Some years back, in the early-morning hours of Christmas Day, I found myself uncharacteristically absorbed in thought. At the time, I was elbow deep in the annual assembly-of-the-gifts debacle.
Whether my meditations were spawned from sleepless delirium, or the half-empty bottle of Christmas Cheer, I can’t say. Either way, the scheme took shape, and I became obsessed with the idea of making Santa-tracks in the snow on the roof of our house.
My wife, ever confident in my abilities, asked if she should call 9-1-1 right away, or wait until we saw how significant the injuries were.
Our dog, Rusty, followed me as I walked the moonlit path to the barn, to gather the rope and ladder. I spotted the axe and brought it along - thinking the butt-end of the handle might make good reindeer tracks.
Rusty watched expectantly, and the nearby snowman smiled brightly, as I started up the ladder. I flipped the loop of rope over the chimney (after 30 or 40 tries), drew the slip-knot tight and glanced back nervously.
Rusty’s head was cocked to one side, as he watched in confusion. The snowman’s smile seemed to have changed to an evil grimace.
I stepped onto the roof and went to work - step, crunch through the snow, poke/poke with the axe handle, step, crunch, poke/poke – and so on, up the rope to the chimney.
From the chimney, I started tracking across the roof. The dog began to whine, and I swear I heard the snowman snicker.
I had reached the end of the rope, and started to backtrack to the chimney, when one of my feet slipped… just a little. I froze in place.
Trying to step into a secure position, I felt both feet slip… just a bit. Then it happened.
Like an Olympic skier charging out of the gates, I started my downhill run. Clutching at the rope, I tried running toward the chimney - my legwork resembling something between a windmill and a pogo stick.
I fell to the roof and swung on the rope, sweeping a wide arc to the roof’s edge where I stopped, having narrowly missed a tragic fall.
I lay there in silence, considering my options (none of them attractive) when I heard:
Thwink!... “What was that?”
Thwink!... “That is NOT the rope!”
Thwink!... I looked up and saw the cords of the rope fraying at one corner of the brick chimney then:
THWANG!
My life flashed before my eyes. So did a bit of my future when I realized, “This is gonna hurt!"
Spilling over the edge of the roof, I bounced off the porch overhang before the snowman broke my fall, and maybe my back.
When I came-to, the dog was licking my nose. From my crumpled heap, I could see the axe handle protruding from a wide cleft in the now headless-snowman’s chest, his obliterated face lying on the ground next to me.
My wife came around the corner of the house and eyed the roof, “Looks like a monkey was riding in the Mad-Cow Rodeo… nice job!” She turned and walked away, the dog followed, I limped further behind.
Thankfully, the kids didn’t notice the mess on the roof, though they've had some difficulty getting past the crime scene the snowman presented that Christmas morning.
We think they're mostly okay now - the therapist assures us she should have them all fixed up, once we've made another 17 of her boat payments... give or take.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
Clash of the Titans
Betty is a big girl - big and mean. Nobody’s sure why she goes by Betty, her given name is Melissa - but don’t call her Melissa… and don’t ever call her Missy.
Betty’s only display of femininity is the cropped ponytail that sticks out of the back of the Mack Truck ball cap that she wears everywhere.
Betty used to be a diesel mechanic, but she's been running deliveries for Roy’s Auto Parts since the new boss at Mack called her Missy... and lost three teeth for his indiscretion.
On Saturday morning you’ll find Betty working at the feed store, where she loads customer's feed orders to make up the difference in income from the diesel garage.
No matter where she might be the rest of the week, though, come Saturday night you’ll always find Betty at Snapper's Lounge. She’s a fixture there, like the mermaid tap-handle, or the pickled quail eggs in the big jar at the end of the bar.
At Snapper's, the records for beer chugging, arm wrestling, bobbing for pig's feet (and various others), are all held by Betty. None of the men are bothered by this – they accept Betty as one of their own.
Last Saturday, a stranger sauntered into Snapper's. It was really more of a waddling-march than a saunter. You see, this newcomer was significantly shorter than anyone else in the bar, but what she lacked in stature, she made up in girth. The stranger called herself Big Sheila.
Big Sheila seated herself around the corner of the bar from Betty, and every head in the place turned when Big Sheila loudly ordered Snapper to pour, “Pitcher of beer... no glass.”
Betty immediately ordered the same. Game on!
Big Sheila pulled a pack of Levi Garrett chewing tobacco from her back pocket and Betty huffed as she fished her own pack of Red Man out of her bib overalls.
The corner of the bar cleared as the pair commenced to make the once-decorative spittoon sing, between long draws on their frothy pitchers.
Almost an hour into the contest, Betty opened the conversation with, “You arm wrestle?” Big Sheila’s eyes narrowed as she responded, “I wouldn’t wanna hurt you.”
The pair met at the corner of the bar and locked hands. Snapper started them off and narrowly dodged a left hook from Betty, who didn’t like the cadence of his, “Ready…Go”. It was 10 p.m.
Around 2 am Snapper tried to declare Last Call. Big Sheila heaved a barstool at him and Snapper wisely decided to back off.
The police had been sitting outside, waiting to pick-off bar patrons when they got in their cars to drive home. When none of us exited at closing time, they went in to cite Snapper for staying open late. When they saw Betty and Big Sheila locked in mortal combat, they backed out of the bar and summoned backup from a nearby village.
Before it was all over, two other police departments had to be brought in to break up the match and subdue the contestants. The cops came through pretty much unscathed, though that might not have been the case but for the local veterinarian being at the bar, and the good fortune in him having his bull taser out in the truck.
The gals are in county lock-up until their hearing next Thursday. Word is, that’s when the contest will resume - though I hear Snapper has closed his place and gone fishing until the battle’s been decided.
Betty’s only display of femininity is the cropped ponytail that sticks out of the back of the Mack Truck ball cap that she wears everywhere.
Betty used to be a diesel mechanic, but she's been running deliveries for Roy’s Auto Parts since the new boss at Mack called her Missy... and lost three teeth for his indiscretion.
On Saturday morning you’ll find Betty working at the feed store, where she loads customer's feed orders to make up the difference in income from the diesel garage.
No matter where she might be the rest of the week, though, come Saturday night you’ll always find Betty at Snapper's Lounge. She’s a fixture there, like the mermaid tap-handle, or the pickled quail eggs in the big jar at the end of the bar.
At Snapper's, the records for beer chugging, arm wrestling, bobbing for pig's feet (and various others), are all held by Betty. None of the men are bothered by this – they accept Betty as one of their own.
Last Saturday, a stranger sauntered into Snapper's. It was really more of a waddling-march than a saunter. You see, this newcomer was significantly shorter than anyone else in the bar, but what she lacked in stature, she made up in girth. The stranger called herself Big Sheila.
Big Sheila seated herself around the corner of the bar from Betty, and every head in the place turned when Big Sheila loudly ordered Snapper to pour, “Pitcher of beer... no glass.”
Betty immediately ordered the same. Game on!
Big Sheila pulled a pack of Levi Garrett chewing tobacco from her back pocket and Betty huffed as she fished her own pack of Red Man out of her bib overalls.
The corner of the bar cleared as the pair commenced to make the once-decorative spittoon sing, between long draws on their frothy pitchers.
Almost an hour into the contest, Betty opened the conversation with, “You arm wrestle?” Big Sheila’s eyes narrowed as she responded, “I wouldn’t wanna hurt you.”
The pair met at the corner of the bar and locked hands. Snapper started them off and narrowly dodged a left hook from Betty, who didn’t like the cadence of his, “Ready…Go”. It was 10 p.m.
Around 2 am Snapper tried to declare Last Call. Big Sheila heaved a barstool at him and Snapper wisely decided to back off.
The police had been sitting outside, waiting to pick-off bar patrons when they got in their cars to drive home. When none of us exited at closing time, they went in to cite Snapper for staying open late. When they saw Betty and Big Sheila locked in mortal combat, they backed out of the bar and summoned backup from a nearby village.
Before it was all over, two other police departments had to be brought in to break up the match and subdue the contestants. The cops came through pretty much unscathed, though that might not have been the case but for the local veterinarian being at the bar, and the good fortune in him having his bull taser out in the truck.
The gals are in county lock-up until their hearing next Thursday. Word is, that’s when the contest will resume - though I hear Snapper has closed his place and gone fishing until the battle’s been decided.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
The Dreaded Christmas Form-letter
Feliz Navidad!
Because things have been so darn hectic, I’m sending a one-letter-fits-all holiday greeting this year.
I’ve been working double shifts to cover a budget shortfall that was brought on when the neighbor unplugged us from his Christmas light-display.
For years, we’ve enjoyed the benefits of his Christmas generosity. To ensure our supplemental energy supply throughout the year, I’ve presented him with electrical figures to display on other holidays, as well.
There’s been spinning cupids, lit leprechauns and turkeys that flap their wings and gobble. I think his suspicions may have been aroused when I gave him the homemade display of dancing rodents for Groundhog Day.
Borrowing electricity for the household (and selling the extra back to the power company) had provided financial benefits that we’d sort of become dependent on! Of course, you understand the loss of this subsidy prevents us from sending gifts this year.
Good news! We finally got the skunk outta the crawl space under the house!
Turns out, it was a whole family of skunks! We should have known when the dog got blasted not three days after I had crawled in and wrestled the big female out of there. By the way, I’m sleeping in the house again, though I’m spending most of my time on the back porch… at least until everyone stops tearing up whenever I’m in the room.
Grandma came for a visit this past summer! It was lucky she arrived when she did - we were just starting to put up firewood for winter. By the end of the week we had her swinging that splitting-maul like a lumberjack. If you’d seen her you’d never guess she’d had double hip replacement. For a 72 year old… the woman’s got grit.
Granny was so choked up when it was time to leave, she didn’t say a word as we dropped her at the bus station - didn’t even look back… just did a sort of gimpy-jog into the terminal. It was touching.
The wife is doing fine and is happy as a clam! Country life was a little rough on her at first, especially when she saw that mosquito draggin’ one of the kittens away from its siblings. She’s finally growing accustomed to things, though, and often reminds me about all the men she could’ve married. I guess it’s her way of saying she got the cream of the crop when she married me.
My sons still refuse to invite any of their buddies over to the house. I’m guessing it’s because they don’t want them to feel bad. I think it’s mighty thoughtful of the boys - not everyone has a two-hole outhouse, and there’s no point rubbing their friends noses in it… so to speak.
My job’s been most satisfactory this year. I’m generally able to get five or six hours of sleep each shift, and some of that has been overtime - though you understand I still can’t afford to send gifts.
Well, that’s our year in a nutshell. Here’s wishing you all the happiness and cheer that we’ve had the good fortune to enjoy this past year.
We encourage you to “Go Green” with your gift giving this holiday. Small bills are best - they won’t cash anything bigger than a twenty at the drive-through.
Merry Christmas!
Carl
Friday, December 12, 2008
Ole's Swap Shop - A True Adventure
When we were kids, my two younger brothers and I would spend time every summer with my Grandpa and Grandma Alberts in their home in Northeast Iowa.
My Grandparents lived in Decorah, a town in a region settled by Norwegian immigrants some generations before. The influence of those Norwegian settlers remains today; many of the area residents still speak in Americanized Norwegian accents.
Grandma would take us along when she drove “uptown” to run her errands. Then we would pile back into her car to drive over to the K&S to pick up a few groceries.
I was always drawn to a place I could see from the car as we were driving home from the K&S - Ole’s Swap Shop.
Grandma’s errands never led us to the Swap Shop, but someone pointed Ole out to me once. To a youngster he seemed a scary man, with the look of Norwegian impishness that was common to the older men of the area. It was a look that never admitted, with any certainty, whether you might get a pat on the head or a pinch on the arm.
I did have what one might describe as an indirect encounter with Ole once.
I had been told that Ole and his wife lived just up the hill from Grandma’s house, and that the couple sold things out of their home too. The house was said to be packed with all sorts of cool stuff - swords, army helmets, and animal pelts that seemed to stare down from the rafters of the front room. It was the sort of thing that young boys dream of seeing… touching… maybe even possessing.
So one afternoon, when Grandma was busy with her garden, I struck out with my two younger brothers in tow. We made our way to the alley that led up Pleasant Hill, and began our ascent.
The sides of the alley were overgrown with weeds and volunteer trees, and conditions grew worse as we continued up the hill - but we kept walking.
Near the top of the hill we came to a narrow lane that led down a shallow cut in the hillside. Grass grew between two ribbons of gravel that led past a couple of outbuildings before ending near the small, dark, run-down house.
We stopped at what seemed a safe distance, to deliberate whether this was the place and if we should go on. The trek up that forest of an alley had given us “the willies” and the appearance of the house wasn’t doing much to bolster our confidence. To our excitable young minds it looked like something out of a tale by the Brothers Grimm.
We were torn between the desire to see a real railroad-lantern and the risk, just maybe, of never seeing Grandma again - and her not even knowing where we had gone. As is usually the case with young people, the desire won.
We moved quietly down the lane… past the first outbuilding… and the second. Still moving toward the house, we spotted a sheet of plywood leaning against the side door of that second building. It was a sign - and hand-painted in large white letters it read:
Keep Out!
Or I Will Cut Off Your Ears
And Pickle Them
And Eat Them For Supper!
My youngest brother lost a shoe that day. He was trying to run, but his feet rarely hit the ground as he was being carried between the other two of us.
Many years later, after Ole had passed away and I had grown, I went back to that not-so-scary house and visited with Ole’s widow as I shopped the relics in their home.
The sign was gone - I never mentioned it, or my prior visit.
I’m glad I went back. I treasure the memory of that first adventure, my later visit with Ole’s widow, and the small kerosene lantern that I bought that day.
My Grandparents lived in Decorah, a town in a region settled by Norwegian immigrants some generations before. The influence of those Norwegian settlers remains today; many of the area residents still speak in Americanized Norwegian accents.
Grandma would take us along when she drove “uptown” to run her errands. Then we would pile back into her car to drive over to the K&S to pick up a few groceries.
I was always drawn to a place I could see from the car as we were driving home from the K&S - Ole’s Swap Shop.
Grandma’s errands never led us to the Swap Shop, but someone pointed Ole out to me once. To a youngster he seemed a scary man, with the look of Norwegian impishness that was common to the older men of the area. It was a look that never admitted, with any certainty, whether you might get a pat on the head or a pinch on the arm.
I did have what one might describe as an indirect encounter with Ole once.
I had been told that Ole and his wife lived just up the hill from Grandma’s house, and that the couple sold things out of their home too. The house was said to be packed with all sorts of cool stuff - swords, army helmets, and animal pelts that seemed to stare down from the rafters of the front room. It was the sort of thing that young boys dream of seeing… touching… maybe even possessing.
So one afternoon, when Grandma was busy with her garden, I struck out with my two younger brothers in tow. We made our way to the alley that led up Pleasant Hill, and began our ascent.
The sides of the alley were overgrown with weeds and volunteer trees, and conditions grew worse as we continued up the hill - but we kept walking.
Near the top of the hill we came to a narrow lane that led down a shallow cut in the hillside. Grass grew between two ribbons of gravel that led past a couple of outbuildings before ending near the small, dark, run-down house.
We stopped at what seemed a safe distance, to deliberate whether this was the place and if we should go on. The trek up that forest of an alley had given us “the willies” and the appearance of the house wasn’t doing much to bolster our confidence. To our excitable young minds it looked like something out of a tale by the Brothers Grimm.
We were torn between the desire to see a real railroad-lantern and the risk, just maybe, of never seeing Grandma again - and her not even knowing where we had gone. As is usually the case with young people, the desire won.
We moved quietly down the lane… past the first outbuilding… and the second. Still moving toward the house, we spotted a sheet of plywood leaning against the side door of that second building. It was a sign - and hand-painted in large white letters it read:
Keep Out!
Or I Will Cut Off Your Ears
And Pickle Them
And Eat Them For Supper!
My youngest brother lost a shoe that day. He was trying to run, but his feet rarely hit the ground as he was being carried between the other two of us.
Many years later, after Ole had passed away and I had grown, I went back to that not-so-scary house and visited with Ole’s widow as I shopped the relics in their home.
The sign was gone - I never mentioned it, or my prior visit.
I’m glad I went back. I treasure the memory of that first adventure, my later visit with Ole’s widow, and the small kerosene lantern that I bought that day.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Save the Faux
I was minding my business, not long ago
Repairing my house, it ain’t no chateau
When into a tree near my place flew a crow
Who took me aback with a hearty, “Hello!”
I stood there in awe, and a little bit dazed
‘Tho my senses returned, when Crow shrieked the phrase:
Save the Faux!
I was thinking I might need a nip of Merlot
To calm flesh and spirit, ‘til I felt all aglow
But ‘twas not to be, for that pesky old crow
Kept repeating his phrase:
Save the Faux! Save the Faux!
Not sure what to do, I gave it some thought
As I kicked at the dirt, a toad hopped to the spot
He told me a tale, of cruelty and sin
About faux that were killed for the fur on their skin.
A bear, and a deer, and a crow, and now you?
You critters that talk should all be in a zoo!
He just shook his head, and went on to say
You make me quite weary, but have it your way
When the faux are all gone, and there’s no more to whack
When your Hollywood types have no faux on their back
When the hunters are done with their arrow and bow
And the one’s had his turn, named Dr. Moreau
You’ll wish you had heeded the black-feathered one
And saved all the faux, and their daughters and sons
When none can be found on plain or plateau
The only faux likeness, portrayed by Van Gogh
You’ll wish you had listened, I know that you will
But now I am done, I’ll be still
The toad then fell quiet, and hopped on his way
Not knowing I knew, that a faux is a fake
And if you de-furred one, not a scream it would make
‘Cause you can’t and it won’t, for a faux is a FAKE!
The wee-warty one, had made off down the road
When I suddenly felt, ‘bout to lose all control
Inspired and stirred, by the words of that toad
‘Tho beyond all good reason, I started to crow:
Save the Faux! Save the Faux! Save the Faux!
Repairing my house, it ain’t no chateau
When into a tree near my place flew a crow
Who took me aback with a hearty, “Hello!”
I stood there in awe, and a little bit dazed
‘Tho my senses returned, when Crow shrieked the phrase:
Save the Faux!
I was thinking I might need a nip of Merlot
To calm flesh and spirit, ‘til I felt all aglow
But ‘twas not to be, for that pesky old crow
Kept repeating his phrase:
Save the Faux! Save the Faux!
Not sure what to do, I gave it some thought
As I kicked at the dirt, a toad hopped to the spot
He told me a tale, of cruelty and sin
About faux that were killed for the fur on their skin.
A bear, and a deer, and a crow, and now you?
You critters that talk should all be in a zoo!
He just shook his head, and went on to say
You make me quite weary, but have it your way
When the faux are all gone, and there’s no more to whack
When your Hollywood types have no faux on their back
When the hunters are done with their arrow and bow
And the one’s had his turn, named Dr. Moreau
You’ll wish you had heeded the black-feathered one
And saved all the faux, and their daughters and sons
When none can be found on plain or plateau
The only faux likeness, portrayed by Van Gogh
You’ll wish you had listened, I know that you will
But now I am done, I’ll be still
The toad then fell quiet, and hopped on his way
Not knowing I knew, that a faux is a fake
And if you de-furred one, not a scream it would make
‘Cause you can’t and it won’t, for a faux is a FAKE!
The wee-warty one, had made off down the road
When I suddenly felt, ‘bout to lose all control
Inspired and stirred, by the words of that toad
‘Tho beyond all good reason, I started to crow:
Save the Faux! Save the Faux! Save the Faux!
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Bluetooth
bluetooth (bloo'· tooth) n. 1. Personal communication device, designed to confuse and annoy all men, women, children and pets who happen to be in the vicinity of the user - in other words… everyone.
My wife and I had just been seated at our favorite restaurant when the man dining alone in the booth across from us started talking:
Man in Booth - Hey, how’s it going?
Me - Good! How ‘bout yourself?
He gave me a strange look and continued:
Man in Booth -What are you doing this weekend?
Me - Oh, not too much.
He gave me that look again, this time sliding toward the farther side of his booth.
Man in Booth - I’ve got an extra ticket for the Buckeye game … you want to go?
Me shouting - WOW! REALLY? THAT WOULD BE GREAT!
This seemed to startle my new friend, and his head snapped around in response to my outburst. I was expecting to receive another one of his looks - instead, the sudden motion caused something to fall from his head and plop into the bowl of chowder in front of him.
Without hesitation he splashed a hand into the steaming soup.
I was voicing concern to my wife over the practicality, not to mention the sanitation, of this obviously European custom, when she interrupted to tell me about something called a Bluetooth.
Her explanation was cut short as the bizarre scene continued to develop before us.
You see, when the fellow dipped a hand into the hot chowder, he let out a curse of pain - and though he managed to retrieve his prize, it immediately dropped to the floor.
As he plunged the fingers of his broth-coated hand in a glass of ice-water, he reached with his good hand to search the floor under the table. A look of relief came across his face when he seemed to have found the lost treasure.
By now, everyone in the restaurant was watching as our odd dining companion sat up with casual confidence… and stuck a baby-carrot in his ear.
Just then, another patron passed between our tables, and the look on my pal’s face quickly changed from relief to despair as a sharp crunch sounded from under the foot of the passerby. My distraught neighbor, still sporting the carrot, lunged over in a useless attempt to save his now demolished ear-gear.
He picked up the dangling strand of broken circuitry, plastic, and wires and we all watched as he grasped what looked like a fancy fishing lure, and tried to reaffix it to his ear.
Other diners seemed to get a little nervous at this point. I noticed a number of them cautiously eyeing me as they fiddled with their own gadgets, each checking and rechecking to make sure that everything was secure - as if I intended to startle them into dropping their device into a scalding liquid.
Things finally settled down and, still not fully understanding all that had transpired I leaned toward my fellow diner and inquired, “You were saying something about a ticket to the Buckeye game?”
Without a word he shot me another one of those looks.
It became clear to me then - I would be watching the Buckeye's from my usual seat… at home.
My wife and I had just been seated at our favorite restaurant when the man dining alone in the booth across from us started talking:
Man in Booth - Hey, how’s it going?
Me - Good! How ‘bout yourself?
He gave me a strange look and continued:
Man in Booth -What are you doing this weekend?
Me - Oh, not too much.
He gave me that look again, this time sliding toward the farther side of his booth.
Man in Booth - I’ve got an extra ticket for the Buckeye game … you want to go?
Me shouting - WOW! REALLY? THAT WOULD BE GREAT!
This seemed to startle my new friend, and his head snapped around in response to my outburst. I was expecting to receive another one of his looks - instead, the sudden motion caused something to fall from his head and plop into the bowl of chowder in front of him.
Without hesitation he splashed a hand into the steaming soup.
I was voicing concern to my wife over the practicality, not to mention the sanitation, of this obviously European custom, when she interrupted to tell me about something called a Bluetooth.
Her explanation was cut short as the bizarre scene continued to develop before us.
You see, when the fellow dipped a hand into the hot chowder, he let out a curse of pain - and though he managed to retrieve his prize, it immediately dropped to the floor.
As he plunged the fingers of his broth-coated hand in a glass of ice-water, he reached with his good hand to search the floor under the table. A look of relief came across his face when he seemed to have found the lost treasure.
By now, everyone in the restaurant was watching as our odd dining companion sat up with casual confidence… and stuck a baby-carrot in his ear.
Just then, another patron passed between our tables, and the look on my pal’s face quickly changed from relief to despair as a sharp crunch sounded from under the foot of the passerby. My distraught neighbor, still sporting the carrot, lunged over in a useless attempt to save his now demolished ear-gear.
He picked up the dangling strand of broken circuitry, plastic, and wires and we all watched as he grasped what looked like a fancy fishing lure, and tried to reaffix it to his ear.
Other diners seemed to get a little nervous at this point. I noticed a number of them cautiously eyeing me as they fiddled with their own gadgets, each checking and rechecking to make sure that everything was secure - as if I intended to startle them into dropping their device into a scalding liquid.
Things finally settled down and, still not fully understanding all that had transpired I leaned toward my fellow diner and inquired, “You were saying something about a ticket to the Buckeye game?”
Without a word he shot me another one of those looks.
It became clear to me then - I would be watching the Buckeye's from my usual seat… at home.
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