can't say I blame her.)
Thinking we were finished, I started to leave, but Cherrie hung on to my hand.
"Oh, no! You can't leave yet."
"But aren't we married now? Why can't I leave?"
"We're not married until we kiss."
Kiss!!!???
Talk about getting sucked into something. I hadn't been keen on holding hands, so I really wasn't keen on this. Especially with Ricky sitting right there and laughing at me. So Cherrie slapped Ricky and told him not to look. Then I had to kiss her. So I did. Wishing I could be anywhere else.
She made me do it twice because the first time was too fast. So we held a good, long kiss. (No tongues. No lip movement. Just touching. Sweet and romantic, huh?)
Finally, it was over, and I started to leave again.
"Not yet!"
"What now?"
"We have to do our honeymoon."
"Our what?"
"Our honeymoon."
"How do we do that?"
"We lay down here in the grass together."
Talk about a frog in pan of water on a stove. This didn't seem to have any end at all. (You know, it's kind of reminiscent of my honeymoon with Spouse. Hmmm. Good thing she doesn't read this blog. [smiles])
So, we lay down in the grass. Side by side. Staring up into the trees. We did that until Ricky began to complain about being bored. Remember Ricky? He wanted to go back and play trucks. So did I.
Well, we weren't finished yet. Now we got a wagon (Cherrie had tied tin cans to it) and I got to pull her around the neighborhood. We had a bicycle horn and hooted it as we went. Ricky, having more sense than I, left.
When we had completed our rounds of the neighborhood we returned to the grass where Cherrie announced she was having a baby. Out comes the doll. Now we had to make our rounds again. As we passed my house the word was called out that lunch was ready.
Now let me tell you, I would never have found it in myself to tell Cheryl things were over and I was going to go do something else. But now it was a matter of something greater than my fear of offending. There was food to be eaten, and it was calling to me. I left.
We never played that game again. I don't think she ever forgave me. Guess I can't blame her. I didn't even give child support. Don't even remember the baby's name. Just another deadbeat dad.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Good Aim
It's been awhile since I've given you a real Stephen story. Here's one that's short, but every time I think of it I laugh. Actually, it is more of a Randy story than a Stephen story. (Not that kind of randy.)
I believe it was about this time of the year. I was still living at home. Daddy was gone and Mother was living in a trailer up in Blaine, MN. Stephen and Randy had come over to see if I wanted to go out with them. Absolutely. So while I got dressed they went back outside. Now Stephen was in one of his "high energy" moods. This meant he was up for having crazy fun.
When I came out I saw him and Randy having a makeshift snowball fight. Randy wasn't too keen about it, but Stephen was in his mood. Seeing me, Stephen then declared that he and Randy would have a "fast-draw" using snowballs. Randy wanted to know how they would decide when to draw and Stephen said I could count to three.
Well I had a better idea. I would toss a snowball, and when it hit the ground they would draw and fire. Everyone thought this was wonderful.
Now, I was standing a good long distance from them. My concern was that I would throw my snowball and either have it land where only one (or neither) could see it, or even (worse) hit one of them. So I thought it through. What was the best way for me to avoid hitting one of them? Why of course! Aim for one of them. Randy was the closest.
Remember it was spring? The snow was quite wet and made for excellent snowballs. I took aim and tossed. I watched the snowball arc up and then begin its graceful decent. I saw it splat into a zillion pieces - against the side of Randy's head.
He went down like I had shot him with a cannon. Stephen waited about two seconds and then tossed his weapon away.
"I win!" he said.
No wonder I was never Randy's favorite.
We had something similar happen in the fall, when the crab apples are ripe and ready for eating - by insects and birds. It was night and again Stephen and Randy had come by, only this time to see if I had any ideas on what to do. We took to walking around outside my apartment building. I bent over and picked up a crab apple and, seeing a telephone pole about twenty feet in front of us, said, "How's about we toss apples at that pole until someone hits it?"
I threw the apple and the sound of it bouncing off the pole echoed into the night. Stephen was right on top of it.
"Well, that was fun. What should we do now?"
I love Stephen. Someday I'm going to see him again and it's going to be wonderful. I'm going to tell him all about the friends I've made and he'll get ready to entertain you all when you arrive. He is good at that.
I believe it was about this time of the year. I was still living at home. Daddy was gone and Mother was living in a trailer up in Blaine, MN. Stephen and Randy had come over to see if I wanted to go out with them. Absolutely. So while I got dressed they went back outside. Now Stephen was in one of his "high energy" moods. This meant he was up for having crazy fun.
When I came out I saw him and Randy having a makeshift snowball fight. Randy wasn't too keen about it, but Stephen was in his mood. Seeing me, Stephen then declared that he and Randy would have a "fast-draw" using snowballs. Randy wanted to know how they would decide when to draw and Stephen said I could count to three.
Well I had a better idea. I would toss a snowball, and when it hit the ground they would draw and fire. Everyone thought this was wonderful.
Now, I was standing a good long distance from them. My concern was that I would throw my snowball and either have it land where only one (or neither) could see it, or even (worse) hit one of them. So I thought it through. What was the best way for me to avoid hitting one of them? Why of course! Aim for one of them. Randy was the closest.
Remember it was spring? The snow was quite wet and made for excellent snowballs. I took aim and tossed. I watched the snowball arc up and then begin its graceful decent. I saw it splat into a zillion pieces - against the side of Randy's head.
He went down like I had shot him with a cannon. Stephen waited about two seconds and then tossed his weapon away.
"I win!" he said.
No wonder I was never Randy's favorite.
We had something similar happen in the fall, when the crab apples are ripe and ready for eating - by insects and birds. It was night and again Stephen and Randy had come by, only this time to see if I had any ideas on what to do. We took to walking around outside my apartment building. I bent over and picked up a crab apple and, seeing a telephone pole about twenty feet in front of us, said, "How's about we toss apples at that pole until someone hits it?"
I threw the apple and the sound of it bouncing off the pole echoed into the night. Stephen was right on top of it.
"Well, that was fun. What should we do now?"
I love Stephen. Someday I'm going to see him again and it's going to be wonderful. I'm going to tell him all about the friends I've made and he'll get ready to entertain you all when you arrive. He is good at that.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
So, I've Got This Idea
Well, I get to brag myself up a bit. No, I mean it! I won something. Came in second place in a writing contest, and it means cookies for my belly. (If I can get to the mail before Son and Spouse do.)
Kiersten had a contest honoring her one year anniversary of blogging. The task was either to write why I visited her blog, or the first paragraph of her biography. I chose the latter and posted it on The Great Sea.
The contest reminded me of stories I used to write, beginning when I was in junior high and continuing to the 1990s. I also posted about that. See A New Hero Has Arisen.
What I'm thinking of doing is to create a weekly exercise - for myself and for any writers interested in participating. The idea is to create a SuperHero persona for ourselves (in my post, I suggested those with Avatar names like FairyHedgeHog and LaughingWolf already have these), and then write scenes in which our SuperHero is in action.
What I'm curious about is reader interest? How much is there? I've been writing these kinds of things off and on for more than thirty years and I get kick out of them. What do you think?
Oh, here is the site to get your SuperHero picture.
NOTE: Since everyone has assumed I am female, I decided to go with a female superhero. Here is mine:
Kiersten had a contest honoring her one year anniversary of blogging. The task was either to write why I visited her blog, or the first paragraph of her biography. I chose the latter and posted it on The Great Sea.
The contest reminded me of stories I used to write, beginning when I was in junior high and continuing to the 1990s. I also posted about that. See A New Hero Has Arisen.
What I'm thinking of doing is to create a weekly exercise - for myself and for any writers interested in participating. The idea is to create a SuperHero persona for ourselves (in my post, I suggested those with Avatar names like FairyHedgeHog and LaughingWolf already have these), and then write scenes in which our SuperHero is in action.
What I'm curious about is reader interest? How much is there? I've been writing these kinds of things off and on for more than thirty years and I get kick out of them. What do you think?
Oh, here is the site to get your SuperHero picture.
NOTE: Since everyone has assumed I am female, I decided to go with a female superhero. Here is mine:
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Grandma's Legacy
Yes, I know. My poetry belongs on The Great Sea. But my grandmother wrote this piece, and this blog is as much about my family and friends as it is about me. So this poem could be posted on either blog. I chose here because the other blog is catching up on posts. (I've been inundating those readers even more with Archive reflections than here.)
My grandmother had a cute sense of humor. Childlike. She was able to retain her childlike qualities to the end of her life. On her death bed she teased the attending nurse, talking about her sex life with her third (and last) husband, who had died a few years earlier. Grandma outlived three husbands. But she remarked that, even at ninety years of age, Eddie still had a "wiggle to his waggle". She would say things like that and then laugh with a Barney Rubble laugh. Hee, hee, hee.
I recall her telling me of some shirt-tail cousins I had. Two brothers: John and Adam. They each got married and had sons about the same age, named the same: Peter. The boys were identified by using their father's name - to avoid confusion. Well, John's son came down with some illness which kept him in bed for a good number of weeks. Back in those days even "minor" illnesses could be fatal. One day after church, my grandma walked up to a woman who was a neighbor to John and his family. After talking social nothings, my grandma inquired, "By the way, how is John's Peter?" The woman looked very concerned and replied, "Why, I didn't know he had hurt it." I was only about ten or twelve when she told me this, and I don't know if I laughed more at the story or her "hee, hee, hee".
Grandma was just a tiny woman. Portly, but short. Perhaps 5'2". Incredible when one considers the shortest of her progeny is about 5'6", and many top 6'.
Aside from being published in a variety of newspapers and magazines, some of her writings were enlisted in published books by "Older Minnesotans". She also self-published a book of poems. In reading it just now I came across this poem. I think it's cute. It certainly expresses Grandma's Humor.
Age Five at a Funeral
by Amy Holmes
There were flowers,
And people in the front seats cried.
I asked my mother, "Why?"
She said, "Sh . . . someone they loved has died."
I said, "How come?"
Mom said, "Give me that bubble gum."
Then I scrunched down low,
And looked along under that long row
Where legs with feet
Maybe a hundred or more
Hung from the seats and touched the floor.
A fly flew past my head,
It lit on a man's leg -
He swatted it dead.
I cried -
Mom whispered, "She's gone to heaven, son
Don't cry."
I was glad. God had room in heaven
For a fly.
Way to go, Grandma.
My grandmother had a cute sense of humor. Childlike. She was able to retain her childlike qualities to the end of her life. On her death bed she teased the attending nurse, talking about her sex life with her third (and last) husband, who had died a few years earlier. Grandma outlived three husbands. But she remarked that, even at ninety years of age, Eddie still had a "wiggle to his waggle". She would say things like that and then laugh with a Barney Rubble laugh. Hee, hee, hee.
I recall her telling me of some shirt-tail cousins I had. Two brothers: John and Adam. They each got married and had sons about the same age, named the same: Peter. The boys were identified by using their father's name - to avoid confusion. Well, John's son came down with some illness which kept him in bed for a good number of weeks. Back in those days even "minor" illnesses could be fatal. One day after church, my grandma walked up to a woman who was a neighbor to John and his family. After talking social nothings, my grandma inquired, "By the way, how is John's Peter?" The woman looked very concerned and replied, "Why, I didn't know he had hurt it." I was only about ten or twelve when she told me this, and I don't know if I laughed more at the story or her "hee, hee, hee".
Grandma was just a tiny woman. Portly, but short. Perhaps 5'2". Incredible when one considers the shortest of her progeny is about 5'6", and many top 6'.
Aside from being published in a variety of newspapers and magazines, some of her writings were enlisted in published books by "Older Minnesotans". She also self-published a book of poems. In reading it just now I came across this poem. I think it's cute. It certainly expresses Grandma's Humor.
Age Five at a Funeral
by Amy Holmes
There were flowers,
And people in the front seats cried.
I asked my mother, "Why?"
She said, "Sh . . . someone they loved has died."
I said, "How come?"
Mom said, "Give me that bubble gum."
Then I scrunched down low,
And looked along under that long row
Where legs with feet
Maybe a hundred or more
Hung from the seats and touched the floor.
A fly flew past my head,
It lit on a man's leg -
He swatted it dead.
I cried -
Mom whispered, "She's gone to heaven, son
Don't cry."
I was glad. God had room in heaven
For a fly.
Way to go, Grandma.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
It's Time to Be Laughing
Supposed to vent today, and maybe I will later, if I have time. But I'm still finding "diamonds in the rough" scattered through my Archives. Here are a few more of the humor items. There are a couple of other things I would like to post about, but I'm due for a busy morning and I may run out of time. We'll see. Meanwhile -
I copied a cartoon from some place. No indication of where. The picture itself won't scan nicely, so I'll describe it. And grumpy executive (glasses and big frown) sits behind a large desk. Before him is a wimpy man holding a sheet of paper. This is the caption:
Our biggest problem around here is lack of information. Of course, I have nothing to base that on.
Back in 1994 a co-worker and I had a contest to see how long we could keep coming up with new movie titles for the famed "Pet Rock". Here a just a few of our submissions (we had over 100). I'm sure you can come up with a host of your own.
These were some of my originals:
One Flew Over the Pet Rock
A Fistful of Pet Rocks
The Six Million Dollar Pet Rock
Darby O'Gill and the Pet Rock
All the President's Pet Rocks
James Bond: Never Say Pet Rock Again
And these were Howard's:
I Was a Teenage Pet Rock
Journey to the Center of Pet Rock
An Officer and a Pet Rock
Pet Rock Does Dallas (must be over 18)
Godzilla vs. Pet Rock
Interview With a Pet Rock
And finally, here is a short list of poorly written church announcements from a church in Waterville, KS. Supposedly, all of these were actually in a church bulletin.
This afternoon there will be a meeting in the south and north end of the church. Children will be baptized at both ends.
Tuesday at 5:00 p.m. there will be an ice cream social. All the ladies giving milk, please come early.
The service will close with 'Little Drops of Water.' One of the men will start quietly and the rest of the congregation will join in.
On Sunday a special collection will be taken to defray the expense of the new carpet. All those wishing to do something on the carpet will please come forward and get a piece of paper.
The ladies of the church have cast off clothing of every kind, and they can be seen in the church basement on Friday afternoon.
This being Easter Sunday, we will ask Mrs. Brown to come forward and lay an egg on the altar.
And, my favorite.
Thursday at 5:00 p.m. there will be a meeting of the Little Mother's Club. All wishing to become little mothers will please meet with the minister in the study.
I copied a cartoon from some place. No indication of where. The picture itself won't scan nicely, so I'll describe it. And grumpy executive (glasses and big frown) sits behind a large desk. Before him is a wimpy man holding a sheet of paper. This is the caption:
Our biggest problem around here is lack of information. Of course, I have nothing to base that on.
Back in 1994 a co-worker and I had a contest to see how long we could keep coming up with new movie titles for the famed "Pet Rock". Here a just a few of our submissions (we had over 100). I'm sure you can come up with a host of your own.
These were some of my originals:
One Flew Over the Pet Rock
A Fistful of Pet Rocks
The Six Million Dollar Pet Rock
Darby O'Gill and the Pet Rock
All the President's Pet Rocks
James Bond: Never Say Pet Rock Again
And these were Howard's:
I Was a Teenage Pet Rock
Journey to the Center of Pet Rock
An Officer and a Pet Rock
Pet Rock Does Dallas (must be over 18)
Godzilla vs. Pet Rock
Interview With a Pet Rock
And finally, here is a short list of poorly written church announcements from a church in Waterville, KS. Supposedly, all of these were actually in a church bulletin.
This afternoon there will be a meeting in the south and north end of the church. Children will be baptized at both ends.
Tuesday at 5:00 p.m. there will be an ice cream social. All the ladies giving milk, please come early.
The service will close with 'Little Drops of Water.' One of the men will start quietly and the rest of the congregation will join in.
On Sunday a special collection will be taken to defray the expense of the new carpet. All those wishing to do something on the carpet will please come forward and get a piece of paper.
The ladies of the church have cast off clothing of every kind, and they can be seen in the church basement on Friday afternoon.
This being Easter Sunday, we will ask Mrs. Brown to come forward and lay an egg on the altar.
And, my favorite.
Thursday at 5:00 p.m. there will be a meeting of the Little Mother's Club. All wishing to become little mothers will please meet with the minister in the study.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The Things We Hide Away
For those of you wondering what I've been doing for a good portion of the day, I'm going to tell you. For those of you who couldn't care less, I'm going to tell you, too.
After doing my morning email and visiting my daily blogs, I did the dishes. Well, some of them. The dishwasher went full on me. Then I brought up the first box of Archives. There was some pretty cool stuff in there! I posted three times on The Great Sea about it, and I didn't even post it all. I'm going to post some of it here.
What I have for here are some of the posters I made and humorous pieces I saved. I'll start with the humorous pieces. These are all from a publication called "News & Notes", from the summer of 1995, when I worked writing software for an insurance company. (Not a good job.) The section containing the humorous stuff was called, Words of Wisdom.
Try a little kindness. As little as possible.
It takes fewer muscles to smile than to frown, and fewer still to ignore someone completely.
Don't walk behind me, for I may not lead. Do not walk ahead of me, for I may not follow. Do not walk beside me, either. Just leave me alone.
It's rediculous humor, but it makes me laugh. Especially the last one. Unfortunately, the posters I made aren't as funny, and two of them aren't even my idea. But I can't remember who's idea they were. I had these displayed promptly at my desk when I worked at Christian outreach company (until the manager told me to take them down).
= = = = =
IRRESPONSIBILITY
is not a sickness.
It's an Art.
I AM THE MASTER
= = = = =
ENCOMPASSED BY PROBLEMS?
WELL, BEFORE YOU GET TOO FAR, REMEMBER THIS:
If you want it:
...we don't have it.
If you're looking for it:
...we don't know where it is.
If you need information:
...we don't know it.
If you want it done:
...we don't have the time.
NOW. HOW CAN WE HELP YOU?
= = = = =
DIPLOMACY
The art of saying "nice doggy" until you can find a rock!
= = = = =
I like these. Every government office should post them as part of their standard rules of operation.
Going to keep on searching the Archives, now that they're open. Only about a dozen boxes of varying sizes left to peruse.
NOTE: I hate it that this editor thinks leading spaces should be deleted.
After doing my morning email and visiting my daily blogs, I did the dishes. Well, some of them. The dishwasher went full on me. Then I brought up the first box of Archives. There was some pretty cool stuff in there! I posted three times on The Great Sea about it, and I didn't even post it all. I'm going to post some of it here.
What I have for here are some of the posters I made and humorous pieces I saved. I'll start with the humorous pieces. These are all from a publication called "News & Notes", from the summer of 1995, when I worked writing software for an insurance company. (Not a good job.) The section containing the humorous stuff was called, Words of Wisdom.
Try a little kindness. As little as possible.
It takes fewer muscles to smile than to frown, and fewer still to ignore someone completely.
Don't walk behind me, for I may not lead. Do not walk ahead of me, for I may not follow. Do not walk beside me, either. Just leave me alone.
It's rediculous humor, but it makes me laugh. Especially the last one. Unfortunately, the posters I made aren't as funny, and two of them aren't even my idea. But I can't remember who's idea they were. I had these displayed promptly at my desk when I worked at Christian outreach company (until the manager told me to take them down).
= = = = =
IRRESPONSIBILITY
is not a sickness.
It's an Art.
I AM THE MASTER
= = = = =
ENCOMPASSED BY PROBLEMS?
WELL, BEFORE YOU GET TOO FAR, REMEMBER THIS:
If you want it:
...we don't have it.
If you're looking for it:
...we don't know where it is.
If you need information:
...we don't know it.
If you want it done:
...we don't have the time.
NOW. HOW CAN WE HELP YOU?
= = = = =
DIPLOMACY
The art of saying "nice doggy" until you can find a rock!
= = = = =
I like these. Every government office should post them as part of their standard rules of operation.
Going to keep on searching the Archives, now that they're open. Only about a dozen boxes of varying sizes left to peruse.
NOTE: I hate it that this editor thinks leading spaces should be deleted.
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