We always took something home after visiting the farm. It might be a bushel basket of greens: swiss chard, green onions, and the long leafy greens going purple before they hit the sweet rounds of beets on the ends. Sometimes it might be a basket of eggs, still warm and with bits of straw stuck to them. Grandma’s eggs tasted better than store-bought, although they often had spots of blood. Because they’d been fertilized, said Maybe, and I wondered if chicken shit would turn anything bloody. It could be frozen chunks wrapped in yellow paper, pieces of the bull calves Uncle Roy butchered. In winter it was often a box or two of bottles rattling gently against the cardboard placed between them: quarts of peaches, pears with a slice or two of orange, cherries (my favorite), tomatoes; pints of green beans, corn, beets. Smaller jars for the vegetables, said Grandma, and longer cooking to get the botulism out, which could kill you flat dead.
One night, it was a live chicken tossed into a burlap bag. Kody and I were quiet on the drive home, our ears stuck flat to the back seat, listening for the thumps and bumps, the quiet clucks that occasionally lifted into loud squawks. We had a real live chicken. “Can we name it?” whispered Kody. Maybe’s sharp ears caught that. She turned in the front seat to whisper back: “Its name is Dinner.”
When we got home, Daddy transferred the chicken, bag and all, from the trunk to the back porch. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Off to bed now, you two.”
The next day our back yard was filled with kids: our friends, and some we’d never seen before. There were even some grownups hanging around to watch the execution. Daddy brought the bag out, Maybe grabbed the chicken’s legs through the burlap, and Daddy untied the knot. There was a lot of squawking and flapping of white wings as the bird tried to get loose, but Maybe had done this before and she kept her grip tight. She swung the chicken onto the stump Daddy used to chop kindling, and Daddy’s axe came whomp! right down on its neck.
We thought that would be the end of it, but Maybe let go and the headless chicken went flapping and running, tripping and spraying blood. Maybe laughed at our astonished faces. “I’ve even seen one fly up into a tree without its head.”
When the chicken finally quieted down, Maybe scooped it up and headed for the house. My best friend Lily’s brother Jess, who was almost ten and the smartest kid we knew, shook his head in wonder. “When I grow up,” he said softly, “I’m going to write a book about this.” That could only mean this was a bona fide amazement, and I pledged to remember it forever.
I ran after Maybe, who was on the back porch, chopping off its feet. She skinned and gutted it, tossing feathers and offal into a bucket. “It doesn’t look like a chicken,” I said. She laughed. “The ones you get in the stores still have their skins on, but I can’t see bothering with plucking.” She hauled what was left of the carcass into the kitchen and plopped it into the sink. “You’ll see, Baby. It will taste just fine. Oh, look!” I ran to the sink and stood on my tiptoes to see. She pointed to a round white something inside and leaned to whisper in my ear. “It’s an egg, Baby. If we’d waited another day, she’d have laid it for us.”
I found it strangely disturbing, that unlaid egg, and I fought back tears as I watched Maybe chop the chicken into pieces and drop them into a pan. She was right, though. The chicken tasted just fine, even better than store-bought. While the most of it was cooking, she dropped a pat of butter into a pan and fried up the giblets. Kody burst into the kitchen about then, knocking over a chair in his haste to tell us everything everyone in the backyard had said and done. He stopped short as Maybe lifted the liver from the pan and put it on a small plate. “Ick. You’re gonna eat that gizzard, ain’t you.”
“Don’t say ain’t,” said Maybe.
Kody threw out his arms and helicoptered around the room. “Gizzard, lizard, buzzard guts; Maybe eats them ‘cause she’s nuts.”
Maybe adroitly waved the plate under his nose as he turned. “Like some liver, Kody? Daddy won’t mind sharing.”
Kody screamed and ran.
Maybe winked at me. “Liver is good for so many things. Would you like the heart, Baby?”
I nodded, my concern about the unlaid egg disappearing. She skewered the small cone with a fork and handed it to me. “Hot, Baby.”
I blew on it, thinking about the time I’d asked Daddy how big my heart was. “Hold up your fist,” he’d said, and then tapped my curled fingers. “Your heart is as big as your fist.” Here I was with the chicken’s heart on a fork, and the chicken hadn’t even had a fist. When it was cool enough, I pulled it off with my teeth, rolled it on my tongue, crunched it so the meaty juices flowed out. The only thing better was the oysters on the back of the bird, but I couldn’t count on getting one of those.
Daddy always ate the neck, not at the table, but sitting afterward in the big rocking chair as we watched TV. He’d pull it apart, sucking carefully on each small vertebra, until there was nothing but a pile of tiny clean bones.
Kody and I usually got the drumsticks or thighs, and Daddy watched carefully to see that we ate every last bit of meat. One night I asked for a wing. He squinted at me. “Sure you’re ready for a wing, Baby?” I nodded, kicking my heels against the rung of the chair. He didn’t even yell at me for that, but just dropped a wing on my plate. “Let’s see, shall we?”
Kody tried to get me off my chair as soon as he was finished, but I ignored him, knowing that the wing was my ticket to better things. It took forever, but I stayed put, sucking every morsel off those little bones. Daddy stayed at the table too, resting his chin on his hand and watching me. He only smiled when I finally pushed my plate of cleaned bones toward him, but my heart skipped a beat.
The next week I asked for the underside of the breast, and Daddy passed me one immediately, complete with its row of tiny rib bones. It was harder than the wing, but I stayed put again, carefully pulling the bones apart and sucking. Now and then I choked a little, having swallowed a bit of bone as well as meat. Again, Daddy only smiled.
The following week I didn’t even have to ask. Daddy simply dropped a piece of meat on my plate. Kody was instantly on the floor, kicking and screaming about how everything was unfair. I couldn’t take my eyes off the prize that was suddenly mine: the wishbone, jutting out of the white breast like a little sail.
I’d pulled one before, of course, getting a turn now and then just like everyone else. This one was mine, and I’d get to choose which side to pull, and who to pull it with. Why, I could even take it outside and pull it with Lily, which meant one of us was sure to get our wish.
After dinner, Maybe hung my wishbone on the cupboard door handle to dry. Later that night she caught Kody climbing up to steal it. After shooing him off, she winked at me and hid it in a cup on the top shelf.
The glory of it all hung about me, better than Kody’s Superman cape he’d let me wear once. Kody pestered me night and day, naturally, alternately threatening and offering me anything he could think of. After a couple of days, I knew I’d have to choose him instead of Lily, whether he came through on his promises or not. Still, it was nice having the power, and I dangled the wish before him for another whole day.
Maybe fetched it down when I asked. I studied the bone carefully to see if some tiny flaw favored the head to go one way or another. When at last I sighed, chose my side, and held out the bone to Kody, he grinned, snatched his side and pulled. Alas, the bone was too dry and the head popped toward the ceiling, free of us both. Maybe laughed. “Looks like the cat got the wish,” she said, and leaned to whisper in my ear. “You should have pulled it yesterday, Baby.”
If only I hadn’t waited that extra day, either Kody or I would have had the wish, instead of it going spoiled. On the other hand, if we’d only waited one extra day, we’d have had a nice egg from that chicken. When I asked Daddy about it, he shrugged and turned the page of his newspaper. “Two general principles, Baby. ‘Look before you leap,’ and ‘He who hesitates is lost.’ You just have to decide which one you want on any given day.”
So that was that. I had a funny idea that those principle things were going to keep tripping me up no matter what I did.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
A favorite oldie...
“I get wonderful ideas, but I can’t spell ‘em.” Brooklyn cop, playwright wannabe.
1941: war is brewing; in fact, it’s positively bellowing overseas. Ma Bell has just come up with a nifty hand piece that combines the ear and speaking unit; how to get the public to ante up? Ah, a new Joseph Kesselring play erupts upon Broadway, headlining Boris Karloff, wherein our hero spends a good deal of time on the phone. (Operator, can you hear my voice? Are you sure? [groans] Then I must be here.) Why not fund a motion picture of same?
Of course, the numerous Boris Karloff jokes may not work without Boris himself…but wait! Raymond Massey can do an impression that will float the boat. Peter Lorre is available to play Dr. Einstein, the Epstein Brothers can adapt the play, and Frank Capra will direct…it’ll be a smash!
The Brewster home, next to the church and cemetery, houses two old ladies whose days are given to charitable pursuits. Sure, the neighbors complain about nephew Teddy’s bugle whenever he charges up San Juan Hill (the staircase), but the one time the aunts forbade Teddy to be Roosevelt, he hid under the bed for two days, refusing to be anyone at all.
A second nephew, Mortimer, is currently swallowing the four million words he’s written against marriage, slain by the sweet, trusting eyes of Elaine, the minister’s daughter. With a taxi waiting outside to take him and his new bride to Niagara Falls, Mortimer stumbles across one of his aunts’ favorite charities, wherein they bring peace to lonely old men via their elderberry wine, made with arsenic, strychnine and just a pinch of cyanide. The men, an even dozen now, are laid to rest, with hymnal singing, in the Panama locks Teddy digs in the basement.
Struggling to hide their secret, persuade them to give up this one little charity, and mollify the neighbors by getting Teddy into the Happy Dale Sanitarium (oh, I’m sorry, but we already have too many Teddy Roosevelt’s…but we’re a bit shy of Napoleans…?), Mortimer is already up to his ears when his long-lost brother Jonathan reappears, having escaped the Asylum for the Criminally Insane, dragging along with him a drunken Dr. Einstein and a dead Mr. Spinouzo.
The story spins frantically, but merrily, along, with the aunts protesting loudly when Jonathan wants to bury his corpse alongside theirs (it’s not right for a Methodist to be buried with a foreigner!), Jonathan determined to get rid of pesky Mortimer once and for all, and the beat cop determined to get stage critic Mortimer to listen to his play.
Cary Grant has a grand time as Mortimer, getting paid for the looks and sighs he first learned as a teacher faced with inattentive and dimwitted students, and running wonderfully hot and cold with his new wife. “Insanity runs in my family,” he tells Elaine. “In fact, it practically gallops!”
All ends well, naturally, with Mortimer discovering he’s not a Brewster after all, but the son of a sea-cook. Unfortunately for Ma Bell, whose contract forbade release of the film until the stage version folded (who knew it would run for 1,444 days?), “Arsenic and Old Lace,” while indeed a smash both in the US and in England, by its release in 1944 was not much of an advertisement.
1941: war is brewing; in fact, it’s positively bellowing overseas. Ma Bell has just come up with a nifty hand piece that combines the ear and speaking unit; how to get the public to ante up? Ah, a new Joseph Kesselring play erupts upon Broadway, headlining Boris Karloff, wherein our hero spends a good deal of time on the phone. (Operator, can you hear my voice? Are you sure? [groans] Then I must be here.) Why not fund a motion picture of same?
Of course, the numerous Boris Karloff jokes may not work without Boris himself…but wait! Raymond Massey can do an impression that will float the boat. Peter Lorre is available to play Dr. Einstein, the Epstein Brothers can adapt the play, and Frank Capra will direct…it’ll be a smash!
The Brewster home, next to the church and cemetery, houses two old ladies whose days are given to charitable pursuits. Sure, the neighbors complain about nephew Teddy’s bugle whenever he charges up San Juan Hill (the staircase), but the one time the aunts forbade Teddy to be Roosevelt, he hid under the bed for two days, refusing to be anyone at all.
A second nephew, Mortimer, is currently swallowing the four million words he’s written against marriage, slain by the sweet, trusting eyes of Elaine, the minister’s daughter. With a taxi waiting outside to take him and his new bride to Niagara Falls, Mortimer stumbles across one of his aunts’ favorite charities, wherein they bring peace to lonely old men via their elderberry wine, made with arsenic, strychnine and just a pinch of cyanide. The men, an even dozen now, are laid to rest, with hymnal singing, in the Panama locks Teddy digs in the basement.
Struggling to hide their secret, persuade them to give up this one little charity, and mollify the neighbors by getting Teddy into the Happy Dale Sanitarium (oh, I’m sorry, but we already have too many Teddy Roosevelt’s…but we’re a bit shy of Napoleans…?), Mortimer is already up to his ears when his long-lost brother Jonathan reappears, having escaped the Asylum for the Criminally Insane, dragging along with him a drunken Dr. Einstein and a dead Mr. Spinouzo.
The story spins frantically, but merrily, along, with the aunts protesting loudly when Jonathan wants to bury his corpse alongside theirs (it’s not right for a Methodist to be buried with a foreigner!), Jonathan determined to get rid of pesky Mortimer once and for all, and the beat cop determined to get stage critic Mortimer to listen to his play.
Cary Grant has a grand time as Mortimer, getting paid for the looks and sighs he first learned as a teacher faced with inattentive and dimwitted students, and running wonderfully hot and cold with his new wife. “Insanity runs in my family,” he tells Elaine. “In fact, it practically gallops!”
All ends well, naturally, with Mortimer discovering he’s not a Brewster after all, but the son of a sea-cook. Unfortunately for Ma Bell, whose contract forbade release of the film until the stage version folded (who knew it would run for 1,444 days?), “Arsenic and Old Lace,” while indeed a smash both in the US and in England, by its release in 1944 was not much of an advertisement.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
absence makes the heart grow fonder?
here I sit after four recent hospitalizations, wondering when I'll get back to being myself again... don't worry... Baby will continue ...eventually
everyone: be well!!
everyone: be well!!
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Boiling Frogs
Day before yesterday I got my adult DPT (pertussis vaccine is now recommended for all child caretakers). Today I've got a red bump at the site and it hurts. Seems I'm having a little local reaction... Now they tell me if I'd gone home and done a few wall pushups, there's less chance of any reaction. This so reminds me of the M*A*S*H* episode where they're trying to diffuse a bomb and they're getting instructions over the radio or something... "...now cut the red wire..." read the instructions, "...but first...." This is called poor writing technique.
Anyway, I'm sitting here with an ice bag on my arm, tilted a good bit to defy gravity as I type, and the visions of the boiling frog enter my head. Get him to jump in while the water's cool, and he doesn't figure it out before he's in hot water to the tenth power. I picture him struggling weakly as someone murmurs, "btw, the burner's on..."
On the other hand, my beautiful granddaughter Jhaleah will be here in 30 minutes and I picture her rockin' on sans the multitude of diseases that plagued my own and my parents' generations. A little reaction is a small price to pay. Kids don't need to worry about the complications of all those illnesses we once considered part of growing up. I hear people argue against vaccinations, saying, "hey, I had measles (chicken pox, mumps, etc., etc.) and I was just fine..." Except not every kid turns out fine... I got such a kick everytime they dripped a dot of pink anti-polio on my kids' tongues; I survived polio and there's no doubt that struggling against the effects has strengthened my will, but oh, I'm glad, glad, glad my kids don't have to go through it. There's enough garbage in the world to strengthen their wills without that.
Anyway, I'm sitting here with an ice bag on my arm, tilted a good bit to defy gravity as I type, and the visions of the boiling frog enter my head. Get him to jump in while the water's cool, and he doesn't figure it out before he's in hot water to the tenth power. I picture him struggling weakly as someone murmurs, "btw, the burner's on..."
On the other hand, my beautiful granddaughter Jhaleah will be here in 30 minutes and I picture her rockin' on sans the multitude of diseases that plagued my own and my parents' generations. A little reaction is a small price to pay. Kids don't need to worry about the complications of all those illnesses we once considered part of growing up. I hear people argue against vaccinations, saying, "hey, I had measles (chicken pox, mumps, etc., etc.) and I was just fine..." Except not every kid turns out fine... I got such a kick everytime they dripped a dot of pink anti-polio on my kids' tongues; I survived polio and there's no doubt that struggling against the effects has strengthened my will, but oh, I'm glad, glad, glad my kids don't have to go through it. There's enough garbage in the world to strengthen their wills without that.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
mid June update
Here in Tempe we're getting extreme heat advisories all the time now...we haven't made it to 120 yet but we're solidly in the teens. The pool is beginning to feel like broth. They say if you dump a frog into the pot when it's cold and then slowly heat, you can cook him without alarming him a bit. Hmmm...
Started physical therapy today--ouch (but a good ouch, I'm sure). They've got a nice setup over there; I'll be doing mostly hydrotherapy in one or more of their three pools. The idea is to fix up the muscles that have been compensating for the damage they worked on with the surgery. That, and to lower my shoulders... (what, me tense?)
My granddaughter Jhaleah turns 7 mo. today...She's cruising around the furniture like mad and will no doubt let go one day soon and we'll be chasing her everywhere. She's liking the pool more and more, despite the fact that her mom and dad are now dunking her regularly.
My husband Dennis and my oldest son Brandon are getting hyped up about their trip to Vegas at the end of the month. I hope we'll be able to pay the rent afterward ... I was going to go but decided to stay home and be comfortable. So I also don't need to worry about my cat Cheops, my daughter Amy doesn't need to find someone else for Jhaleah, and I can continue physical therapy without interuption--although I'll be making that long trip in the Chrysler (instead of the Honda, which they're taking to Lost Wages), which I'm not completely happy about. The doctor just bumped up the anti-depressants though, so hopefully we'll avoid any major boohooing.
What else am I into? I've just discovered ruby port...hic (don't worry; just 2 oz. a day and I've forsworn all other alcoholic beverages). The "eating a whole bunch more" diet seems to be working: after that first upsurge in pounds, they seem to be dropping off now. Too early to let myself get all excited yet, but I feel better and my doctors are pleased.
Someday I'll have the dragon box finished that I'm working on, but I may need a long vacation from it (and those tiny 15/0 hex beads) first. This last week I've been sorting beads that I got for a steal; I'm trying to see it as good brain exercise: very close colors with identical colors of matte and various shines all mixed together. If I were less stubborn I'd give it up as a bad cause.
Okay, I'm watching this contortionist on Ellen DeGeneres right now...wouldn't it be fun if physical therapy could get me into that kind of shape?
Started physical therapy today--ouch (but a good ouch, I'm sure). They've got a nice setup over there; I'll be doing mostly hydrotherapy in one or more of their three pools. The idea is to fix up the muscles that have been compensating for the damage they worked on with the surgery. That, and to lower my shoulders... (what, me tense?)
My granddaughter Jhaleah turns 7 mo. today...She's cruising around the furniture like mad and will no doubt let go one day soon and we'll be chasing her everywhere. She's liking the pool more and more, despite the fact that her mom and dad are now dunking her regularly.
My husband Dennis and my oldest son Brandon are getting hyped up about their trip to Vegas at the end of the month. I hope we'll be able to pay the rent afterward ... I was going to go but decided to stay home and be comfortable. So I also don't need to worry about my cat Cheops, my daughter Amy doesn't need to find someone else for Jhaleah, and I can continue physical therapy without interuption--although I'll be making that long trip in the Chrysler (instead of the Honda, which they're taking to Lost Wages), which I'm not completely happy about. The doctor just bumped up the anti-depressants though, so hopefully we'll avoid any major boohooing.
What else am I into? I've just discovered ruby port...hic (don't worry; just 2 oz. a day and I've forsworn all other alcoholic beverages). The "eating a whole bunch more" diet seems to be working: after that first upsurge in pounds, they seem to be dropping off now. Too early to let myself get all excited yet, but I feel better and my doctors are pleased.
Someday I'll have the dragon box finished that I'm working on, but I may need a long vacation from it (and those tiny 15/0 hex beads) first. This last week I've been sorting beads that I got for a steal; I'm trying to see it as good brain exercise: very close colors with identical colors of matte and various shines all mixed together. If I were less stubborn I'd give it up as a bad cause.
Okay, I'm watching this contortionist on Ellen DeGeneres right now...wouldn't it be fun if physical therapy could get me into that kind of shape?
Saturday, June 16, 2007
where I've been...
back surgery, mostly, plus some other tedious health stuff. Baby will continue, never fear...
if you'd like to check out what I've been doing while recuperating, search kilgore at TradeCrossing.com (once I'd given all my family and friends a box, my daughter insisted on throwing them into the world). Big smiles to all... :)))) (oops, that's my triple-chin grin)
if you'd like to check out what I've been doing while recuperating, search kilgore at TradeCrossing.com (once I'd given all my family and friends a box, my daughter insisted on throwing them into the world). Big smiles to all... :)))) (oops, that's my triple-chin grin)
Monday, April 09, 2007
Baby's Birthday...part one...
A week before my third birthday, Daddy came home. Forever, he said, because the Navy didn’t need him anymore. We thought it would be fun, but a full-time daddy is, like Grandpa Boone said, a whole ‘nother thing. Grandma Boone made a picnic to welcome him home, and we hardly started eating when Daddy started scooping everything up and running to the fridge. Sam and Ella would get us, he said. Grandma Boone rolled her eyes and Grandpa Boone said just wait ‘til he got to be a for-real doctor. We’d have our donkeys in a sling.
Next morning we had to wait and wait and wait for breakfast because Daddy was busy washing all the dishes. He said we had to eat like civilized ham and beans instead of throwing a gob of food on a paper plate and calling it dinner. Kody had a royal fit because it was breakfast we wanted, not dinner, but Daddy only got all squinty and his lips disappeared. Then we started kicking the chair and table legs, going, “Wah, wah, wah. Sis boom bah. We want eggs without their legs and we will beg until we’re dead.” When we started beating our fists on the table, Daddy stamped his foot and told us to stop it. Then Kody changed it to, “…we will beg until YOU’RE dead.” I was too scared to say that, but I giggled. Kody was the bravest person I ever knew. He’d spit in the devil’s eye, said Grandpa Boone. Grandma Boone finally came in and gave us soda crackers, and if Daddy didn’t like it, she’d call the police, she said.
When we went out to play Tiger and Bear, Daddy said the yard was a disgrace and how many years was it since anybody mowed. Then he found the lawnmower, which was all rusty, and he hollered about that for a while until Grandpa Boone found some oil in the shed. Grandma Boone gave us peanut butter and baloney sandwiches on the back porch, just like always, and Daddy was too busy with the lawnmower to pay any attention. Later that afternoon he yelled at us to get out of the jungle ‘cause Tarzan was on the way. He gave a big run with the pushmower and flipped right on over when he hit the grass. He kept charging for a while and got red in the face. Then he kicked the mower for a while, yanked it out of the grass the blades were tangled in, heaved it up over his head and spun around and around with it, saying all kinds of Navy words, and then he let go and the mower flew up and up, and came down in the middle of the jungle, where it was swallowed and would never be seen again. At least that’s what Grandpa Boone said, but Kody found it the next day and showed me. He said it was a sacred burial ground and we should watch out for elephants.
Then we had a laundry day and when that didn’t work so well, Daddy gave us a general clean up all around day. It was awfully noisy and it wore Daddy out. He said we were definitely not shipshape. Grandma Boone said we weren’t on a boat and she could already hear the police sirens coming to answer his retort. Kody got his holster and his six-guns, and actually let me hold his Junior Ranger rifle. Police had guns, he said, and we better get ready because Daddy wasn’t going to settle down.
The next day Daddy got all spruced up and Grandma Boone said it was a miracle or worse because now he was going off to church to get some religion. Kody and I didn’t know what that meant but she hushed us and told Kody to get the Pooh book and read to me. Kody could read anything, and he tried to show me how, but I just didn’t get it. Meanwhile Grandma stood looking out the window and when she started to cry. Grandpa Boone put his arms around her and they stood looking out the window together. We crept up to take a peek but there wasn’t anything different outside than anytime before.
That afternoon Daddy brought a pretty lady home with him and said she was going to be our new mom. “For my birthday?” I said. Everybody laughed and Daddy said it was the best present he could think up. Kody gave her a sideways look and said, “Maybe.” I thought it might be he was jealous because it was the best birthday present ever and it wasn’t his. Also, I guess he remembered our first mom. I tried hard to remember but I just couldn’t.
That night the Maybe Mom fixed us dinner. Kody sat down when Daddy told him to, which was kind of surprising, but he banged his fork and spoon on the table, demanding beans, and that wasn’t a surprise at all. “Beans, beans: the musical fruit,” he sang, “The more you eat, the more you toot, If you don’t toot, you’ll fade away So eat your beans and toot today!” Daddy frowned and Maybe got a funny look on her face. Then she scooped macaroni and cheese on our plates, along with a spoonful of peas. Kody shrieked and flipped out of his chair, sending it crashing, and threw just about the best fit I ever saw. “He doesn’t like peas,” I said. Maybe looked puzzled for a minute and then she scooped the peas back off his plate. It didn’t help. The peas had touched, said Kody, so it was still poison
Next morning we had to wait and wait and wait for breakfast because Daddy was busy washing all the dishes. He said we had to eat like civilized ham and beans instead of throwing a gob of food on a paper plate and calling it dinner. Kody had a royal fit because it was breakfast we wanted, not dinner, but Daddy only got all squinty and his lips disappeared. Then we started kicking the chair and table legs, going, “Wah, wah, wah. Sis boom bah. We want eggs without their legs and we will beg until we’re dead.” When we started beating our fists on the table, Daddy stamped his foot and told us to stop it. Then Kody changed it to, “…we will beg until YOU’RE dead.” I was too scared to say that, but I giggled. Kody was the bravest person I ever knew. He’d spit in the devil’s eye, said Grandpa Boone. Grandma Boone finally came in and gave us soda crackers, and if Daddy didn’t like it, she’d call the police, she said.
When we went out to play Tiger and Bear, Daddy said the yard was a disgrace and how many years was it since anybody mowed. Then he found the lawnmower, which was all rusty, and he hollered about that for a while until Grandpa Boone found some oil in the shed. Grandma Boone gave us peanut butter and baloney sandwiches on the back porch, just like always, and Daddy was too busy with the lawnmower to pay any attention. Later that afternoon he yelled at us to get out of the jungle ‘cause Tarzan was on the way. He gave a big run with the pushmower and flipped right on over when he hit the grass. He kept charging for a while and got red in the face. Then he kicked the mower for a while, yanked it out of the grass the blades were tangled in, heaved it up over his head and spun around and around with it, saying all kinds of Navy words, and then he let go and the mower flew up and up, and came down in the middle of the jungle, where it was swallowed and would never be seen again. At least that’s what Grandpa Boone said, but Kody found it the next day and showed me. He said it was a sacred burial ground and we should watch out for elephants.
Then we had a laundry day and when that didn’t work so well, Daddy gave us a general clean up all around day. It was awfully noisy and it wore Daddy out. He said we were definitely not shipshape. Grandma Boone said we weren’t on a boat and she could already hear the police sirens coming to answer his retort. Kody got his holster and his six-guns, and actually let me hold his Junior Ranger rifle. Police had guns, he said, and we better get ready because Daddy wasn’t going to settle down.
The next day Daddy got all spruced up and Grandma Boone said it was a miracle or worse because now he was going off to church to get some religion. Kody and I didn’t know what that meant but she hushed us and told Kody to get the Pooh book and read to me. Kody could read anything, and he tried to show me how, but I just didn’t get it. Meanwhile Grandma stood looking out the window and when she started to cry. Grandpa Boone put his arms around her and they stood looking out the window together. We crept up to take a peek but there wasn’t anything different outside than anytime before.
That afternoon Daddy brought a pretty lady home with him and said she was going to be our new mom. “For my birthday?” I said. Everybody laughed and Daddy said it was the best present he could think up. Kody gave her a sideways look and said, “Maybe.” I thought it might be he was jealous because it was the best birthday present ever and it wasn’t his. Also, I guess he remembered our first mom. I tried hard to remember but I just couldn’t.
That night the Maybe Mom fixed us dinner. Kody sat down when Daddy told him to, which was kind of surprising, but he banged his fork and spoon on the table, demanding beans, and that wasn’t a surprise at all. “Beans, beans: the musical fruit,” he sang, “The more you eat, the more you toot, If you don’t toot, you’ll fade away So eat your beans and toot today!” Daddy frowned and Maybe got a funny look on her face. Then she scooped macaroni and cheese on our plates, along with a spoonful of peas. Kody shrieked and flipped out of his chair, sending it crashing, and threw just about the best fit I ever saw. “He doesn’t like peas,” I said. Maybe looked puzzled for a minute and then she scooped the peas back off his plate. It didn’t help. The peas had touched, said Kody, so it was still poison
Saturday, April 07, 2007
More Baby...
Everybody loved me, which is why I received a Grand Tour of the family over the next year. I had lots of uncles and aunts and cousins. I liked my Aunt Clara the best, but I never told anybody that because when you’re the favorite, everyone wants to be your favorite, too. Daddy’s mother was the only one who’d take Kody, due to his being a handful. I should explain that Dad’s parents had divorced and then both remarried, so Grandma Watt was my step-grandma, and Grandma Boone was the DNA donation grandma. Anyway, Grandpa and Grandma Watt started talking about adopting me. Daddy didn’t waste time hauling me out of there and handing me over to Grandma Boone. This was a good thing if only because Grandma Watt was big on feeding babies. The photo taken out on her front steps shows her beaming, holding onto my chubby fists as I stood before her. In that snapshot, I am a small square child. Also, they wanted to change my name to Belva or Melba or something like that. Ugh.
Daddy was still in the Navy all this time, so we only saw him on leaves. I didn’t care: I had my Kody back. The family kept pestering, insisting that Grandma Boone couldn’t possibly take care of another toddler when she had to deal with Kody, but the truth was, he was much better with me than without me. I adored him. Some of my first real memories are playing Tiger and Bear in the long grass of the backyard. We hid, we stalked, we pounced, we wrestled, we roared. It was lovely, and I wouldn’t have traded it for a dozen hundred-acre woods.
One day Grandma politely asked me to use the potty instead of diapers. That was okay by me—diapers were stinky. I liked the pretty panties she got me instead. I never wore anything twice because Grandma wasn’t into doing laundry. Every day: brand new panties, new socks, new dress. I was a princess, and Kody was a little prince. We were also adorable. People said I looked like Shirley Temple. Kody was…well, he was real cute too. I didn’t think there was anyone in the world half as beautiful as Kody.
Daddy started thinking about becoming a doctor. This made him health-conscious, especially at bedtime. He’d turn off the light and I’d do Itsy Bitsy Spider in the dark. He’d scream that I was ruining my eyes and Grandma Boone would have to soothe him down. After I had enough of that, I just climbed out of my crib and got my stuffed tiger. I could whisper very softly in his ear, so nobody else could hear. He liked having a story or two until we fell asleep. Then my stuffed donkey got jealous (he was wonderful, with a zipper down his back that you could open and then hide something inside), so I had to bring him too. After that, my elephant and teddy bear and Raggedy Ann and all the others started crying about being lonely, so I had to bring them all. Daddy got completely crazed when he discovered this. “She’ll suffocate in her sleep!” he’d yell, and Grandma would say I was old enough not to smother myself with a few toys. He said fifty or sixty toys was not a few, and if I didn’t smother myself, I’d get a crook in my back from sleeping on them. He kept yelling until she punched his arm and said she’d call the cops if he didn’t pipe down. He reminded me of Kody, except he never fell on the floor and kicked while he screamed. Some people just have too much energy, said Grandma.
Daddy was still in the Navy all this time, so we only saw him on leaves. I didn’t care: I had my Kody back. The family kept pestering, insisting that Grandma Boone couldn’t possibly take care of another toddler when she had to deal with Kody, but the truth was, he was much better with me than without me. I adored him. Some of my first real memories are playing Tiger and Bear in the long grass of the backyard. We hid, we stalked, we pounced, we wrestled, we roared. It was lovely, and I wouldn’t have traded it for a dozen hundred-acre woods.
One day Grandma politely asked me to use the potty instead of diapers. That was okay by me—diapers were stinky. I liked the pretty panties she got me instead. I never wore anything twice because Grandma wasn’t into doing laundry. Every day: brand new panties, new socks, new dress. I was a princess, and Kody was a little prince. We were also adorable. People said I looked like Shirley Temple. Kody was…well, he was real cute too. I didn’t think there was anyone in the world half as beautiful as Kody.
Daddy started thinking about becoming a doctor. This made him health-conscious, especially at bedtime. He’d turn off the light and I’d do Itsy Bitsy Spider in the dark. He’d scream that I was ruining my eyes and Grandma Boone would have to soothe him down. After I had enough of that, I just climbed out of my crib and got my stuffed tiger. I could whisper very softly in his ear, so nobody else could hear. He liked having a story or two until we fell asleep. Then my stuffed donkey got jealous (he was wonderful, with a zipper down his back that you could open and then hide something inside), so I had to bring him too. After that, my elephant and teddy bear and Raggedy Ann and all the others started crying about being lonely, so I had to bring them all. Daddy got completely crazed when he discovered this. “She’ll suffocate in her sleep!” he’d yell, and Grandma would say I was old enough not to smother myself with a few toys. He said fifty or sixty toys was not a few, and if I didn’t smother myself, I’d get a crook in my back from sleeping on them. He kept yelling until she punched his arm and said she’d call the cops if he didn’t pipe down. He reminded me of Kody, except he never fell on the floor and kicked while he screamed. Some people just have too much energy, said Grandma.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Baby...
My grandmother Manuelita, whom I never met, strolled north to the Rio Grande one day, and managed to get her beautiful, part Yaqui Indian self over the border. She ended up married to a serviceman, and had at least two daughters. I know that because I’ve heard the story about how she and the Shawns argued over which girl they were going to adopt. They both wanted the older girl, and in the end the Shawns had to accept Dawn, the booby prize.
Outwardly, the Shawns were a fine upstanding Christian couple who eventually ended up in Texas. I went to a genealogical library with a friend one day, and while she did her thing, I wandered around, looking at the bookshelves. The name Shawn jumped out at me. Impossible, I thought, but I took the book down and actually found myself listed. Turns out my grandfather was way into the genealogy thing and had printed a book of his own about the family. I gave them a call. Apparently my mother had remarried some guy named Johnny, had four more kids, and then disappeared. Grandma Shawn urged me to come for a visit, then told me gently that I shouldn’t bring my husband, he being of the black persuasion. You know how people are, she said. I never spoke to her again, not even after the divorce.
I have two photos of my mother: one a head shot, and the other showing her lolling on the grass, baby Kody in her lap. She was so beautiful it was almost unreal, and I suddenly understood why nobody ever threatened to toss wetback grandma back to Mexico. Everyone said I looked just like her.
Daddy said I was the baby people dreamed about having. Never fussed, always ready to laugh, and frankly adorable. When I was six months old, he made a pinhole camera. I don’t understand exactly how it worked, but it demanded a long exposure. He took a photo of me, sitting up and smiling radiantly. Whenever I turn the photo over and read the exposure time he jotted on the back, I’m always stunned. How do you get a baby to sit still for two and a half minutes?
The photo was taken just after she left. My aunt Willy said she couldn’t understand it. She took such good care of us, our mother did, and seemed so attached. It couldn’t have been because of Daddy. She called now and again, wanting to get back together. Just adopt the kids out, she’d say, and he’d say no way.
When mom told dad she was pregnant, he says he fell smack in love with her. Not that he didn’t like her before, of course. When he told Grandpa Shawn he wanted to marry her, the man said okay, but he ought to know she was no good and a terrible liar and he’d have to watch her like a hawk. Just beat her up good every week or so to keep her in line, he said. Daddy ran out and tossed his cookies into the nearest bush.
My mom went to a psychiatrist on the base. He said she’d married too young and didn’t know what she wanted. He advised her to start dating. Daddy tried to be supportive, staying with me and Kody while she was off getting to know several other men. One night, a couple of hours after she’d left, he saw a car pull up out front, close enough to the streetlight that he could kinda see them. Twenty minutes later, he twitches the curtain again. Oh yeah, they were glued to each other. He cleans the kitchen, washes and dries the dishes, then takes another peek. Damn. He’s pacing now, picking things up and putting them down again. Okay, the doc said she needed to date, and he wasn’t happy about what that might have entailed. But he’d been supportive, understanding that her childhood had been anything but happy. Still, did she have to put on a show right in front of the house? He paced some more, picked up a toy and shredded it, When he just couldn’t stand it anymore, he stormed out to the car, screaming, “Don’t you think it’s about time you gave that a rest?!” as he yanked the car door open. The guy turns and the woman’s face swims into the light. It wasn’t mom. Oops.
So what I wonder is this: did she leave because a new baby and a two-year-old had become too much to handle? Or was she afraid she’d end up treating us as she’d been treated? Why did she leave those other four kids? Where did she go? Whatever happened to her?
I’ve looked at my own darlings when they’ve been six months old, when they’ve turned two, and try to imagine… My chest tightens, my throat closes. Anything but that…anything, anything. I don’t know how she managed it, and I’m so, so glad that I don’t understand. What was it like for her? I wish I could find her. I’d put my arms around her, cuddling and soothing. It’s okay, Mom. Everything’s all right.
Outwardly, the Shawns were a fine upstanding Christian couple who eventually ended up in Texas. I went to a genealogical library with a friend one day, and while she did her thing, I wandered around, looking at the bookshelves. The name Shawn jumped out at me. Impossible, I thought, but I took the book down and actually found myself listed. Turns out my grandfather was way into the genealogy thing and had printed a book of his own about the family. I gave them a call. Apparently my mother had remarried some guy named Johnny, had four more kids, and then disappeared. Grandma Shawn urged me to come for a visit, then told me gently that I shouldn’t bring my husband, he being of the black persuasion. You know how people are, she said. I never spoke to her again, not even after the divorce.
I have two photos of my mother: one a head shot, and the other showing her lolling on the grass, baby Kody in her lap. She was so beautiful it was almost unreal, and I suddenly understood why nobody ever threatened to toss wetback grandma back to Mexico. Everyone said I looked just like her.
Daddy said I was the baby people dreamed about having. Never fussed, always ready to laugh, and frankly adorable. When I was six months old, he made a pinhole camera. I don’t understand exactly how it worked, but it demanded a long exposure. He took a photo of me, sitting up and smiling radiantly. Whenever I turn the photo over and read the exposure time he jotted on the back, I’m always stunned. How do you get a baby to sit still for two and a half minutes?
The photo was taken just after she left. My aunt Willy said she couldn’t understand it. She took such good care of us, our mother did, and seemed so attached. It couldn’t have been because of Daddy. She called now and again, wanting to get back together. Just adopt the kids out, she’d say, and he’d say no way.
When mom told dad she was pregnant, he says he fell smack in love with her. Not that he didn’t like her before, of course. When he told Grandpa Shawn he wanted to marry her, the man said okay, but he ought to know she was no good and a terrible liar and he’d have to watch her like a hawk. Just beat her up good every week or so to keep her in line, he said. Daddy ran out and tossed his cookies into the nearest bush.
My mom went to a psychiatrist on the base. He said she’d married too young and didn’t know what she wanted. He advised her to start dating. Daddy tried to be supportive, staying with me and Kody while she was off getting to know several other men. One night, a couple of hours after she’d left, he saw a car pull up out front, close enough to the streetlight that he could kinda see them. Twenty minutes later, he twitches the curtain again. Oh yeah, they were glued to each other. He cleans the kitchen, washes and dries the dishes, then takes another peek. Damn. He’s pacing now, picking things up and putting them down again. Okay, the doc said she needed to date, and he wasn’t happy about what that might have entailed. But he’d been supportive, understanding that her childhood had been anything but happy. Still, did she have to put on a show right in front of the house? He paced some more, picked up a toy and shredded it, When he just couldn’t stand it anymore, he stormed out to the car, screaming, “Don’t you think it’s about time you gave that a rest?!” as he yanked the car door open. The guy turns and the woman’s face swims into the light. It wasn’t mom. Oops.
So what I wonder is this: did she leave because a new baby and a two-year-old had become too much to handle? Or was she afraid she’d end up treating us as she’d been treated? Why did she leave those other four kids? Where did she go? Whatever happened to her?
I’ve looked at my own darlings when they’ve been six months old, when they’ve turned two, and try to imagine… My chest tightens, my throat closes. Anything but that…anything, anything. I don’t know how she managed it, and I’m so, so glad that I don’t understand. What was it like for her? I wish I could find her. I’d put my arms around her, cuddling and soothing. It’s okay, Mom. Everything’s all right.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Baby
The tale of a little girl’s life: some of the names and facts have been changed to protect the innocent.
I was born on the hottest day of 1952 in the Naval Hospital in Oakland. My college roommate Kim was born there the year before, and she told me the Navy required patients to change their own sheets. I was a great sheet-changer by the time I was five, and I realized at that moment that my uncanny ability to make perfect hospital corners and bounce quarters on the bed came not only from my father, but also from my mother. I jotted this down in my secret mommy book, where I kept all information about her. Then I made my bed with hospital corners on all sides, and took to sleeping on the top with an untidy quilt around me, definitely NOT tucked in. I might have to remake the bed sometime, but I damn well wasn’t going to do it THIS month… My roommates thought I was crazy (and I privately agreed, since I couldn’t figure out what made me do it), but it wasn’t as nutty as Kim’s sleepwalking, which frequently ended with her collecting all our pillows and dumping them in the shower while chanting mathematical formulae.
Mom’s name was Dawn, and the only name changes she endured focused on the end, so when she was adopted, she became Dawn Shawn (isn’t that too perfect?) and when she married Daddy, she became Dawn Watt, which people often pronounced, “Done what?” Not very inventive.
My dad’s family, on the other hand, took nicknaming seriously. Grandma named dad and his twin brother Lawrence and Benjamin. These names either connected in a way she never told anyone, or perhaps she was too tired to come up with anything better. The twins were numbers four and five, and she was only twenty-three. Her three toddlers called them Lair and Bear (pronounced weawh and beawh, due to a family trait of having difficulties with L’s and R’s). The minute they bounced outside, however, the neighbor kids re-dubbed them. Grandma would poke her head outside, calling, “LawRENCE…BENjamin.” Naturally, they became Rent and Bent outside, and Went and Bent inside. Think about it: Went Watt, which eventually became Rent Rot when his schoolmates went overboard… This is a load to bear.
Everyone at home called my brother Kody during his toddling years, even though his name was Lawrence Jr. They began with Lawrence Jr., which became LJ, which turned into Jay, then Blue Jay, then Blue. A neighbor kid called him Blue Poo-poo one day. Grandma, thinking quick, told him they were referring to Winnie the Pooh, and spent the afternoon reading him stories about the Hundred Acre Wood. Now, he had a long love of bears, just as I adored tigers, and we’d been playing Bear and Tiger in the long grass of the backyard for as long as we remembered. He didn’t think much of a teddy bear, however, and that night had a serious chat with Daddy about bears. When Daddy got to grizzlies, my brother almost became Grizz, but then Daddy told him about Kodiaks. Wow. The neighbor kids still called him Blue Poo, but only if they were on the other side of the fence and had a running start. By the time he started school, the addition of his last name made him Blewatt, then Bluto, which stuck. Not that he physically resembled Popeye’s nemesis: no, he was a skinny lad. Back to this later, but if I tell you he spent recess of his first day in kindergarten in the boys’ restroom, clogging all the toilets and sinks with toilet paper and towels, and then flushing like crazy until the flood burst down the hallway, you’ll get an idea of the little sociopath emerging.
My mother named me, simply gathering up her very best friends and honoring them: Cassandrealizziebev-Alicingrideniskate (Cassie, Andrea, Lizzie, Bev, Alice, Ingrid, Denise, Kate). My brother took one look at me and said, “Baby.” Thereafter, if anyone called me anything else, he screamed, kicked, threw whatever was handy and wouldn’t quit until they said, “Baby.” With him to underline it, Baby stuck for good, and I consider it the finest gift poor Bluto ever gave me.
I was born on the hottest day of 1952 in the Naval Hospital in Oakland. My college roommate Kim was born there the year before, and she told me the Navy required patients to change their own sheets. I was a great sheet-changer by the time I was five, and I realized at that moment that my uncanny ability to make perfect hospital corners and bounce quarters on the bed came not only from my father, but also from my mother. I jotted this down in my secret mommy book, where I kept all information about her. Then I made my bed with hospital corners on all sides, and took to sleeping on the top with an untidy quilt around me, definitely NOT tucked in. I might have to remake the bed sometime, but I damn well wasn’t going to do it THIS month… My roommates thought I was crazy (and I privately agreed, since I couldn’t figure out what made me do it), but it wasn’t as nutty as Kim’s sleepwalking, which frequently ended with her collecting all our pillows and dumping them in the shower while chanting mathematical formulae.
Mom’s name was Dawn, and the only name changes she endured focused on the end, so when she was adopted, she became Dawn Shawn (isn’t that too perfect?) and when she married Daddy, she became Dawn Watt, which people often pronounced, “Done what?” Not very inventive.
My dad’s family, on the other hand, took nicknaming seriously. Grandma named dad and his twin brother Lawrence and Benjamin. These names either connected in a way she never told anyone, or perhaps she was too tired to come up with anything better. The twins were numbers four and five, and she was only twenty-three. Her three toddlers called them Lair and Bear (pronounced weawh and beawh, due to a family trait of having difficulties with L’s and R’s). The minute they bounced outside, however, the neighbor kids re-dubbed them. Grandma would poke her head outside, calling, “LawRENCE…BENjamin.” Naturally, they became Rent and Bent outside, and Went and Bent inside. Think about it: Went Watt, which eventually became Rent Rot when his schoolmates went overboard… This is a load to bear.
Everyone at home called my brother Kody during his toddling years, even though his name was Lawrence Jr. They began with Lawrence Jr., which became LJ, which turned into Jay, then Blue Jay, then Blue. A neighbor kid called him Blue Poo-poo one day. Grandma, thinking quick, told him they were referring to Winnie the Pooh, and spent the afternoon reading him stories about the Hundred Acre Wood. Now, he had a long love of bears, just as I adored tigers, and we’d been playing Bear and Tiger in the long grass of the backyard for as long as we remembered. He didn’t think much of a teddy bear, however, and that night had a serious chat with Daddy about bears. When Daddy got to grizzlies, my brother almost became Grizz, but then Daddy told him about Kodiaks. Wow. The neighbor kids still called him Blue Poo, but only if they were on the other side of the fence and had a running start. By the time he started school, the addition of his last name made him Blewatt, then Bluto, which stuck. Not that he physically resembled Popeye’s nemesis: no, he was a skinny lad. Back to this later, but if I tell you he spent recess of his first day in kindergarten in the boys’ restroom, clogging all the toilets and sinks with toilet paper and towels, and then flushing like crazy until the flood burst down the hallway, you’ll get an idea of the little sociopath emerging.
My mother named me, simply gathering up her very best friends and honoring them: Cassandrealizziebev-Alicingrideniskate (Cassie, Andrea, Lizzie, Bev, Alice, Ingrid, Denise, Kate). My brother took one look at me and said, “Baby.” Thereafter, if anyone called me anything else, he screamed, kicked, threw whatever was handy and wouldn’t quit until they said, “Baby.” With him to underline it, Baby stuck for good, and I consider it the finest gift poor Bluto ever gave me.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Investigatory procedures...
Holy cow! I'm being flogged for failure to appear as a real person here in my blog! Am I nothing more than superfluous spam? (At first I thought they said spasm and was about to write them a thanks for noticing note.)
They may have a point: in the last couple of months I've added two new docs to my stable and they've dumped two meds and added three. The med juggling has me fighting depression and paranoia (why are you all out to get me?).
Speaking of investigatory procedures, just this past week, I had one investigatory procedure that has left the most impressive bruises, and another investigatory procedure that has demonstrated how far back surgery has come since I was a kid. As soon as the depression lifts I plan to be hopeful (assuming the challenge to my realityhood is resolved).
Am I still here? I think so. Consider the title an invitation to write something creative...
They may have a point: in the last couple of months I've added two new docs to my stable and they've dumped two meds and added three. The med juggling has me fighting depression and paranoia (why are you all out to get me?).
Speaking of investigatory procedures, just this past week, I had one investigatory procedure that has left the most impressive bruises, and another investigatory procedure that has demonstrated how far back surgery has come since I was a kid. As soon as the depression lifts I plan to be hopeful (assuming the challenge to my realityhood is resolved).
Am I still here? I think so. Consider the title an invitation to write something creative...
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Update on Carrie
Some health issues are challenging Carrie; with luck she'll be back with you in a month or so. Meantime, be assured she has excellent doctors and plenty of TLC at home. We appreciate your good thoughts in her behalf.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Re: Carrie
Hi folks--
This is Dennis, Carrie's husband. Carrie can't come to the computer today because she has been a bad girl. She'll be back when she recovers. In the meantime, go ahead and be naughty. She won't be able to hurt you!
D
This is Dennis, Carrie's husband. Carrie can't come to the computer today because she has been a bad girl. She'll be back when she recovers. In the meantime, go ahead and be naughty. She won't be able to hurt you!
D
Thursday, June 29, 2006
QOD: What will you say to God if you find Him/Her/??
I met God just before Thanksgiving almost ten years ago. Naturally, I’d chatted with Him before that, asked Him questions, and so forth. His answers only made me more eager to meet Him. A bit nervous on the arranged day, I changed my clothes a couple of times and spent so long in the bathroom fussing with my makeup that my teenagers were both banging on the door to get me out of there.
I opened the front door on the first knock. (It’s hard to play aloof with God.) I froze for a moment as new emotions and hungers surged. He smiled; I melted. Then we were off, walking down the street together, stopping in for Chinese at the little restaurant on the corner. He told me to feel free to ask Him anything.
Endlessly amusing, He often mentioned His colleagues (especially the One who said, “Oh ye of little faith.”) and chuckled at the frailty and foibles of “you humans.” Somehow, I don’t think He was laughing AT us, though you couldn’t say He was laughing WITH us. Perhaps He was simply laughing NEAR us.
After a couple of years of seeing God regularly, I knew I wanted Him in my life forever and ever. I finally confessed my desire and was delighted when He said I was His favorite human, so why not just get married? We made an appointment with a judge who scurried through the particulars (he had tickets to a Blazers game). Two secretaries we tagged as witnesses said they’d never seen such a happy couple before. Not that I explained it to them, but you’d have to figure marrying a God would put you in a good mood. Once you were used to Him, I mean.
It’s fun living with God. When I worry about money, He just says we’ll get some more. When something’s up with one of my kids, He just says, “Kids first. It’s a rule.” He’s a jealous God, He says, but insists that’s His problem, not mine. He knows what I’m thinking before I think it, which can be irritating at times, but makes Him dynamite in bed. I could go on and on, but I think you get the picture.
I love my God. I’m keeping Him.
I opened the front door on the first knock. (It’s hard to play aloof with God.) I froze for a moment as new emotions and hungers surged. He smiled; I melted. Then we were off, walking down the street together, stopping in for Chinese at the little restaurant on the corner. He told me to feel free to ask Him anything.
Endlessly amusing, He often mentioned His colleagues (especially the One who said, “Oh ye of little faith.”) and chuckled at the frailty and foibles of “you humans.” Somehow, I don’t think He was laughing AT us, though you couldn’t say He was laughing WITH us. Perhaps He was simply laughing NEAR us.
After a couple of years of seeing God regularly, I knew I wanted Him in my life forever and ever. I finally confessed my desire and was delighted when He said I was His favorite human, so why not just get married? We made an appointment with a judge who scurried through the particulars (he had tickets to a Blazers game). Two secretaries we tagged as witnesses said they’d never seen such a happy couple before. Not that I explained it to them, but you’d have to figure marrying a God would put you in a good mood. Once you were used to Him, I mean.
It’s fun living with God. When I worry about money, He just says we’ll get some more. When something’s up with one of my kids, He just says, “Kids first. It’s a rule.” He’s a jealous God, He says, but insists that’s His problem, not mine. He knows what I’m thinking before I think it, which can be irritating at times, but makes Him dynamite in bed. I could go on and on, but I think you get the picture.
I love my God. I’m keeping Him.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Friday, June 23, 2006
QOD: Write to a dictator to stop torture.
Your Excellent Majesty, High Ruler of All You Survey,
Come on, now. Don’t you think it’s time to stop all the nastiness? Political prisoners are people, too. They deserve to have lawyers, for instance, and to have clear and TRUE charges in place BEFORE arrest. Plus, it’s just not cool to keep them in dank cells for months and months without notice to their families, and thus, without visitation from the same. This whole business of torture has to go as well. After all, you should be an example to the world, don’t you think?
Let’s face it, even if you ARE from Texas, it’s time to halt this particular naughtiness.
Sincerely,
A Concerned Citizen (name withheld to prevent my ending up in one of those cells)
Come on, now. Don’t you think it’s time to stop all the nastiness? Political prisoners are people, too. They deserve to have lawyers, for instance, and to have clear and TRUE charges in place BEFORE arrest. Plus, it’s just not cool to keep them in dank cells for months and months without notice to their families, and thus, without visitation from the same. This whole business of torture has to go as well. After all, you should be an example to the world, don’t you think?
Let’s face it, even if you ARE from Texas, it’s time to halt this particular naughtiness.
Sincerely,
A Concerned Citizen (name withheld to prevent my ending up in one of those cells)
QOD: Be on the alert for the paranormal.
No need for ME to be on the alert; we have a Cheops for that. He’s very good, too. Sometimes, even while napping, a ghost (or something) will wander too close and he jumps up at once, zigging and zagging after the invisible maniac. Now and then he captures one, and pinning it to the chair, the couch, or the oriental rug, will scratch furiously, flaying it to pieces. I must admit that one occasionally catches him off-guard, sending him into a horrified flight, but he is soon on the attack again, growling and spitting. If YOU are troubled by paranormal pests, skip on down to your local shelter and get yourself a cat. (As a bonus, cats are also pretty good at keeping the fly and spider population down.)
Thursday, June 22, 2006
QOD: Hedgehog, aeroplane, and midget. Think very hard about these today & see if they enter your dreams.
I didn’t dream of a hedgehog, but I dreamt of a bazillion kittens in the bathroom, all with naughty razor-sharp claws. I didn’t dream of an aeroplane, but I dreamt of a dozen boys readying for a camping trip, showing off their glittering blades. I didn’t dream of a midget, but I dreamt of grinning babies smaller than your thumb. Perhaps I thought too hard…
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
QOD: Dial a # at random & preach a sermon in a deep Southern accent.
(Dialing)
--Smith residence; Betty speaking.
Hey there, Miz Smith. Can I take the liberty of calling you Betty?
--Um…I guess so.
Could you hold on one itty bitty minute, Betty?
--Ah…sure.
(Dialing)
*Hello.
Good morning, sir. Could I ask your name?
*Aaron.
--What’s going on?
*What?
For the Lord saith that where two or three be gathered in His sweet soul-saving name, there shall He also be.
*I’m Jewish.
--Really? Orthodox?
Now folks, listen here. We love our Jewish brethren something fierce, but they all’s gotta get down to accepting the Lord Jesus as their Savior.
*I guess I’m sort of a limping Orthodox.
--Oh, that’s okay. My mother keeps a kosher household, but she married a Catholic. I don’t judge.
*You sound nice. What’s your name?
--Betty.
*Short for Elizabeth?
There be but one name for all folks to be saved by.
--(laughing) Short for Bethany, if you can believe it. Kids at school used to tease me by calling me Bethany Home Road.
*Holy cow! You live in the Phoenix area?
Woe unto those who never get around to calling on the name of Jesus.
--Mesa.
*Ha! I live in Chandler.
Woe, and double woe to them all what don’t call on His blessed name.
--Hey, you know where Bookman’s is?
*The one by that 99 cent grocery store?
For the devil cometh by tempting and trying ever last darn one of the children of men, and the great and powerful Lord be the only One saving us.
--Yep, that’s the one. I was planning on running over there this afternoon.
*Great! I’ll be the guy in the red T-shirt.
Long be the way and troubled of them what don’t confess His name.
--Okay! Two o’clock or thereabouts?
It’s an evil and adulterous generation—
*Fine. See you there.
--Bye. (click)
* (click)
Hellfire and damnation! (Dialing)
^^^Goddammit! I’m a day sleeper, you idiot!
Could you hold on just one itty bitty minute?
--Smith residence; Betty speaking.
Hey there, Miz Smith. Can I take the liberty of calling you Betty?
--Um…I guess so.
Could you hold on one itty bitty minute, Betty?
--Ah…sure.
(Dialing)
*Hello.
Good morning, sir. Could I ask your name?
*Aaron.
--What’s going on?
*What?
For the Lord saith that where two or three be gathered in His sweet soul-saving name, there shall He also be.
*I’m Jewish.
--Really? Orthodox?
Now folks, listen here. We love our Jewish brethren something fierce, but they all’s gotta get down to accepting the Lord Jesus as their Savior.
*I guess I’m sort of a limping Orthodox.
--Oh, that’s okay. My mother keeps a kosher household, but she married a Catholic. I don’t judge.
*You sound nice. What’s your name?
--Betty.
*Short for Elizabeth?
There be but one name for all folks to be saved by.
--(laughing) Short for Bethany, if you can believe it. Kids at school used to tease me by calling me Bethany Home Road.
*Holy cow! You live in the Phoenix area?
Woe unto those who never get around to calling on the name of Jesus.
--Mesa.
*Ha! I live in Chandler.
Woe, and double woe to them all what don’t call on His blessed name.
--Hey, you know where Bookman’s is?
*The one by that 99 cent grocery store?
For the devil cometh by tempting and trying ever last darn one of the children of men, and the great and powerful Lord be the only One saving us.
--Yep, that’s the one. I was planning on running over there this afternoon.
*Great! I’ll be the guy in the red T-shirt.
Long be the way and troubled of them what don’t confess His name.
--Okay! Two o’clock or thereabouts?
It’s an evil and adulterous generation—
*Fine. See you there.
--Bye. (click)
* (click)
Hellfire and damnation! (Dialing)
^^^Goddammit! I’m a day sleeper, you idiot!
Could you hold on just one itty bitty minute?
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