CONFESSIONS of a Background Student
We all want to be noticed in life, especially in high school. See how one “wannabe” handles it.
Rainy Days and the Lust for Sunshine
What is it about rainy days in springtime that brings out the writer in us all?
I guess it’s because the mist rolling in, the farm fields disappearing at its touch, and the grey endless mass stretching across the heavens just scream, “Sit down and tell us a tale. Tell us your hearts delight. Let those keys sing. Let us into your…mind. Share your fairy tales, or better yet—your scary tales.”
I remember it well—
Twas in a past year of our Lord, somewhere near the mid-century mark, somewhere in a hamlet in the center of farm country. It was a day much like today—one we would never forget.
The threat of a surprise cloud burst, and an occasional lightning flash in the distance, kept my nine-years-younger, little brother and me inside that day.
At 13 though, my Red Rider BB gun, and my brighter red, Western Flyer bicycle, called to me. My bike urged me to travel, to protect our town—no matter what the weather. And I was agreeable to the task.
“Old Blue” was ready, too. She was loaded with a full pack of perfectly round, bright shiny, little brass trouble starters. She was uncocked though, for safety reasons at home, and because of an unfortunate incident with a weakly made light bulb in my bedroom.
But I needed to be out there, riding the range, guarding streets, shooting boxes in the alley, making sure no bad guys were behind them—lurking around.
Like every cowpoke and western sheriff, I knew to keep a keen eye out for danger, whether natural made, like storms; or woman made, like moms. Unfortunately, mine refused to even let me just slip outside, that day. I would have stayed right by the house. I just wanted to sit on my bike for a while, up against the garage door, under the overhang of the roof, where no rain couldn’t get to me. I wanted to sit there and reminisce about the good old days.
Could I help it, if the last time I sat on my bike, pre-storm, the brake broke loose and ran me down the driveway after it? Its recklessness caused it to wobble and turn into the path of an oncoming car, but I saved the day, jumped on it, and took control of it in all its latent pedal power.
However, by that time, I was facing the wrong direction. To ensure an easy, and safe, return to the house, and be a good steward of the neighborhood, and a courteous person, I had ridden it around the block, just once, to straighten out my approach to the driveway. I knew it was important to conform to the legal conventions of the road, like of driving on the right side of the street, and that was my only way to accomplish the task. Surely, anyone, even a mom could have seen that.
Besides, had the man not stopped to share his story of my bravery and quick thinking, with my mom, everything would have been alright. It was amazing to me, listening from a slightly open door between the garage and the kitchen, how an adult could mangle a story. His inability to retell a simple incident correctly, showed me he totally misread of the situation.
I never understood how a grown adult could stretch simple happenings into whole scary scenario, and make kids look bad, right in front of their mothers. I had to admit it though, his arm waving and gesturing even had me fooled for a minute. I assumed he was probably an actor, or something, and just naturally carried on and on. His heart grab at the end was the best though; it even made me shudder.
As a result of the pending storm, my little brother and I shared the afternoon watching westerns on TV and eating hand fulls of dark, Charles Chips potato chips—until my dad got home.
Suppertime was always a tenuous situation in our house. If things had gone well at work, Dad would regale us with funny stories of his old, but golden, days.
If mom was very quiet, or someone in the house had been threatened with an unkind phrase like, “Just wait till your dad gets home, mister,” trouble was brewing. The best thing to do was stuff your mouth full of food, so you could never properly respond, or be understood if you did need to speak. And never look up from your plate, no matter what the conversation, or who was the recipient of mom’s rantings.
Mom and I shared the same house for many hours, every day, as I grew up, and yet she never seemed to experience the same things I did.
Backyard Wars: What Critter is King?
Like THE Ohio State, I have THE Chipmunk. They both have that swagger of the champion. Except, chippie is far braver and stronger, for his size.
I’m sure he considers me THE Ogre; the thing in the lawn chair that watches—the commander of the deck.
If I am the commander, chippie is the navigator. He never crosses a single deck board without carefully checking the location of all the pots, plant stands, and old bird houses between him and his target—the flat, open bird feeder—free food for the taking, if one is brave.
Here he comes, now; eyes and nose over the deck edge. He pulls out his little map, yup blue pot #6 is close. Twitching, twitching, go— In behind, around and over; stay to cover; never expose yourself; it’s a war out there, but the family needs supplies.
I can see him bounding along under the lower deck rail. A quick check of the Ogre’s position and a last straight shot, in the open, for the large, deck-box—the brown mountain—where the the supply depot sits.
I have three traditional bird feeders in my backyard, but by far, the one favored is the old, flat, green tray that sits on my deck box. It’s especially attractive to the larger birds, that can’t get seeds from those little holes in the vertical feeders, flappers like noisy blue jays, cooing doves, and bright red cardinals.
While I intended it for birds, the squirrels and chipmunks see this wide-open food source as my meals-on-wheels donation to the entire backyard community—the easiest meal ever, if the Ogre and his wife aren’t around.
More Than One
It’s hard to tell chippies apart. Those little tan stripe with darker side racing stripes come with each model. What I thought was one, may actually be two, or three.
I discovered this when two appeared from opposite directions and their high speed antics almost landed them in a head-on collision. At the last minute, one (I dubbed him Jumper) grimaced at his cousin, and with eyes wide suddenly stretched full length skyward. Jumper landed on the rim of the big tan flower pot. This may have been his intent all alone as he used our tall metal plant stand as his next step up, then the flower box, an easy step to the rail, and finally, two bounds to the freebees.
Once there, I saw Jumper’s nose ease over the edge of the green feed tray. He paused, tightened the strap on his little helmet, and began to reconnoiter. Three peanuts logos were stenciled on the side of his helmet. It was going to get nasty. A moment later the other chippie raised it’s head across from Jumper. I’m sure I heard one say, “Oh, it’s just you, scared me to death.”
Before I could get my eyes from Jumper and back to the interloper, Jumper jammed something in his mouth and with one swift movement was airborne, and gone over the rail.
The depot had opened it’s doors to the winner—the warrior—and it was time to amass supplies. With head down the chippie started nosing through the bits of seeds. I never saw his mouth open, but his cheeks filled to bursting. I realized he was a vacuum cleaner taking up every seed and dried cherry bit in his way.
I’m sure he could have jammed in more supplies, but a jay startled him. Like any good soldier, he gave way to the larger force and headed for home.
I guess it went well for my furry friend when he got home, because I thought I heard several little squeaking voices cheering— Hoover, Hoover, Hoover!
Confessions of a Background Student
What it’s Really Like to be in High School
If the term “wannabe” were around when I went to high school, I would finally have gotten noticed—gained some status. But, I was just normal. That was okay, I guess, but it meant I was just another kid in the hall—one of the unwashed masses seething with the riffraff of humanity.
Nobody, and by nobody here, I mean of the opposite sex, ever called out to me, over the crowd, “Great game! Wonderful shot, Friday night!” I never heard girls talking, by their lockers, about me or whether they’d like to date me. I wasn’t even sure what a date was, but as all the football and basketball jocks had them —and lots of girlfriends—I decided I wanted one, too.
Now, if you have never been called to—over the roar of the hallway crowd—you probably don’t understand that it is one of the highest complements that can be paid to a student—it is full and total recognition, by your peers, that everyone knows you—you are somebody.
Instead, I got comments like “Out of the way, twerp.” Usually, the comment was followed by an elbow in the ribs from a disappearing flash of a Tecumseh High School, red and black, athletic jacket—proof that one was cool. I was determined that if I couldn’t beat them, I should join them.
My next thought was would my dad buy me both a team jacket, and a letter sweater—maybe a school ring, too. I would give it to a cheer leader, I would be crowned King of Homecoming and she would be my Queen and slave. The thought that I would have to actually do something athletic was incidental. I began to walk a little taller in the hallway.
At 5′ 11 3/4″, I was not really tall enough to automatically qualify for the basketball team. I think the Coaches waited by the lunchroom door, the first day of class, to find their new centers. If anybody had to duck, they had to be close to 6’6″; so they got a varsity jacket issued to them, right after they got their mashed potatoes.
But, then there was Marty Sharp. At only 4′ 10″, or something like that; if he could make it, I knew could, too. It turns out Marty practiced all the time, had legs like a kangaroo, and was the star jumper and rebounder on the team. That would have been nice to know, before I publicly challenged him to a pick-up game of basketball in the gym, after lunch. Details were never my strong suit.
I decided it would be a friendly game of one-on-one (I was already talking-the-talk) in the gym after inter-mural basketball teams were done. I was sure that after my display of raw talent, it wouldn’t be long before Coach Spitzer would notice me, invite me to directly join the team and bypass the usual try-outs the other losers had to go through.
I had to admit, Marty was pretty good. He even had Official Converse basketball shoes he put on to play me.
One time, a basketball got stuck between the backboard and the rim and Marty just loped over, jumped up, turned completely around in mid air, pulled the ball loose, and autographed it on the way down. All the Cheerleaders went wild and wanted to date Marty. I really wished it hadn’t happened the day that I challenged him.
It was my turn, again. I brought the ball in from some phantom location and started to dribble—like I did in my dreams. I was in control of the boards. Everyone was in gym that day and they would all see me dazzle Marty with my footwork and basketball prowess.
Marty must have been using some form of magic or super glue, because no matter where I went, he was already there. I heard laughter, and turned to see Marty do a jump shot with the ball that I thought I was dribbling with. All I heard was a swish—it was all net. The crowd went wild.
Marty suggested maybe I should practice more. To me, practice was like homework, okay for the masses but unnecessary for those of us who were “born cool” with oodles of natural talent. My C minus grade point average proved it—no effort and still I got Cs.
Called over by the Coach
Fortunately, the bell rang and my humiliation was over. As I started to leave, I saw Coach Spitzer motion me over with his signature two-finger wave. This was it. He knew Marty was really good and that if I had guts to go against him, with everyone watching, I was probably an okay guy.
My mind was filled with thoughts of how I would respond to his request. If it was the least bit negative, I could always use the fact that I was in my stocking feet, to protect his precious gym floor, and that had thrown off my shooting, dribbling, and anything else I could get away with. My long got-the-ball-stuck-in-the-rim shot was probably what got his attention.
“Miller,” he knew my name, already. My head was reeling.
Without thinking, I shouted, “I’ll join the team!”
“Huh?” He seemed surprised. “Sure, try-outs are next week. You’re welcome to join us.” Not what I was expecting…but a personal invitation from Coach was like a guarantee to make the team, mostly.
“I called you over because you look strong, and some people left chairs on the stage. Would you put them away?”
Down…I was going down. My tail feathers were on fire. I could smell my team jacket smouldering. How could my day get worse?
“My wife, Mrs. Spitzer, tells me you are not doing so well in Pre-Algebra. She wanted me to encourage you to keep trying, and study harder.”
What? My math teacher and the Coach were married? And she “ratted” me out to him.
I had never made the connection. Sure, “Spitzer,” it was an unusual name, but I didn’t even think teachers were permitted to marry—especially coaches! They were always at practice or on a bus to away-games. Surely, they had no time to marry. Was it even allowed in the same school? Revelation after revelation made me dizzy!
“Sure, Coach.” My shoulders slouched. The world had just shoved me back into the riffraff. I was destined to be just another bump in the hallway of life.
As I plodded back to my locker, the hallways were buzzing about the idiot that challenged Marty to a one-on-one game in the gym—with everyone watching.
I realized I had made a mark that day, just not what I’d planned. There was quite a bit of laughter, too. That was probably good. Someone, even said they thought it was Miller. What? Had I heard that right? Had they used my name—not the way I had hoped—but notoriety was notoriety. I could work with it.
Maybe I would try another sport, too. I could join the Chess Club; anyone could get in there. How hard could their try-outs be? With my Arnold Swartzenegger voice I said, “See, I’m lifting the heavy piece. Wow, all in one smooth motion.”
It would be just another star on my Tecumseh Arrows letter jacket.
Interested in more fun posts? Check out Terry Miller’s blogs: Over 64, but Under 100, at terrymillerohio.wordpress.com , or You Might as Well Laugh, at alaughforyou.wordpress.com.
True or False: 4-yr Olds can take Care of Themselves
“Dean Whitacker, hurry!” The nurse was frantic. She was checking the eyes of the two little boys the horticultural students had brought in, then listened to their lungs with her stethoscope.
“We didn’t know what to do, or where to take them, Dean.” The two students were shaking; they kept looking at each other. “They were eating green—test apples.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad. How do you boys feel?” The Dean smiled at me and my friend Mikey. He turned to the students. “How did they get in the fields anyway?”
“Somebody saw them sneaking in through the greenhouse. We thought they were just playing around the raised flower beds.” The student was talking faster. “We were finishing up with loading the pesticide sprayers … lost track of them… probably from the married student housing barracks … far side of our test fields.”
As an agriculture and mechanical engineering school in the 1950’s, South Dakota State College catered to returning vets. The college specialized in husband and wife teams, where both parents were using the GI Bill. Families were encouraged as it helped defuse the craziness that came with the normal, 18-yr old’s antics and pranks.
The boys were crying. “Can’t you quiet them, nurse? You were in combat in Normandy; surely, you know how to handle two kid’s tummy-aches.”
“We never had any—,” the Nurse paused and slowly spelled out P O I S O N I N G S, “or curious 5-yr olds.”
The Agricultural side of the college managed several large horticultural test beds that were used for developing new pesticides for flowers, vegetables, and various varieties of fruit.
“They had four or five apples each, of several varieties, in their shirts. We found half-eaten pears, and plums, in the orchard too, Dean.”
The Dean’s secretary stuck her head around the door. “The ambulance is busy with a heart attack victim. They said to just watch the kids. If they start swelling up, or turning blue, get their parents to bring them to the hospital right away.”
The Dean shot back. “Call the pharmaceutical school. See if they can recommend anything to make them throw up—Ipecac? Something?”
It was quiet for a long while. The horticulture student asked if they, he nodded our way, would… He drew a line across his throat with his finger.
“No,” the Dean winked at us. “We’ll just watch them till their folks get here.” He swallowed hard and tried to smile.
Get the Parents
The nurse was writing something on a chart and thumbing through a huge medical book.
Mikey quit crying, rubbed his eyes with the side of his shirt, and pulled me over by him. “I heard them call your mom. We gotta run!”
He was right. Mom already knew the Dean, on a first name basis, from previous encounters. He seemed to go on and on, the last time, about how far and wide a child my age should roam. He really seemed to get into my adventures. I agreed; a college was a great place to explore.
Mom studied Home Economics and dad was 2nd in his mechanical engineering class. That kept them busy.
To help them study in peace—to get out of their hair—I chose to explore more and more. It was my service to their careers.
The more I explored, the more I realized my skills would come in handy one day, and that I should explore more, now, to be ready, then. I would probably have to rescue my folks from a major disaster. My skills of squeezing under, into, and through tight spaces would surely save them some day—if I didn’t get stuck first myself and need to be rescued.
Mom and dad didn’t believe it was a skill nor that I had ever used it to save someone. They felt I tended to streeeetch my stories. “Blank air needs filling;” that was my motto.
Some things I shared with them; others I felt required me to plead the fifth, immediately upon entering the front door.
For example, I once crawled 20 feet through a small heat duct, to get to a loose vent cover, that granted indirect access, to a little piece of heaven, in the basement of the campus ROTC building—the LINK Trainer Center. My buddies and I had watched Army Reserve cadets scramble into 5′ long, blue and yellow, bumble bee looking aircraft simulators that taught them how to fly in total darkness, using only instruments to navigate.
We weren’t allowed in the simulator area. We were told they were expensive and we couldn’t even touch them. They were delicate instrument—not toys.
From the huge window that separated the ROTC machine shop and the simulator room, we watched, and learned. We were enthralled. We added machine gun sounds, on our side of the glass, as cadets dipped and tilted their night-flying beauties. To us, the units weren’t quite full grown planes, but we guessed they were probably some new secret weapon the Army was going to drop, by the hundreds, to buzz bomb into bad guy’s hiding places. We had to try them.
We waited till late afternoon when the room was empty. I had done a test crawl the day before in the connecting duct and had cleaned out all the spider webs and vent dust.
Jimmy helped me unscrew the vertical grate on the machine shop side and I scrambled in. Nobody else wanted to follow me through enemy lines, so I pushed on alone. That’s what heroes do. Moments later, I eased the Link Trainer vent grate aside—I was in!
My fellow combatants rushed the door when they heard it unlock. There were more than enough trainers for all five of us, but Jimmy chickened out. His dad was the flight instructor doing the training in the room and Jimmy couldn’t afford to get caught. He’d done his part loosening the screws that held the grate cover the day before, so we gave him a pass.
We had watched and learned the cadet routine with our noses pressed against the machine shop window. Each student had been given a flashlight, an air map, and instructions on how to climb in and out. A moment later we watched 15 lids close, and the stubby bees came alive. Within minutes of watching, we had thoroughly learned how to get the crafts into the proper flight attitude.
We decided our mission would take us from New York to Delaware, because it sounded like underwear. Good enough; a pilot had to be flexible. You never knew where you might be dropped from the mother plane. It could be a short plunge, or a long glide, but we’d be ready.
The circuit breaker on the wall was the key to powering the mini-planes. Jimmy agreed to throw it, then leave. His finger prints were all over the room anyway, since his dad ran the place, and his dad regularly let him throw it on before class. If any spies checked out the area, there would be no problem with Jimmy’s finger prints. Everybody else was on their own.
We followed procedure and boarded our crafts. It was amazing. We were bursting with excitement. We knew how proud our parents would be, of all of us, because we had learned to fly, all on our own—in case some of the cadets got sick the day of the big drop.
We were novices no more. We were fliers. We all climbed in, closed our respective cockpit covers and started our mission. One of the kids started to cry because it was so dark. We all hollered at him to shut up, so we wouldn’t get caught, and told him to turn on his flashlight. It was quite noisy for a while as lids opened and closed to let us see what the others guys looked like flying their planes. As we got used to our controls, things settled down, and we got into serious cross-country flying.
Those yellow and blue cockpits had never seen such acrobatics. We cranked them violently from side to side, and up and down. We dodged commercial aircraft, went swirling around thunderstorms, and outwitted enemy flack—a pilot had to know his machine, how much it could take.
That’s when we heard talking. Wow! Were we gonna get caught? We all scrambled out of our flying machines and headed for the door. Too late. We heard Jimmy’s dad, and somebody else, coming down the hall. I locked the door and ran for cover. We all crammed in behind the instructors desk and held our breath—oh, the pressures of combat.
“Dang. Looks like I left the main circuit breaker on.” He rattled the door handle—locked. “I’ll go get my key and take care of it. See you in class tomorrow, John.”
We waited till the footsteps quieted then ran for the door, again. We weren’t fast enough. Jimmy’s dad was on his way back. Could the heating duct hold all of us?
As the lock turned, I pushed Tubby further in, pulled my legs up behind him, and pinched the grate in the corners to hold it on without my fingers showing. My tips ached and I dropped one side of the vent cover. It made a clang; everybody froze.
“Is somebody there?”
“No.” A small voice echoed in our tin escape tunnel.
The jig was up. We’d probably be sent to a reformatory for uncaring kids. Our parents would be drug out of our barracks home, clamped in irons and thrown out of college. Even our grandparents would be asked to leave the state. My Grampa regularly told my dad what a problem child I was; now I was proving him right.
Jimmy’s dad jerked around. “Who’s there?”
I prayed nobody would say anything stupid, again. Our futures were on the line.
“Oh. Hi, Jimmy. I didn’t see you come in. You ready to go home?”
Jimmy had saved us and unknowingly created our no-man-left-behind policy that day—still the creed of kids, everywhere.
I was reminded of our creed as Mikey watched the Dean’s office door from his private bathroom. I managed to wiggle out the window and then drug Mikey through, after me.
Jimmy’s motto was good in general, but we learned it was really intended to ensure nobody could be caught and be made to squeal on their life-long buddies. It was also why we rarely allowed any girls to run with us. If anything bad happened, they would cry, point our way, and turn us in for immediate prosecution—no matter what had really happened, nor were we given consideration for how we had pushed and pulled the story to get it to come out our way.
Once on the ground, Mikey figured the fastest way home was still through the greenhouse. No one would think we’d try it again, and we hoped that arriving home before mom and dad would give us enough time to concoct some story that would save us.
“I’m Mrs. Josephine Miller. Is my boy here? How is he? Will he be… okay?” Her voice cracked. She pushed past the Dean’s secretary.
The Dean opened to door to his private office to escort mom in, but it was empty. He turned to mom, “I’m sorry, he’s gone.”
The blood drained from my mother’s face.
The Dean gave a nervous laugh. “No, no. He’s okay! He and his friend just escaped through my bathroom window when they heard we’d contacted you.”
“And the poison?”
“Nothing to worry about. They rubbed the apples and fruit on their shirts before eating any. They hardly got any pesticide in them at all—at most the bare minimum—no harm done. Maybe a little tummy ache.”
My mother sunk into a chair in the deans office and apologized again. She said it was hard to keep track of me as she and dad were studying for mid-summer class finals.
“Jo, have you considered kindergarten?”
Mom’s head dropped. “He won’t be five until after school starts in September—the 10th. I’ve talked to the school.”
Dean Whitacker smiled, “Close enough to five, if he was in say, the uh—gifted child area. They want new students. They love a challenge; it’s all in the way you present it.”
Everyone in the Dean’s office smiled.
In September of that year, the Brookings, South Dakota public school system accepted their first gifted/troubled child applicant. History was about to be made.
Interested in more fun posts? Check out Terry Miller’s blogs: Over 65, but Under 100, at terrymillerohio.wordpress.com , or You Might as Well Laugh, at alaughforyou.wordpress.com.
Bad Parents: Are You One?
The book said parenting skills can be learned—for only $29.95, and they can be mastered for $35, but for $10 bucks more, the author guaranteed these skills would carry over into the tough, teenage years or they would refund my money.
I got suspicious about the authors sincerity to reimburse, if it didn’t work, when I found he had been dead for 20 years. I called the publisher. They assured me that they would refund the price of the book, minus any normal deterioration, for up to twenty-one years, if I keep the receipt. Who keeps receipts?
Not to worry, they further assured me; they have handled hundreds of such refunds and wondered if I could state clearly, into the phone, that I had read the non-retribution clause, specifically in the teenage years. Why so many refund? They didn’t know.
They further assured me that Doctor Sprockets books have been well received for over 50 years and guided thousands of new parents to produce the well-adjusted generation living today. A little shutter went through me.
Get the Book — Follow the Book
As a believer that industrious people should be rewarded for their works, I was happy to buy books that helped me grow personally, or become a better parent.
However, like most things in life, I knew real skills are only be gotten through personal experience—a sort of trial-and-error masterpiece—in progress. My only hope was that when my trial goes to court, the jury will be all parents.
It’s a shame moms and dads can’t simply sit down with their kids (the new parents), have a little a heart-to-head chat, and all would be well for future generations.
After consideration, I decided parenting books by living authors might give better insight. I bought three; read one. I was amazed at all the good things the author had to say, and many of his suggestions seemed to make sense. I was exited to see if the ideas would work on my two little boys and to finally start being a good parent. If all went well, I would write my own book. I even had the title: The Best Life will Let You Be. Everything was getting better!
Parenting Book pays Off
I got my first opportunity to try my good parenting the next Saturday morning. I had purchased a new-to-me (12 years young) Mercedes Benz, 280-SEL, a wonder car. Just owning it made me feel like I deserved a raise.
I had never owned a prestige car, and the fact that the car was priced low because it had some rust (and a couple of growing holes under the driver side door) that never came to mind.
It was dark green and that classic style of older Mercedes you see in the movies. When we cruised on the interstate, most people couldn’t tell it left pieces of itself along the roadway nor that I owned it on a shoestring. Hey, prestige is prestige!
Regardless, the interior was spectacular. The back seat alone justified the purchase. It was huge, and each boy could find a place to lay comfortably (no more “quit touching me” comments) and it encouraged sleep all the way from Pittsburgh, PA to our parents home in Dayton, Ohio—four and a half hours of bliss.
I was cleaning and polishing my new baby, for the third time, when my 4-year old decided he wanted to help. My normal reaction would have been to holler at him to get back upstairs and to not be in the garage in his underwear and no shoes. Instead, I decided it was time to be calm and try the book way of handling the situation.
The Book Way
I asked my son if he remember the NCIS show the other night, where that guy was trapped in the trunk of the Mercedes, just like ours? Would he like to try it? I lifted him gently into the trunk and slowly lowered the lid.
“You just tell daddy if it gets scary. I’ll lift you right out, and you can go back upstairs and play.”
Everything was okay until the trunk lid got close to closing and the light went out.
“Ok, see wasn’t that fun, now go upstairs and finish your breakfast.”
It worked! No yelling; no fussing. My son and I had had an enjoyable bonding moment, and I could get back to what I wanted—repolishing my green beauty. Overnight garage dust can be so hard on a classic car’s finish.
I just kept replaying it my mind. This stuff really works! I was so happy; I was not going to be a bad parent after all; my mothers words, “I hope you grow up to have kids just like you,” would never take hold in my house. The curse was broken; I was parenting, by the book. I got what I wanted and my child was safe and happy back upstairs, where clothing was optional.
I was so excited. I quit working on my car, went upstairs, and told my wife about the book and the great results I had gotten. She was dubious but said she’d consider reading and trying it.
All is Well that Starts Well?
A week later, I got another chance to show my wife the benefits of the “book way.” She would come around; I knew it.
By then, winter had set into the Pennsylvania hillsides. It was our first experience with children and slippery hills.
Pittsburgh does not have snow; it has sloshy snow, snow turning to ice, slushy ice, and ice. If you are outside, you had better stand in the yard, otherwise everywhere becomes a downhill slide. Even when you thought you were standing still, if there was a smooth surface underneath, chances are you were slowly moving down.
Even with that burst of cold weather, the glow of the book was like a fire inside; nothing could stop me. I needed to be out in the world, doing something, like showing people what good parenting looked like.
I announced I was going to the bank to cash my pay check. I kissed my wife, grabbed my son under one arm, and headed to the basement, where old play suits go to dry.
“Are you sure, honey? It’s pretty cold and snowy out there for a little guy.”
I shrugged her comment off; I needed a child along to show my good parenting skills. I would show her; I even put his snow suit on—all by myself. How could life get better?
The Bank and the Bad Parent
The most important point to learn from life is to be humble. If you are not, life will set you on autocorrect—usually with the aid of your children.
Lines at the bank were longest on Saturday mornings. I usually dreaded it because of my time in the Navy, and because I usually got harshly judged by two little old ladies who seemed to make it a point to be at the bank whenever my son choose to test his, first-born child’s, willpower.
However, that day I was looking forward to seeing them, even though, on more than one occasion, I had heard them talking loudly about some bad parents in the bank and that things just weren’t like that in their day.
The ladies were already in line. I decided to get right behind them and take the blue-haired bulls by horns, so to speak.
“Good morning ladies. Did you ever have great, good-parenting books, in the old days?” Two head flashed around.
In retrospect, my choice of words … may have been better, but I plowed on explaining my new approach to good parenting and encouraged them to notice the change in my parenting abilities. In addition, they’d notice that children were encouraged to speak to adults, man-to-man. I set my son down on the shiny, granite floor, so I could use both hands to better gesture.
My son began to slip and slide and fell on the polished tile slinging slush everywhere. He wasn’t hurt because of the snow suit and before I could grab him, he righted himself, put hands on both hips, and said, in a loud voice what we were all thinking, “Isn’t anybody gonna mop this slippery floor so somebody doesn’t fall, again?”
The old ladies were impressed and gave me an approving nod. The bank president came rushing out and started mopping the floor.
I picked my son back up. He positioned himself with both elbows on my shoulder and put his two hands under his chin, as though he were surveying the landscape. In a loud voice he asked if I knew what crooks looked like. I knew he was thinking of the NCIS bank robbery show we had seen the other night. I reminded him—big, burly, with nasty looking beards.
It was then that I discovered how well a small child’s voice carries in a bank, especially if he has already drawn attention to himself.
“You mean crooks like these guys, behind us?”
Every head in the bank, including the security guard, turned to see the would-be robbers. As I turned, two of the largest, burly, bearded guys I have ever seen, were glaring at me.
“Just getting some cash!” They waved their pay checks, from a local coal mine, in the air. They continued to glare; the two old ladies chuckled.
I jerked back around hoping the crooks were really kind hearted and just looked like serial killers.
Then, out of the blue, my soon said, “Daddy, I don’t like it when you lock me in the trunk.”
My face flushed; my voice squeaked, “No, no, honey, remember we were just pretending … daddy was… The book … NCIS—”
Nothing I said made it better. Every head in the place was tracking me. I could feel my life-long good parenting Emmy slipping away. In addition, I was sure I would be pummelled to death by the burly brothers once we left the bank.
In a loud voice, I assured everyone my son was tired and just needed a nap and that I, foolish me, had left my check at home, and that I had better leave now before the snow got worse—
The old ladies roared with laughter. One of them wanted to know if this was covered in my book.
Sunday afternoon, when the boys were down for their nap, I grabbed my wife’s coat and invited her out onto the back porch.
“What’s the occasion?” She pulled the lawn chair close to the grill to get warm. “Why is the grill on anyway?”
I handed her a glass of wine and opened the lid. A heap of pages was starting to smoulder.
“A good old fashion, book burning.” We clinked glasses.
She smiled. “Shouldn’t we be toasting something?”
“Yes,” I thought a moment, “direct deposit— and bad parenting!”
To this day, whenever my wife and I see children acting up, we just nod to each other and mouth the words together, “Bad Parenting.”
Note: No children were “scared-for-life” in the making of this true-life adventure. In addition, good parenting rights were restored to the husband and wife team in this story, upon becoming grandparents.
BEWARE: Men at Work—In the Grocery
When we men are little, the grocery is often our first excursion into the big and bold world away from home. We learn about colors from food labels, that the price of beef is always too high, and that some mothers make poor fashion choices, repeatedly.
It is where we learn there is home behavior and public behavior. Fortunately, home behavior comes with private immunity from prosecution. You can even threaten to cut your brother’s head off, leaving nothing but a bloody stump, and all you will get is the standard mothers reply: “You two had better not get on my nerves!”
At home you can scream, and shout, and jump, and play. You can even walk on the furniture, if mom isn’t looking. Pretty much any behavior is acceptable, including talking about gross things at the dinner table.
“Mom, my friend’s Billy’s eyeball fell out in school, today!”
“Umm, that’s interesting.”
However, when in public, your other face had better show.
“Such nice polite, children you have. Is the one on the bottom, turning blue, ever going to breathe, again?”
The grocery is also where boys learn one of the most important lessons of their lives—when a woman talks, a man had better listen.
“You two boys had better listen to me! You think I talk just to hear my own voice echo across this store? I brought you into this world—”
As it turns out, this early childhood training has very practical applications for the modern husband of today.
“Put that back! We don’t need it and can’t afford it this week, anyway.”
“But, honey—”
As grown-ups, and husbands, we men are eligible for a better response about our grocery choices than the quick, testy replies we got from our mothers. After all, our situation has been upgraded from that of dependent child—which we could do nothing about but be born—to that of full life partner and major financial backer of the relationship.
“It’s because I said so, and I’m the wife!”
“Ah.”
I think the problem is women just don’t understand, adult men. They are too used to settling nonsense issues between siblings. “Turn your brother right side up, and put him back under the cart where you got him from. No, no, only one of you can get in there at a time!”
Since Adam’s time, men have been hunters and gatherers. We need a mission. Send us out to find something—anything. Do this, and we will be happy and contented.
My wife and I once lived in Northfield, Minnesota, a small college town in the upper Midwest. Their motto was “Colleges, Cows, and Contentment.” That’s contentment because those Scandinavian and French-Canadian women just naturally knew to send their men out into the aisles in search of supplies; they even made a game of it. All the husbands in town were very happy—their wives told me so. Some took to dressing up as old-time fur trappers and pony express riders. Some even carried muskets. Saturday mornings these burly guys would buy coffee and beans and set up a campsite in aisle 4. They called it a Rendezvous. It was quite popular until the shooting contests got black powder all over the eggs.
If it worked in Minnesota, why wouldn’t it work were we live? I knew I had to do something. The next Saturday morning I decided to take a stand for all men, in all grocery stores, everywhere. I stood tall, right in front of the cart. I let out a cry—
“Please,” I decide the gentle approach might be better. “Give me something to do.” I made a pleading gesture while hanging onto the cart and swaying back and forth. “I can’t just hang around behind you and this cart that always turns left. I’m tired of looking like I know what I’m doing when I’m just squinting at soup labels.” Other guy’s heads turned our way. Nods of approval followed.
“Ok? We need milk. Wait, not so fast, not just any milk—“
“Huh?” This is where instructions followed about the benefits of the selected milk, or milk-like product, followed by instructions on size, quantity, and price (and price variations) allowed. A stern reminder was added to ensure a swift return, with said item.
I knew everything was going to be okay when my wife tore off the bottom portion of the grocery list and handed it to me. I couldn’t believe it. My wife had put in me in charge of a portion of the list.
“Don’t goof around. Are you listening to me? Go straight there, and come straight back. Stay where I can see you.”
“I am your husband, not your child.” A little smirk appeared on my face.
“If you do well, Maybe I’ll give you more.” A little thrill ran through me.
I know what straight there and back means. It means if I duck down behind the stand-alone meat counter, she can’t see me. I saw Fred coming the other way.
He waved and crawled towards me. “You looking for milk? It’s way over on the other side of the store. If you make a right turn over there, you’ll end up by the food demonstrator. It’s good today—bourbon turkey—on a pretzel stick. Bob and Ed are there, too, behind the cheese counter.”
“Ok, see ya.”
“Remember, keep low.”
I duck waddled a few more feet behind the chicken counter and was about to make a run for it when this big guy, in a full buckskin outfit, appeared at the end of an aisle.
“What are you men doing sneaking around like kids?” His voice seemed to fill the store. “You are grown men, with an important and well respected job to do.” His arms where full of groceries.
All the guys within earshot immediately encircled this leather-clad stranger. “Do you know that the cowboys on the prairie, the trappers up north, and the Continental Army all had men in your position—outriders. They protected the troops and their food supply from side attacks. They shot game and brought in needed supplies—right through enemy lines.” Several of the men straightened a little. “You are in the same position with your wife’s cart. You go out and find supplies; you talk to the other men to learn of impending dangers; you ensure only safe food gets to your family. Try bringing her a turkey on a stick, once; see the surprise on her face. Walk tall men. Check all the aisles for purse snatchers and specials. Watch for side attacks on her cart. Carry as many supplies as you can back to her cart. Your strength will build.”
As he spoke, we were mesmerized. His voice was soft but firm. He had the smell of old buffalo about him. Suddenly, there was a crash behind us and we all jerked around to see some mom’s cart go sideways as a speeding college student pushed through. When we turned back, the stranger was gone. Only a few strands of leather fringe were on the floor. We each grabbed one and put it in our shirt pocket. A knowing look passed among us.
As I looked around, I thought I saw the shadow of a fringed cuff on a far wall. In the distance I heard several men explaining what had happened to their wives. They seemed more settled—sure about themselves.
Saturdays are different now at Kroger’s. We men all walk taller and weekly specials are our byword. If anyone asks about the difference in us, we tell them, from the end of an aisle, or from way across the store, “I am not just with my wife—I am—The Outrider.”
Marriage: Contestants can Come on Down
Given that marriage is such a desirable state, why do so many end up separating after only a short time? Maybe, if society treated it more like a game show (free money, bright lights, and public recognition) everyone would want to join in.
“Are the contestants ready?” Everyone, including the parents, come rushing down to the alter.
“For your first $1,200 question, or a free wedding cake, can you name each other’s favorite childhood fruit?”
She will know; you will not.
Honk!
“So sorry. That’s the annoying buzzer, and you took too long to answer, sir. Dad, I guess that means you have to pay for that wedding cake, after all.” The audience goes wild with laughter.
“I…thought the cake was part of the wedding price. What else is not included? How much is this going to cost me, anyway?” A look of terror passes over her dad’s face.
Unfortunately, life is more complicated than a game show. For example, most young folks begin their Bliss-for-Life sentence oblivious to the fact that there is a host of very fine print in the marriage contract. A point of order, here, it usually favors the wife and has been well vetted by her mother, great Aunt, the all women choir at her church, the full ladies auxiliary, and it is backed by the Best Dang Little, All Women’s, Legal Defense Fund in Texas.
You don’t remember any rules or guidance or fine print, sir? It was there. You were too interested in the fruits of your upcoming union and didn’t even check, did you?
Just ask your wife. She not only remembers, she knows most of the categories, and sub categories, by heart. Aren’t you lucky; she has such a good memory!
I suppose it’s really just the difference between men and women, though, and has nothing to do with memory. For example, after 40 years of marriage, my wife can tell you what she wore our wedding day (a white dress, I think), the color of her mother’s shoes, the smell of the flowers. I on the other hand remember the important things: I set the car mileage indicator to zero to see how far we could go on our first tank of gas. I remember getting the oil changed two days before our honeymoon trip, because I found a coupon on the ground and thought how lucky I was to start married life saving money. I remember being in a daze—nothing new there, my wife says. And I remember to come home for supper—each day. And that the fine print doesn’t really matter as long as you love each other and ask God to guide you each day.
Now it’s your turn. Tell me what is in the small print of your wedding contract. I’ll start: It allows my wife to put ketchup on her eggs—truly revolting. It also stipulates that I do NOT need to stop and ask for directions, as long as there is gas in the old tank—either mine or the cars. My wife claims that was voted out. What?
Your turn—
Keurig: THE Coffee Maker
I think most of us will agree that our mornings don’t start until after our first cup of coffee. For me, any kind of coffee is acceptable—as long as it is not burnt—and even that can be made acceptable by dunking a low-cal donut or cookie in it.
Two years ago, I decided I was probably missing out on some new convenience I didn’t even know about—nor had ever missed—so I upgraded from a $19 automatic drip coffee maker to THE Keurig machine.
I can’t even pronounce it, so it must be good. And it has turned out to be a boon for the coffee bean industry, as it converts us from just plain java drinkers to coffee Connoisseurs. Is it my imagination or do connoisseur and Keurig both have the very fancy “EU” in the middle of them? I wonder if that is because EU is the abbreviation for the European Union—the old world—where fancy-schmancy comes from.
I have to admit; I like this machine. The coffee, tea, and various latte formulas are all premixed in little, individual, disposable, plastic containers (K-cups). That’s all there is to it. Just drop a K-Cup into the unit with ease (no one refers to it as a coffee maker—it’s a machine or a unit). A minute later, you have coffee.
No bother or mess. No need to measure out coffee, dispose of grounds or fool with messy filters; just sit back and let that wonderful smell fill the air, while you enjoy your first cup in the morning. Simplicity and sophistication in one unit. And my status as a person gets upgraded, as well—to Connoisseur.
With all this in mind, I must tell you of a devastating incident that started my morning. In case things go badly, I am including a copy of the conversation for posterity, or the police, whichever comes first. This is all true—mostly.
There was a single loud knock the door. It shook the doorframe. I looked out the kitchen window and saw a plain, black Keurig delivery van in the driveway. A small K-Cup logo was discreetly etched into the glass on vehicle’s windscreen.
“Morning sir, Keurig Special Agent Jethro Givbson here and this is Agent Anton DeSoto. May we come in? Take us to the machine.” He flashed some sort of official looking badge; a K-Cup was emblazoned in the middle.
“Are you here to let me try some new special coffee or froo froo latte mix?” They pushed past and went on into the kitchen.
“No, sir! We are here to check out the unit. It seems you have not registered it and there is an issue about abusing the machine.”
“This is crazy! You can’t abuse a coffee maker.” I moved in front of my Keurig.
“Coffee maker? Is that how you refer to our unit, sir? Anton please write a chit fining this man $15 for derogatory coffee industry remarks? Normally, we just have you pop a fiver into our bad words can, but we’ve come a long way and couldn’t bring it with us on the plane.”
“Long way— Where are you from?”
The tall one, in a pressed, grey jump suit, moved in close and whispered. “The EU, sir. I thought you could tell from our accent.”
With one large muscular arm, he moved me aside. “I’ll have to ask you to keep clear of the unit, sir. It knows we’re here and wants a check up.”
“Are you kidding?”
“We never kid, sir.” Givbson attached a set of long leads in the back of the unit and set up a miniature oscilloscope and recording device on the counter. Anton took pictures and asked lots of questions.
“You always keep the machine on this messy counter? It’s pretty near your daily post. It could overheat the unit. Glue fumes from your mail could enter the brew cycle. You don’t expect us to be responsible for that do you, sir?”
“Hey! This is my coffee mak— err, unit. I bought and paid for it, and I can do anything I want with it, and put it wherever.”
From the bedroom my wife heard the commotion and wanted to know what was going on. “Nothing dear. Just a couple of guys from Keurig telling me where to put it.”
“Best she doesn’t come out here, sir. We treat it like a crime scene.”
I groaned. “Crime scene? There is no such thing for a coffee pot.”
“Coffee pot, really, sir? Apparently, you didn’t read all the Menu screens on your unit. Under terms and conditions screen eleven down and three over—”
“Over? There are no “over” screens on that unit.”
“If you hold your finger on the brew light and menu button simultaneously, then quickly push the small and large cup-size buttons at the same time, just once—the menu goes black. Then you can scroll it sideways. As described in the operating package that would have been sent to you, had you bothered to register, sir.”
“Gee, I didn’t realize—”
“They never do, eh Anton.”
“My tests are done. It says you operate this unit often without a K-Cup in it. You just run hot water through it to make tea. Is that right, sir?” A disgusted look came over a weathered face.
“Well, I like tea sometimes, so I just throw a teaspoon in my cup—”
“We sell tea K-Cups, you know! Are you like a cheapskate or something? Are you perverted?” He unplugged my machine and put it under his arm. Coffee spilled on the counter from the drip tray. “More…more violations. This unit is going back to the factory for a full check up.”
I followed him to the van. “What am I supposed to do for coffee? How will I get my unit back?”
As the van started, Anton snapped my picture one last time, rolled down the window, handed me a plain, blank, white business card and said, “I’m sorry, sir.”
As they drove away, I turned it over. On the back was a big circle with a wide red line across it like a Ghost Busters logo. Inside was one single word, in beautiful gold and black raised lettering—Connoisseur.
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You Might as Well Laugh 