One Squirrelly New Years Eve

Traditionally, New Years Eve is a time of celebration for many people, and for Uncle Billy Roy Silas and Aunt Betsy it was no different. So, when Billy Roy and Betsy received two invitations to attend two different New Years parties, they couldn't begin to express their delight.

The first invitation was to Billy Roy's company party. The second one was to Granny and Grandpa Chimchuck's family get together. Tempting as it was to attend the company party, if for no other reason than to find out what a horse derv (hors d'ouevvre) was, Billy and Betsy knew they would be sorry if they missed the Chimchuck party. As Billy Roy would say, "Thars somthin' always a goin' on thar."

By the time Uncle Billy and Aunt Betsy arrived at the party Granny Chimchuck, along with most of the other women, was busy restoring her kitchen to its proper order. It never failed, after the grand kids, great grand kids, cousins, nephews, and nieces finished with the annual fudge making and taffy pulling, Granny Chimchuck's kitchen was virtually decimated.

Once the kitchen was put back, the board games were pulled out of moth balls and set up at various card tables for the youngsters to play. Invariably, eight-year-old Scooter Chimchuck (the youngest of the grandchildren) and Granny would end up at the same card table, opposing each other in a game. Now, before you get to wondering what's wrong with a grandmother and her grandson playing a game together, you have to understand that both Granny and Scooter weren't good losers. To complicate matters, both of them always had their own set of rules to the games, and these rules were usually made up as the contest progressed. Naturally, Granny and Scooter always ended up in heated debates over who broke what rule and what was or wasn't a real rule to begin with. Inevitably, the game ended with Scooter's mom chewing both of them out and putting the game back in moth balls before a winner could ever be determined.

Anyway, this particular New Years party turned out to be one of the most fun parties Billy and Betsy ever attended. You see, it was a tradition in the family that at 11:55 p.m. Grandpa Chimchuck would grab his shot gun, step out on the back porch, and shoot his rifle into the air at the stroke of midnight.

Well, Billy Roy's favorite cousin, Jefferson Robert Tartin, approached Billy with what he considered to be a great joke to play on Gramps. "Hey Billy," he said. "Downstairs in Gramps freezer is a couple of frozen squirrels he's been a savin' fer some time now [Grandpa Chimchuck loved his squirrel meat and always had a stock of them in the freezer]. I gotta an idee of what we can do with one of 'em fer a joke on ol' Grampy."

Billy liked Jeff Robert's idea and at around 11:30 p.m. they began to implement their plan. After putting on a pair of gloves, they snuck down to the basement and pulled out a frozen, skinned, squirrel. Quietly, they made their way outside where Billy Roy, squirrel in hand, shimmied up the huge walnut tree that hung over the back porch. Once Billy was in place, he waited for Grandpa Chimchuck to step outside with his shotgun.

Somewhere between 11:55 p.m. and midnight, Gramps stepped out of the house, shotgun in hand. When the big clock in the house began its 12 loud bongs, announcing the arrival of the new year, Grampy pointed his rifle straight up into the air and gently squeezed the trigger. BOOM!The night air was pierced with the resounding blast of the shotgun, and within seconds of the blast a dead, skinned squirrel fell from the walnut tree, landing at Grandpa's feet.

"Well, I'll be switched. Hey, ever'body, looky here. Now that there is some fine shootin', huh?!" he called out.

Try as they may, the family couldn't convince Grampy Chimchuck that it wasn't his fancy shooting that brought down and skinned the squirrel all at the same time. Finally, after all efforts to persuade Gramps that somebody had played a trick on him were exhausted, one by one family members traipsed back inside the house.

After awhile, Grampa Chimchuck sauntered into the living room, "Next fall," he announced to the family, "I'm a gonna shoot that ole shotgun in the air and see if'n I cain't bring down a plucked turkey for Thanksgivin'."

Billy Roy and Jeff Robert looked at each other and knew what the other was thinking, "how the heck are we gonna shimmy up that tree with a 25 lbs. turky?" But that's a whole other story.

A Very Skunky Christmas

Of the Christmas seasons I've experienced one of the many that stand out in my mind is the December of my tenth year. That season, Skunky Wilson, my childhood friend and partner in mischief, and I became entangled in a big catastrophe that the folks in our little town of Booger Hollow still talk about today.

One particular December morning, Skunky invited me to accompany him and his pet mouse Felix to our local supermarket. The supermarket had been advertising that Santa would be in the parking lot, and the local kids were invited to bring their pets and have their pictures taken with Santa.

"Why not?" I said, and off we went.

Shortly, we arrived at our destination and took our place in line. Within a few minutes, a little girl, who was struggling to control her hyperactive Siamese cat, joined the ranks behind us. After a long, nervous hour of concealing Felix from that cat, it was Skunky's turn to sit with Santa.

Just as the photographer was about to snap the picture, Skunky hollered, "Wait!" He then stuck greasy hand into his coat pocket, pulled out Felix, and promptly sat him on Santa's leg.

The next thing we knew, a loud, high-pitched screech extruded from the rambunctious Siamese cat. As it leaped from the arms of its master and raced toward the mouse, Felix instinctively headed for cover. . . right up Santa's sleeve.

Unfortunately for St. Nick, the cat was evidently one of the world's best mousers. He saw exactly where Mighty Mouse had gone and did his level best to catch him, scraping layers of skin off Santa's arm in the process.

As the chase went on inside of his suit, Santa jumped out of his chair, performing moves that would make a contortionist jealous, and screamed, "Something's got a hold on me!" For a second, we thought Santa was trying to lead us in a religious revival. Oh how wrong we were.

The chase continued. Across Saint Nick's shoulders and down his back, around his stomach and up his chest they ran, peeling layers of skin with every movement of their paws.

Soon, the dogs waiting in line managed to break free from their masters and pounced upon Santa, barking and pawing at him as they chased the cat who chased the mouse. You can believe me when I tell you it was not a pretty sight.

By now, Santa had taken all the animal chasing and skin scraping that he could, and in an effort to free himself from the half-crazed animals, he began tearing off his suit. It was just about that moment when the owners of the attacking pets decided they needed to get control of their animals. They descended upon St. Nick like a swarm of killer bees, and bedlam continued as the wad of people and animals rolled and tumbled across the parking lot, yelling, grabbing, clawing, and just plain pummeling each other.

We were not long into this mess when a passerby saw the commotion and called the authorities. Well, upon receiving a call that there was a full riot in progress at the supermarket, the town's volunteer fire department arrived and, with the use of their recently purchased water cannon, brought the commotion to a quick and soggy halt.

Eventually, Skunky and I convinced the authorities that we didn't purposely start the mayhem, and, upon promising to never visit Santa at that store again, they allowed us to return home. No problem. You see, ever since then I break out in hives anytime I see "the man in red."

Front Porches

If you watch the news you can't help but be concerned over the troubles America faces today: increase in violent crime, the disintegration of the family, and the deterioration of moral values, just to name a few. Many politicians and concerned citizens groups have spent countless hours and resource trying to fix the woes of America and have failed. But I've come up with a simple solution.

After giving the matter some serious thought (yes, though it's hard to believe, I do have serious thoughts from time to time--usually while I'm in some delirium) I've stumbled upon the cure for what ails America. Porches.

That's right, porches. Now, I'm not talking about just any old porch and certainly not one of those dinky little backyard stoops. No, I'm talking about those grand front porches of yesteryear. Remember them?

The front porch had a huge wooden deck big enough to hold the whole family and a few guests. It was surrounded by a wooden railing and usually had a couple of steps leading down to the front yard. It had a roof that hovered overhead to keep the elements of the weather at bay, and sometimes it was even screened in to keep the bugs out. For sure, when we began building houses without those stately front porches we began building the foundation for society's ruin.

When there were front porches there was no need for a family to schedule a special night of the week just to be together. The porch had a mystical way of drawing family to it. On a warm summer evening you'd find Grandma in here rocker, Momma and Daddy in the glider, and a couple of kids on the front porch swing. The rest of the clan would be seated on a bench or stretched out on the floor while someone played a guitar or a harmonica and an old fashion sing-along was held.

Sometimes everyone, young and old alike, spontaneously gathered on the front porch just to talk. Parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and neighbors would tell stories of the "old days." Sometimes those stories had moral anecdotes, sometimes they were just fun historical notes. Either way, the youngsters listened intently, focused on every word.

The front porch was a place where people really did listened to each other, where mammas, snapping green beans from the garden, sat with their children, giving an ear to each youngster as she helped them find solutions to the many trials of youth. It was a place where people relaxed and meditated,where the stresses and worries of life seemed to flutter away on the wings of a zephr.

Many a romance blossomed on the front porch. Two adolescents would sit in the swing, holding hands, talking of love, life, and the concerns of youth, while Momma and Daddy lingered inside the house, peaking through the screened window, making sure nothing improper was going on.

Many young men went home frustrated at the end of a date because the girl's parents left the porch light on to discourage him from kissing their daughter good night. And a daughter returning home tardy from a date could expect to be embarrassed by her father, waiting for her on the front porch, clad in his bathrobe.

Manners, too, were taught on that front porch of long ago. It's where children were taught to say "hi" to passersby, whether they new them or not, and the passersby answered back with a kind word or a smile and a wave.

Children learned to be patient and wait their turns for their portion of dessert when family and friends gathered on the front porch in the summer to make homemade ice cream. And kids learned to be good sports there too as they played board games, hide and seek, or jacks and the like. In short, it was the hub of the family, the neighborhood, and society itself.

Yes, the front porch once played a positive role in society, and if we are going to solve our country's ills we should get back to building and using those magnificent front porches of the past. Now, is there anyone out there who will let me borrow their front porch for a few hours? Some friends dropped by and we're just itching to make homemade ice cream and hold a group sing-along. Oh, and do you also have an ice cream maker and a guitar we could use?

Cut the Cliches Already!

Ah, we are well into one of my favorite times of the year. No, not the holiday season, FOOTBALL SEASON! Now, there are three subjects I rarely write about: sports, politics, and sex. It's not because I don't like those three subjects (heck, I've played and coached sports, I vote, and the third subject, well, that's none of your business). Still, I don't write much about them because I sometimes confuse the three--now that I think on it, that confusion could be part of the reason I am divorced, but we're getting off track here.

Yes, I love football as much as the next guy, and I feel a bit of a let down at season's end. But there is a bright spot when that time rolls around; I no longer have to listen to the insipid football cliches uttered by sports commentators. I mean, come on, by the end of the season I'm ready to puncture every football in the sporting goods section of every Wal-Mart in town! Obviously, these goonbaw announcers haven't figured out how weary their tired, old football vernacular has become over the years.

So, what follows are a few examples of some of the more hideously, redundant cliches that we are stuck listening to, that is unless you like watching football in closed captioning.

* "Now there's a player!" You think? Could be that's why the dude being referred to as a player is wearing a uniform, is on the field playing, and has a house full of trophies that represent all of his great achievements in the sport.

* Then there's the cliche used to describe a kicker who can kick the ball a fair distance, "He's got plenty of leg!" Does this mean the kicker has just one leg but it's size is huge? Or maybe it means one of his legs is bigger than the other. Perhaps the commentator is referring to his son who grabbed a piece of chicken at dinner the night before.

* "Now there's a player with the whole package." You know, I've yet to find said player who has entered the field with a package, whole or otherwise. Since we're discussing the whole package, a whole package of what? And is that as opposed to a half of a package? And what's in the package that's so important the player feels the need to bring it with him onto the football field?Inquiring minds want to know.

* "And from there he'll try to punch it in." This sounds more like a new sport which combines boxing and football. Would that new game be called foxing or bootball? Of course the commentator could be referring to one of the grounds crew as he inserted his time card into the "clock" before leaving.

* When speaking of a team's ability to stop the run we often here the announcers say, "yeah, they'll sure flatten your tires." This sounds more like the description of a gang of juvenile delinquents than it does a football game.

* "I'll tell yuh what (the favorite four words of all sports commentators are I'll tell yuh what), that kid's got heart!" Now, I'm now Einstein, and I know everyone reading this is thinking, "Naw," but I'd venture to say that if the kid didn't have heart he wouldn't be on the football field. No, he'd be lying in a cemetery somewhere.

Yes, if one wishes to watch football on T.V., there's no way to avoid the cliches often used by sportscasters. All one can do is grit one's teeth and hope they take a speech class or two in the near future.

As for me, I'm going to watch Monday Night Football. The Indianapolis Colts are playing the Pittsburgh Steelers. I'll tell yuh what, those are two teams that have heart and can flatten your tires.

Keep an Eye on That Davenport!

Davenports sure can be deceiving. Isn't it amazing how they look so innocent and serene when, in fact, they're nothing but CLOTHES-SUCKING, COIN-GRABBING,TOY-GULPING MONSTERS?!

I mean, anytime something in my house is missing, the first place we look is under the couch. It seems that's where all of our worldly possessions end up.

One morning, oldest son was running around the house like a dog that had been wormed with turpentine. It seems he couldn't find his shoes and he was late for school. Finally, after tearing the house apart looking for them, he lifted the couch to check under it. As oldest son raised the sofa, I couldn't believe my eyes. Not only were his shoes under there, but there were at least two dump-truck loads of assorted goods under that couch. Why, there was everything from toys to coloring books to enough clothes to stock a Wal-Mart!

Nothing seems exempt from the clutches of the davenport either. One time, middle son asked younger brother where he might find a certain board game. Younger brother said,"look under the couch." He did . . . and it was.

In fact, I believe that's where my dad met my mother. He was looking under the sofa for a lost pair of old stale socks and there she was.

You know, now that I think about it, the next time my neighbor asks for his power tool that I borrowed a while back and misplaced, I think I'll just point to the living room and tell him, "look under the couch."

And my advice to everyone is, unless the pockets of your pants have zippers on them, never sit down on a couch. Anything and everything inside your pockets is very likely to be pilfered by the beast and disappear into the deep, dark crevice's of its cushions.

Oh, how those sofas can be sly devils too. Why, you'll sit down on one, visit with a friend a while, then head home not even suspecting that your pockets have been looted. It'll be days before you'll realize what happened, and since possession is 9/10ths of the law you can forget about reclaiming your goods. A court would never uphold your claim, and besides, if you go before a judge, claiming that someone's davenport robbed you, you could very well end up being put in a rubber room, wearing one of those funny little white jackets with the sleeves that tie in the back.

You know, it was years before I realized that the thievery of our sofa was the reason why my kids, when they were younger, always became hyper when company paid a visit. At first, I thought it was because my children enjoyed socializing. Not so. You see, after our visitors left, the kids would immediately go on a treasure hunt, tearing apart the sofa in search of any trinkets the couch might have pilfered from the pockets of our unsuspecting guests.

One time, the kids even found the neighbor's cat under the sofa after it had been missing for a week. Another time, ex-wife found a pair of pantyhose under the couch. They weren't hers. I had some splainin' to do, until she finally remembered. They belonged to her sister. She'd borrowed them. They disappeared before she could return them.

Well, got to go. A neighbor just called requesting my help. It seems her four-year-old son has wandered off and wants my help in finding him. Hmmm, I wonder if she's looked under her couch.

Getting More Like My Daddy Than Me

A few years ago, an experience awakened me to the fact I was no longer living in that black hole of time between leaving adolescence and not yet having enough life experience to be considered and adult.

One day my oldest son, who was a teen at the time, was listening to his favorite radio station. After hearing a few minutes of his so-called music, I blurted out something I had sworn that my kids would never hear me say: "You call that music?!

I couldn't believe my own ears. Surely that wasn't my voice saying the same words I heard my parents say to me some 20-odd years ago.

I turned around, hoping to find my father standing behind me. People say that he and I sound alike; perhaps he had popped in unannounced, and it was he who I heard give that un-cool critique of my boy's musical taste. No such luck. I was the guilty party, all right.

I quickly ran to the nearest mirror. What I saw confirmed my fears that I was indeed an adult: gray hair; a slightly lined face; a soft, somewhat pudgy stomach; and my hips had rolls on them that would make the folks at Wonder Bread jealous. Yes, all of the classic signs that I was an adult were present.

No way could this be happening to me, I thought. I always lived by the words of that song in Peter Pan, "I don't want to grow up." But here I was, staring adulthood right in the face. Yes, I had become an adult and there was nothing I could do about it.

Questions began exploding in my mind concerning how to handle this discovery. Should I change most of my wardrobe to polyester? Should I insist on bifocals from my optometrist? Should I stop exceeding the speed limit and start driving more slowly than most people run?

Perhaps I should begin taking those vitamins made just for adults and commence adding more fiber to my diet. I even considered going to the supermarket to size up adult diapers, but hey, I still had control of my bodily functions. Why push it?

Finally it dawned on me: Adulthood and growing old are not always synonymous. Adulthood means taking responsibility for the things that are yours, such as dependents, citizenship, debts, mistakes, and rearing your children to be good, upstanding people. Being an adult means acting maturely even when those around you are not. By these standards, some people reach adulthood in their teenage years, while others reach it later in life. Still, many never do become adults.

With this new outlook on adulthood, I began feeling a little better about the whole thing. Then, looking back at the mirror, I was reminded of what the passage of time was doing to a body of which I was once proud. Let me tell you, a whole new awakening occurred. But that's another story for another time.

A Halloween Story

One Halloween night, when I was around eleven-years-old, my childhood friend and partner in mischief, Skunky Wilson, and I had just finished trick-or-treating when Skunky got one of his brilliant ideas.

"Hey, let's go through the cemetery on our way home," he suggested. "It will cut our walking distance in half."

"Are you kidding me?!" I responded. "You know the legend of the hobo." That legend was almost as old as the town itself.

One October day, not many years after our little town of Booger Hollow (pronounced Holler) came into being, a hobo made camp in the woods near the community. Shortly thereafter, children in the area started turning up missing. It didn't take long for people to begin thinking the hobo's arrival in the woods and the disappearance of children was no coincidence.

As children kept disappearing, fear filled the hearts of the town's people, and the public outcry for something to be done became deafening. So, on Halloween eve the city fathers decided enough was enough. They were going to make the town safe for Halloween night and for all nights thereafter.

By torchlight, they searched the woods for the hobo. When they found him they dragged him to the oldest, tallest, and strongest oak tree in the town center. There, the city fathers hung the poor man, then gave him a pauper's burial.

As life began to fade from the hobo's body, he spewed forth a curse upon them all, vowing that on future Halloween nights his grave will open and his corps will stalk the town in search of a child to steal.

At any rate, Skunky scoffed at my remark concerning the hobo. "You still don't believe in that ole tale, do ya?"

"Of course not. I was just checking to see if you did." I wasn't about to let him know that the story still gave me the shivers. There would've been no end to the teasing I'd receive. So, off we went through the town cemetery.

Well, there was an early morning burial scheduled for the next day, and, as was the custom at that time, the grave had been dug the day before the funeral and was left uncovered. It was this practice of not covering freshly dug graves that would prove to be the cause of many a nightmare for Skunky and me.

You see, earlier that evening Lester, the town drunk, had staggered through the graveyard after finishing off a couple of bottles of cheap wine. As Lester staggered through the cemetery he managed to find the freshly dug grave by falling into it, and try as he might, he just couldn't climb out of the seven foot hole. Finally, he just slumped to the floor and fell into a drunken sleep.

Now, Skunky and I found it very difficult to see where we were going. The night sky was overcast and the clouds blocked the light of the moon; plus, the cemetery was abounding with big old weeping willow trees, casting even darker shadows everywhere.

So, we were nervously making our way through the graveyard when I snagged a foot on something, tripped, pitched forward, and began falling into a fairly deep hole. Skunky reached out and caught a hold of my arm and strained to hold me up. But it was to no avail. The forces of gravity won out, and the both of us ended up in the bottom of a freshly dug grave . . . a grave that, oddly enough, smelled of cheap wine.

"Sku, Sku, Skunky, do you suppose that this is the hobo's grave an, an, and even at this moment he's out a huntin' kids?"

"I don't know, but we'd best find a way out of here or we might find the answer to that question the hard way," was his response.

Just then both of us felt a finger tap our shoulders and heard a voice behind us mutter something that to this day I'm still not sure what. All I know is that all of sudden Skunky and I soared to the top of that grave with one giant leap and left a wake of dust behind us as we frantically ran for our homes.

A couple of days later my dad mentioned something about an article in the local paper. The details were sketchy, but evidently the town drunk had been found in an open grave one morning, yelling for help. When asked what he was doing there, he mumbled something about not being able to get a decent night's sleep, not even in the cemetery, without people dropping in on you.

Well at least he only missed one night's sleep. It wasn't until after the passage of time (and intense therapy) that Skunky or I were able to get a solid night's rest. And to this day, I wouldn't advise anybody to tap either one of us on the shoulder from behind--at least not indoors, unless the ceiling is more than seven feet high.

My Theory and Welcome to It

It was the year of 1993 when I began to understand why the number thirteen is considered unlucky. That was when my oldest child officially became a teenager.

Now, it's my theory that when a child hits adolescence certain cells in his brain, the ones which make the rest of the human population sane and reasonable, go dormant. This dormancy is evident by certain behavioral changes in the child.

One of the first changes to take place when a child becomes a teen is what I have termed teenage logic. The following is a prime example of what I'm talking about.

When my oldest son was in the 7th grade he decided he'd set his alarm clock for 5:30 am to give himself ample time to prepare for school. Sure enough, the first day of school at 5:30 in the morning, his alarm (which sounded like the warning alarm that alerts prison officials of an escape attempt) tore apart the quiet of our house. Of course, oldest son slept through the noise.

After peeling myself from my bedroom ceiling, I stumbled upstairs to his room to awaken him. I banged on the wall, flipped his light switch on and off, and yelled his name in an effort to stir signs of life in him.

Finally, he opened an eye half way and said, "I don't have to get up 'til 6:30."

"Then why did you set your alarm for 5:30?" I asked.

"To let me know that I have an hour before I have to get up and get ready." ARRRRRGH!

Another result of the cell dormancy phenomenon is the development of a language called Teenage-eese, the official language of teenagers. In this language words that an adolescent learned at the knees of his parents takes on new definitions.

For instance, once, while in the kitchen, the ceiling above me started rumbling as if a professional wrestling free-for-all was being held up stairs.

"What's going on up there?" I hollered.

"Nothing!" my teenager answered.

Nothing, in Teenage-eese, means, "We're holding a free-for-all wrestling tournament up here, but we don't want you to know about it because we'll get grounded" Got that right.

Another interesting fact is that all adolescent people suffer from a temporary loss of hearing. It seems that they can't talk unless they speak loud enough for the whole county to hear, and
the volume at which their music (boy, am I using that term loosely) is played takes noise pollution to a whole new level. All three of my teens would turn up the volume on the home stereo to decibels I never even knew existed.

If I turned the stereo down, to say the noise level of a jumbo jet as it screams down the runway for takeoff, I'd receive complaints that the music was barely audible. At least this explains why my sons' favorite word during this period of time was, "What?!"

I don't know, but I 'd be willing to bet that more anti-depressants are prescribed to parents suffering the pains of the teen years than to any other group of people. But there is good news.

You see, this cell dormancy phenomenon only lasts about seven to eight years . . . per child. Here's hoping that those of you living with teenagers can survive that long.

Bear Blunder Blues

Over the years, this great state that I live in has had a serious problem. Certain stretches of highway have been built, in what used to be virgin forests, across paths that black bears have been traversing for hundreds of years.

Now, these roads don't deter the bears in the least bit from continued use of these paths, which causes all kinds of havoc on motorists and their cars, not to mention the poor bears, when the two collide. Unfortunately, the citizens of our fair state have relied on the infinite wisdom of our government for a solution to this critical problem.

A few years back, the members of our state legislature put their collective minds together and came up with a brilliant answer. They spent hundreds of thousands if not millions of taxpayer dollars to burrow holes under the highways, thereby providing a bear crossing. Yes, you read it correctly. Our government here in Fantasy Land built bear crossings under our roads.

Oh, but this is not all. After the completion of a tunnel there's an unveiling ceremony held to commemorate the momentous occasion (I don't think any bears have been invited to one yet). We even have signs erected on both entrances of the tunnel stating that it is indeed a "bear crossing."

The biggest problem this great solution? BEARS CAN'T READ!

So, we now have expensive bear crossings under our highways, but because the bears are illiterate they still traverse the roads. This leaves the undying question, what will the government do now?

Well, I have a few ideas on the subject that I'm more than happy to share.

One option is a government funded "Learn To Read" program for bears. Of course, this would mean a world-wide search for someone willing to teach the bears to read. It would also mean the rounding up of all bears in the vicinity and force them to attend the program. This would cost dearly though--especially if the A.C.L.U. gets involved by filing law suits in favor of bears'
rights-- But hey, when it comes to spending tax payer dollars spare no expense, right?

We could even hold a graduation ceremony for the bears when they finish their schooling. The State could provide caps and gowns, hire a speaker, and just throw a grand ole celebration.

Ah, but it's said that bears have lousy eye sight. So maybe it would be better to teach them to read Braille instead.

But better yet, it's my understanding that bears rely more on their keen sense of smell than on their eyes to guide them through the woods. So, maybe every day the state highway department, using the guys you always see on the side of the road leaning on their shovels while one guy does all of the work, could collect road-killed animals and lay them in a line leading from the woods through the bear tunnel. This way, the bears could also snack as they smell their way under the highway.

Another option our great state could try is to hire the animal trainer from the Barnum and Bailey Circus. He could train the bears to cross under the road instead of traversing over it. Of course as soon as the trainer finishes his job and heads back to the circus, the bears, like most students when their teacher's back is turned, will probably become unruly and do what they darn well please anyway. So that's a questionable idea.

Well, there you have it. My solutions to our state's bear blunder blues. You know, it's this kind of government boo boo that tempts me to get more involved in politics.

But then, maybe not. I mean, it was just recently that I learned the Middle East Position has nothing to do with making a move on a board game.

Middle-Age-Crazy

When I returned to college as non-traditional student, I felt the urge to grab a bottle of Grecian Formula and start pricing Corvette Stingrays; I was going through a mid-life crises.

I began acting like those old men I used to laugh at when I was a kid. You know the type: They're in their mid-forties; they part their hair down by one ear to hide their bald spots that is until people begin whispering in their noses.

They're also the guys who won't admit they have a middle-age spread and always buy pants two inches too small in the waist and walk around with their stomachs sucked in so deep their chests hit their chins. But I digress.

Now, when I returned to school, I thought I was still in my prime. But one day a young classmate and I were talking, and I mentioned something about the first landing on the moon. "You can remember the first moon landing?!" he exclaimed. By the tone of his voice, you would have thought it had taken place a hundred years earlier.

As if that wasn't bad enough, later that day, while walking to another class, I overheard a couple of young ladies discussing some guy in their previous class who was "at least thirty years old." I was turning thirty-one the following week, and their comment was the one that got me.

For the first time, I noticed my mid-section rolled a little--OK, a lot--over my belt. It was a struggle just to keep from making a mad rush to the nearest pay phone and place an emergency call to Jenny Craig.

For some reason my hair seemed a bit grayer. Old injuries ached a little more; I moved a little stiffer.

And that is why exercising was tough. Oh, I did it, but the morning after, rigor mortis set in, and I'd decide it wasn't worth it. Even my eyelids would get sore from exercising. Once the soreness left, though, and I was amongst the younger crowd again, I'd go middle-age-crazy and the whole routine started over.

Well, that was a while back and I guess things have gotten better, a little anyway. I no longer sit straighter in chairs to stretch the rolls of my stomach so the buttons on my shirt won't pop and my "love handles" won't show.

No, I've discovered loose-fitting, over-sized, non-tuck-in shirts. Not only do they hide the fact that my stomach has gone from a six-pack to a soggy roll of Pillsbury dough boy biscuits, but they also allow me to, when needed, walk around with unsnapped pants and a loosened belt, usually the result of over-eating.

But let’s get back to that little mid-life crisis. I have to admit something good did come out of that. You see, I'd always thought getting old meant that when you go to bed at night you put our teeth in a cup, your ears in a drawer, your eyes in a case, your hair on a shelf, and the friends who visit you the most are the Ritis brothers...Arthur and Bruce.

Now I realize it's all just a matter of perspective.

Who Says Dogs Don't Have a Sense of Humor?

When I become a grandparent I've promised myself to think twice before taking the grandkids camping or on trips for that matter. I'll pretend I lost my hearing aids and can't hear their requests. I arrived at this conclusion after contemplating what my brothers and I put my grandparents through when they took us on outings.

I remember one summer my grandparents, thinking of a way to add pain and misery to their lives, decided to take my brothers and me on a trip through Yellowstone National Park.

For the sightseer in Yellowstone a car parked to the side of the road means only one thing, an animal sighting. Unfortunately, to the practical joker visiting the park, this presents an opportunity for mischief.

At one point during our tour of Yellowstone, Mother Nature began vigorously testing the threshold of my body's ability to hold liquids. Being a Youngster of 9 years, I was a bit leery about walking into the woods to find a tree to use as a substitute for the proper facilities normally sought after when Ma Nature wins the battle of the bladder.

My grandfather finally took me by the hand and said, "Come on Doug, I've got to go too." Together we walked up a small incline, entered the forest and found a couple of suitable commodes.

It wasn't long until Gramps and I noticed all types of vehicles parking up and down the highway. People were piling out of those vehicles, aiming binoculars and cameras, with telephoto lenses, in our direction.

Sweat began to trickle and then pour down my body as the fear ran through me that my grandpa and I were sharing our "outdoor bathroom facility" with some wild animal of the wood.
But as we looked around (trying to see what beast of prey was about to devour us), we noticed my brothers leaning out the windows of the car, pointing in our direction, screaming "Bear, bear!"

I never knew the human face could turn so deep a shade of red as ours did at that moment. As we saw people focusing their binoculars, in our direction, and heard the click of camera shutters, it seemed to me the temperature of that cool mountain air rose to the point that Death Valley would have felt like the Arctic.

After stalling for a spell, it was obvious that the people in the "bear jam" weren't leaving until Papa bear and his cub came out of the forest to receive the cheers and joshing the two knew awaited them.

"Let's go. It doesn't look like we can get out of this one," Grandpa said, as we zipped up our pants and walked back to the car.

As we returned to the car, I saw my brothers laughing so hard I was tempted to put a paper bag tightly over their faces, to prevent hyperventilation, of course.

I recall another trip with my grandma and grandpa when we went camping in the Bitter Root Mountains of Idaho to cut wood in preparation for heating their home during the oncoming winter.

Our camp was about 10,000 feet above sea level. Do you know what 10,000 feet above sea level feels like to a boy who grew up by the ocean? As we drove higher and higher up the mountain to where we'd make camp for the night, I began to wonder when the oxygen masks were going to pop out of the ceiling of our truck, like I'd seen them do in those airplane horror movies which always seem to show up on TV the night before you're scheduled to fly out of town.

Well, we were sitting around the campfire that first night when all of a sudden the air around us filled with the putrid smell of burning rubber.

Mass confusion distilled upon us as we scrambled around the campsite searching for the cause of the stench. At a glance, our tent, and various other camping gear, seemed in good order.

Suddenly, a screech of terror rang through the woods which I was sure would cause the windows in the truck to shatter. "My boots! My boots!" exclaimed my oldest brother as he danced in circles around the camp doing some sort of fire dance. Admiring his magnificent display of grace and coordination, we noticed the heel of his right rubber boot was melted half off while the heel of the other was smoldering and attaching itself to any loose object my brother happened to prance on.

Later that night, sound asleep in our tent, I was awakened by the foul smell of bad breath against my face. Promises? Talk about promises. I quickly began promising the Lord all kinds of things if he'd just turn the bear in my tent into a vegetarian. "I'll never fight with my brothers again. I'll mind my mom and dad;I'll do everything they say. I'll even let Aunt Saliva Lips, ugh, I mean, I'll let Aunt Hulga kiss me--even if her breath does smell worse than this bear's."

While breaking out in a mass of hives (hey, some people break out in hives when faced with death, others lose control of bodily functions; I prefer the former), I finally got the nerve to open one eye just enough to see the source of my fears. I immediately relaxed...and felt a little embarrassed.

Poncho, one of my grandparents' German shepherds, had snuggled against me in his sleep--seemingly oblivious to the fact that he had caused me to make a bunch of promises I now had to keep...and they say dogs don't have a sense of humor.

"These Boots Were Made for Walking" (and Not to Be Used As a Wallet)

Often, doing things the cheap way isn't always the best way. I learned that lesson a while back.

A few years ago, a bud and I flew to Nashville, Tennessee. Since I was traveling on the American Poverty Plan, I could ill afford to lose what little traveling money I had set aside for the excursion. But I didn't want to spend what it would cost to buy traveler's checks, so my "used-to-be" wife came up with a great idea. She suggested I put my $50.00 bill, which had to last two weeks, inside one of the cowboy boots I was wearing (yes, I've been known to wear them now and then). That way if I was accosted, the bad guys wouldn't get my money.

Well, early into our trip my friend Steve and I decided on pizza for dinner. We walked into a quaint little place and gave our order to the counter person.

As we made an attempt to seat ourselves at a table, it was pointed out that the policy was for customers to pay at the counter first. This bit of information caused Steve to burst into uncontrollable laughter, for he figured that the 50 dollars of mine had by now slithered all around the inside of my boot, and he could just picture the scene I'd make as I tried to hunt it down. And he was right.

There I was, standing on one leg, the other raised in the air, resembling something akin to a clumsy flamingo in cowboy boots, with both hands digging around inside the boot of my raised foot, searching for my money. I might as well have put a flashing neon sign on my back that read "COME ROB ME!"

This whole scenario wouldn't have been half so bad if it hadn't been for the broken table and chairs, not to mention my head, arm and ribs. You see, in my struggle to get my money out of its human vault, I began teetering back and forth. As I did so, I attempted, out of pure reflex, to grab the edge of the counter, which didn't work too well considering both my hands were down my boot.

I performed a nice pirouette (it was rated a 9.5 by customers and staff alike) and fell smack into the nearest table and chairs, landing in a couple of plates of spaghetti . . .and bread . . .and sauce
. . .and soda.

Not only did I break the furniture with my landing, but I, if you can believe it, ruined the romantic dinner for the young couple fortunate enough to be sitting there, witnessing my great acrobatic feat. I thought about charging them for the entertainment, but since my act wasn't mentioned on the menu, Steve advised me to leave it alone.

But the worst of this whole ordeal was how it all ended. You see, my arm and ribs weren't injured from smashing into the furniture. Nooooooo, that came later, when the E.M.T.s , after I told them what had happened, laughed so hard they dropped the stretcher they were carrying me on.

So, the next time you see a commercial on T.V. about the convenience of traveler's checks, take it from me, you really ought to listen.