Mother Nature's Sense of Humor

Over the years, it has come to my attention that Mother Nature has a sense of, a wicked sense of humor, and one of her favorite targets for a joke is the human body, especially body hair.

Young men, especially teenagers, look upon body hair as a sign of their manhood--the hairier one is the more machismo one has. But does Ma Nature care about the fragile psyche of the male teen? Only to the degree of what kind of jokes she can play on him.

For instance, while attending Jr. High School (7th-9th grades), I knew guys who could grow full beards--the rest of us were seniors in high school before we could grow a mustache and even then it was “baseball” mustache, 9 on each side.

Those guys not only had a thick head of hair, but they also had enough chest hair to make a woman’s wig. Shoot, by the time I had any chest hair I was crowding age 40, fighting my own personal Battle of the Bulge, was a veteran of 17 years of marriage, and had 3 sons. What the heck good did it do me then? But I diverge.

Anyway, the girls flocked to those guys as if they were Chip and Dale dancers. So what cruel little joke did Mom Nature play on them? Well, by the time these guys were seniors in high school, when the rest of us male students (and a few of the girls) could barely sprout the pitiful beginnings of a mustache, the hairy apes of our school were going bald, and it shook their manhood to the core.

It was a pathetic sight to walk into the men’s lavatory at my high school and see guys, who once were the epitome of manhood, sobbing as they looked in the mirror at their rapidly thinning hair.

While we’re on the subject of body hair, when I was a cocky, know-it-all teen, I used to laugh at men with nose hair. I thought they belonged in the freak tent of a carnival between the bearded woman and the snake man.

Well, Mother Nature played another cruel trick on me. That’s right, you’ve guessed it. I now trim my nose hairs every three or four days (it beats braiding them) so cocky, know-it-all teenagers don’t laugh at me, thinking I belong in the freak tent of carnival.

Oh, and let’s not forget the eyebrows. Call it karma, Mother Nature’s wicked sense of humor, what ever you want, but I’m now paying for all those years I made rude comments about old men’s bushy eyebrows. You know the comments: “Man, are there any birds nesting in those brows?” or “Hey, have you seen my dog? Last week he chased a squirrel into your eyebrows and I haven’t seen him since!”

Well, not only am I trimming the length of my eyebrows so as not to look like sheep dog, but every three to four days I have to shave my UNIBROW! Oh how we pay for our past misdeeds.

Mother Nature demonstrates her sick sense of humor in other ways as well. I used to be under the false impression that when one reaches adulthood one quits growing, WRONG! Only parts of the human body quit growing. Some never quit growing until the day we die.

You see, I’ve come to believe that our feet continue to grow even after we’ve reached adulthood—either that or shoe manufacturers have changed the sizing of shoes. I swear, in two years my feet have grown two shoe sizes. I’m not complaining mind you. This has allowed me to catch up to the size of my oldest son’s feet. I just wonder what size of shoe I’ll be wearing when I die, will my feet reach size 30? Heck, why stop there? Why not a size 50? At least it would insure me a place in the freak tent at the carnival (I really have a fear of freak tents, don’t I?) or a spot in a Ripley’s Believe It Or Not building.

And speaking of body parts that keep growing, it wasn’t that long ago that I was a thin as a blade of grass. I’m talking a 28 inch waist at age 32. I could eat as much of anything my little heart desired and I would never put on weight. But now, though Momma Nature has seen fit to curve my body’s ability to burn calories and fat, she hasn’t seen fit to curve my appetite. Now, I ask you is that cruel or what?

Yes, Mother Nature has a warped sense of humor, and if I haven’t convinced you of that yet just wait, because another part of the body that continues to grow until you die is your ears. The older you get the bigger they’ll be, better get used to the nickname Dumbo.

Looks Can Be Deceiving

It’s been said that looks can be deceiving. Uncle Billy Roy Silas learned this lesson one Thanksgiving, long ago.

Uncle Billy and his fiancé Betsy Ann, were married two days before the Thanksgiving holiday in 1931. Because of the great depression, they couldn’t afford a honeymoon. Since neither of them had family close enough to visit, they thought it would be nice to invite some of Billy’s co-workers and friends over for Thanksgiving dinner.

“Y’all just wait,” Uncle Billy told his buddies. “Why Betsy Ann is the finest cook this side of Dixon County. My mouth’s just a waterin’ thinkin’ about all the good food we’re gonna eat.”

Billy Roy knew what he was talking about too. Before they were married, he’d hop the train on the weekends and endure the two and a half hour ride to Hawk Hollow just to visit Betsy and her family. While he was there, Aunty Betsy did all the cooking for the clan to try and impress Billy. It must have worked for within three weeks after his first visit they were engaged and two and a half weeks later, they were married. Yip, ole Billy loved to eat, and Miss Betsy and her momma cleverly lured him into wedded bliss through platefuls of collards and greens, fried chicken, fat back, grits, cakes, etc. The only thing that puzzled Billy Roy was that Betsy’s momma seemed to disappear shortly after he arrived and said his hellos, and she didn’t return until dinner was about to be served. Other than that she was very friendly toward him but it left him wondering if he met with her approval.

Like I mentioned earlier, Uncle Billy and Aunt Betsy were married just a couple of days before the Thanksgiving holiday, and luckily, they had received a lot of food stuffs from their families to help them get their new life started. So, Betsy really didn’t have to do much cooking those first few days of marriage, and she could concentrate on preparing a nice holiday dinner for her new husband and their guests.

Company began arriving at 11 a.m. that Thanksgiving morning. Betsy Ann was fluttering around the kitchen and dining area putting the finishing touches on the much bragged about dinner; she wanted everything to be just perfect for the gala event.

On the table was a nicely sliced, buttered golden-brown turkey, a two layered cake, apple turnovers, cranberry sauce, dressing, and many of the other standard eats for the occasion. After they all sat to the table and grace was said over the meal, the food was passed around.

It was about halfway through dinner when in mid conversation, Uncle Billy began acting strange. “You know yesterday …ack, cough, gasp!” Billy grabbed his throat with one hand while frantically sticking the index finger of his other hand deep into his throat. At first, the group thought Billy Roy was clowning around, but by the time his complexion turned from pink to purple, they realized this was no joke. Everyone jumped from their chairs and rushed over to help Billy open his airway, but before they could all get their fingers down his throat, Uncle Billy had dislodged the blockage.

You see, back in those days, before you cooked a turkey, you used twine to tie its legs together. Evidently, Aunt Betsy forgot to untie the legs before she sliced and served the bird, and Uncle Billy learned of her mistake the hard way by swallowing the twine, which caught on his tongue and cut off his airway.

With the near fatal accident behind them, dinner resumed. When it came time to eat the enormous turnovers, Billy couldn’t resist bragging about his wife’s cooking one more time. “Wow!” Look at the size of them thangs, would ya fellers?”

“Yeah boy,” responded Billy’s best friend John Robert, “and from what you be a sayin’, Billy Roy, I’ll bet they taste as good as they look.” And with that, John stuck a fork into the one Betsy had just served him. Poof, the turn over deflated—it was all air.

A little red faced, Uncle Billy tried to salvage some pride by quickly serving the cake. He grabbed a knife to begin slicing the chocolate delight. The knife sailed through the first layer of cake just fine. But when the knife hit the second layer, it would go no further. Cut as he might, all Billy could do was smash the bottom half of the cake with the knife. “What the heck?!” For the life of him, Billy couldn’t figure out why that silly knife wouldn’t slice that bottom layer of cake.

It was about that time when Betsy hollered from the kitchen, “Hey Billy, have you seen two brown and white hot pads? I can’t find them anywhere!”

Mumbling some indistinguishable words, Uncle Billy tore into the cake with his hands. Yip, Aunt Betsy had somehow left the hot pads between the two layers of cake.

Billy went to bed that night mystified at the change in his bride’s cooking. It makes you wonder where Betsy’s momma quietly slipped off to those weekends long ago when Billy Ray came a courtin’, doesn’t it?

Cheap Entertainment

If you were to ask, most people would agree that uninvited sales calls should be a federal offense, the penalty for which would be listening to rap music for 36 hours straight at a volume that would make the noise from a shuttle launch sound like a Lawrence Welk concert.

Now, I know we have the “no call” list and in my opinion it’s one of the greatest things government has done since raising the speed limit back to 70 mph on the interstate.

But where’s the fun in being on that list? Besides, being the sneaky little boogers that they are, “cold” callers continue to find ways around the law: “survey” calls—they tell you they’re taking a survey, which somehow mysteriously winds up being a sales call by the end of the survey; the “This is so and so with such and such company, returning your call (of course, you’ve never heard of the company let alone called them),” or they call you on your cell phone, which evidently isn’t covered under the “no call” list.

But I have an amusing way of striking back that can provide many a fun filled minute of entertainment. I call it my annoy the annoyer strategy, and it’s so much fun because for them time is money--the faster make a sell the more money they make per hour, and wasting time on a call that’s going know where is like digging a dry well, it’s nonproductive. Think about the following scenario for a minute and I’m sure you’ll get my drift.

You’re dozing away in bed, in the middle of one of the best dreams you’ve had in a long time, when suddenly you’re rudely jolted awake by the ringing of your phone.

It’s a sales call, and 0nce you finally get the guy’s name and the company he represents out of him, do what I do.

“Hello,” I say in a tone of voice that gives the caller more than a hint that he’d just awakened me from a deep sleep.

“Hi Doug [don’t you hate it when they call you by your first name, as if you’re life-long buds. It makes me want to stuff mini-Tootsie Rolls up his nose]. “How ya doing this morning?”

“Uh. . .”

“This is Phil Potlicker with the ALMOST A DISASTER HOME IMPROVEMENT STORE. The reason I’m calling is we’re offering 20% off all of our products this month to all homeowners because we care.”

“Yeah, that’s nice. I don’t need anything right now. . .”

“Are ya sure? We’ve got. . .”

“Say, you ought to call my uncle Tuck. Really his name is Tucson, but we call him Tuc for short.”
“Good for him.”

“Yeah, actually he’s owned several homes, all on the same lot, what with the fire, the tornado, the floods and all.”

“Hmmm. That’s interesting. But what I need to know is do you. . .”

“Say, you don’t sell insurance too do ya? Uncle Tuck could sure use some. His last insurance company dropped him. They told him. . .”

“Well, that’s all very interesting, but the reason for my call is to. . .”

“You know, you really should contact my uncle. After hurricane Happy Bottom, I mean Gladys—little family joke there—he needs all the home improvement stuff you have.”

“Uh, huh.”

“Of course, you’ll have to wait ‘til he’s allowed to leave the asylum. Poor guy, the last disaster just broke his spirit all to pieces.”

Click!

Works like a charm.

Yes, sales calls are annoying, and they seem to always come at the most inconvenient time (as if there’s ever a convenient time for them to come), when you’re sleeping, reading, half way out the door and running late, hovered over the commode regurgitating breakfast due to the flu, or when you’re about to use the bathroom because your bladder is so full your back teeth are floating. And I’ll admit I’ve been tempted to put my name on the “no call” list like so many people have done, but that’s like taking Beano before participating in a chili eating contest. It takes the fun out of the whole experience, and hey, a guy’s got to have a little entertainment now and then, doesn’t he?

Bumper Stickers and Personalized Plates

Bumper stickers and personalized license plates (or tags as we call them out here) are fun to read. You can also learn lot about people by what their bumper stickers and personalized tags say.

I once saw a personalized tag that read, Pray4U. The first thought that came to my mind was, is this a warning about the guy’s driving ability? I mean, is he such a lousy driver that even he prays for the safety of others? Let me give you a free piece of advice. If you see a car with Pray4U on its tag, GET OUT OF THE WAY!

And speaking of religious statements on vehicles, I also saw a tag that read, I Pray. Isn’t that nice? I just hope the driver of that car doesn’t close his eyes while praying and driving at the same time. Although from the erratic way he was driving I suspect that's exactly what he was doing.

Then there’s the tag on a truck that simply says, Booger. Do you suppose the idea for that came from a bad habit the driver never broke? I know, I shouldn’t pick on the guy, so let’s move on.

Reading bumper stickers can also provide much amusement. There’s the bumper sticker that reads, Honk If You Love Jesus. Someone honked. The honkee gave the honker the one-finger Florida Howdy, or as we lovingly refer to it, the state bird. And isn’t that how it usually goes? Those who displayed their religion on their cars are usually the rudest people on the road.

Another bumper sticker I saw on a car read, Our Other Car Is A Rolls Royce. Liars, liars, liars, the car was beat up, its bumpers were tied on, the hood was secured with bailing wire, and it didn’t even have a roof. If you believe their other car is a Rolls Royce I have some swamp land here in Florida I’ll sell you.

A while back, I saw a sticker on the bumper of a truck that read, Men Are Idiots And I Married Their King. Now there’s a marriage that’s going to last, isn’t it? I’m surprised there wasn’t a procession of divorce attorneys following her around.

Some of my all time least favorite stickers are the ones that brag about a person’s family members. Ask Me About My Grandkids is one of the worst in my book. Get a clue people, it’s the same with your kids (grandkids) as it is with your dogs—nobody thinks they’re as cute and wonderful as you do, so quit shoving them down our throats!

I saw a bumper sticker made just for this type of grandparent: I Don’t Give A D### About Your Grandkids!

There is one bumper sticker concerning one’s kids that I wouldn’t mind having, wished I’d thought of it myself: I Never Really Learned To Swear ‘til I Had Kids.

So there you have it, my thoughts on personalized tags and bumper stickers. No doubt they can be fun to read and they usually reveal a thing or two about the driver’s personality. I guess that’s why I’ve yet to put the bumper sticker on my car that my sons gave me for Father’s Day--Momma Didn't Raise No Fool . . . Just An Idiot.

There Ought to Be a Law

There ought to be a law against anyone attending a fishing trip who doesn’t understand the seriousness of yelling, “moose!” around a temperamental young bull of said species.

You see, when I was 14 I attended a camp owned by the corporation for which my father worked. One warm summer afternoon, Tom, a boy my age; Vern (Tom’s dad), Bob and his 3-year-old son, were lazily fishing in a canoe on the Little Snake River in the state of Idaho. The fishing was lousy and our attention span, along with any hopes of catching fish, withered in the heat of the sun.

Tom had just finished telling a joke when I spied something downstream.
“Hey, look,” I said. “There’s Bullwinkle.”

A few yards from us was a young, but very large, bull moose, standing knee-deep in water, feeding off the river bottom.

“Bullwinkle, where’s Rocky?”

With that remark, my companions burst into laughter, and silliness overtook us.

Our jocularity caught the attention of young Bullwinkle, who stared back at us.

“We’d best quiet down,” suggested Vern. “We don’t wanna rile the big fella.”

We hushed, and Bullwinkle went back to eating. But before long we were acting giddy again, when suddenly Tom lost the smile on his face. “Look!” he bellowed.

Bullwinkle was shaking his antlers at us.

“Hush up now, or we’ll be in a heap of trouble,” Vern said, and this time there was more than a hint of concern in his voice.

Just as we finally quieted down again, our 3-year-old partner pointed downstream and hollered, “Moose, Daddy!”

Bullwinkle again shook his antlers at us.

Turning ghostly pale, Vern bestowed upon us the wisdom of age, “Let’s get the #### out of here!”

As if on cue, Bullwinkle began swimming toward us.

Bob and Vern slapped the water with their paddles, moving the canoe toward shore. Now I must interject something here. Just before this incident occurred, I had read an article about a fisherman who had been treed 12 hours by a moose. So it shouldn’t seem odd that when we were a couple of feet from shore, Tom and I leaped from the canoe (we both swore we heard Vern and Bob yell “jump!”), which pushed it back to the middle of the river.

Once on shore, I ran straight up the river’s embankment, looking for a tree to climb. You know, it’s a strange feeling when you are being chased by a moose and suddenly realize that the only trees big enough to climb are rotten and will collapse under your weight. Luckily, I spied a Jeep Cherokee not far from me. If Bullwinkle was still on my heels, I figured on climbing that Jeep and sitting on the roof. I didn’t see the moose, but what I did see was astounding.

To the right and a little behind me, Bob (all 300 lbs of him) had his son by one arm and was running up the steep embankment. Not far from Bob was Vern, running stride for stride with Bob.

Vern had been in a motorcycle accident years earlier and had seven compound fractures in one leg. These injuries left him with a permanent limp. Yet, he was running faster than the rest of us.

The following spring Tom called me to ask, “Hey, going to camp this summer?”
I hope I didn’t damage his hearing when I slammed the phone down onto its receiver.

Signs of Our Times

Signs are interesting, aren’t they? They come in an array of sizes and shapes, with all kinds of information on them, and though some signs are needed most are a waste of time, energy, and material.

For instance, there’s a sign I saw the other day in someone’s yard that read, “For Sale By Owner.” Who else would be selling this man’s house?! Have you ever seen a sign that said, “For Sale by Neighbor”?

“Yeah, come on in, we’ll sell it to ya. The owners are down at the supermarket. They’ll never know.”

Another sign I don’t understand is a street sign not far from my home which reads, “Dip.” When I first saw that sign I pulled off to the side of the road and spent an hour and a half looking for my brother-in-law.

Or there’s the sign that says, “Slow Children At Play.” Hey, if they’re so slow a warning needs to be posted I figure I can dodge them!

And let’s not forget another ever needed sign posted through out town, “Stop For Pedestrians In Crosswalk.” My first thought when coming upon this sign was, is this a problem here? I mean, stopping for people in crosswalks should’ve been covered in Driver’s Ed. 101. If driver’s in your area need a sign to remind them not to run over pedestrians I say get out of their way!

And speaking of crosswalks, while living in the Ozark Mountains I noticed a sign one day that the city of Branson, Missouri had erected at a crosswalk at the bottom of a very steep hill. It read, “Stop For Children In Crosswalk.” What? Like old people are fair game? “Look, Martha, there’s an old geezer crossing the street with a walker. That’s like, 50 points on the score card, isn’t it?”

Since I mentioned Branson, Missouri, one of the strangest signs I ever saw was for a business in Branson. The sign read, “Locksmiths And Hair Styling.” Heaven knows we’ve needed something like that for a long time now.

Just how did that idea come about? Did some guy walk into the shop one day to have a key made and said to the person at the counter, “You know, you did a heck of a job cutting that key, I think I’ll let you cut my hair?”

I’ll have to admit, though, I did come across an idea for a sign that was a brilliant, and it might even cut down the number of road rage incidents. It was suggested that every licensed driver in the U.S. be given a dart gun with darts (the suction cup type of darts). Each dart would have a little flag attached to it with the word IDIOT on it. Every time someone cuts you off in the lane, runs a red light, drives while shaving or reading a book (I once saw a young lady driving a stick shift, smoking, putting on her makeup, and talking on her cell phone all at the same time), does 35 mph in the passing lane on the interstate, etc., other drivers can shoot his car with an IDIOT dart. When a person has five or more darts hanging on his car the police pull him over and give him a ticket. Said driver would also receive a hefty fine and have to take a Driver’s Ed. course. To me, this would be an excellent usage of signs—though my family tells me that with the way I drive my car would be plastered with darts before I got a mile from home. Now that I think about it maybe that’s not such a great idea.

Well, I could drone on and on concerning this subject, but I think you get the idea and really I’ve belabored the point long enough. I guess there’s just nothing left to do except sign off (ouch!).

A Marriage That Can Survive Back-Seat Driving Can Survive Anything

Show me a marriage that can survive the perils of back-seat driving; I’ll show you a marriage that will last for eternity. Let’s face it, back-seat driving is the biggest threat known to wedded bliss.

There are, of course, the obvious problems which arise between couples when one is being informed by the other on how bad one’s driving is. But there is also a backlash from back-seat driving which can occur. I’m reminded of an incident when I was in the fourth grade.

My dad had been letting us (my mom, my siblings, and me) know, under no uncertain terms, that he had all of the back-seat driving from us that he was going to take. One day, while at the supermarket, Dad decided to back our humongous station wagon into a chosen parking spot. Mom had already gotten out of the car to fetch a shopping cart when she spied Dad backing into a parked car located directly opposite of us. CRUNCH!

As Dad and my younger brother and I observed the damage done to both vehicles, Mom walked up and informed Dad that she saw it (the collision) coming.

“Well, why didn’t you say something?” was Dad’s reply.

“Because,” Mom laughed, “you said not to tell you how to drive anymore.”

As a result, my dad's been a little more open to suggestions when behind the wheel of a vehicle, and my parents have been married now for over 50 years.

My grandparent’s marriage also survived the perils of back-seat driving. No matter where they’d go on a trip, they usually wound up not speaking to each other (mainly due to Gramps taking one of his infamous short cuts) by the time they reached their destination.

One time my family and my grandparents went on a trip to San Francisco, California back in the late 1960s. We took our car while Grandma and Grandpa drove their camper and toted a trailer behind them.

Not long before we entered the city limits of San Francisco, we noticed the camper was no longer following our car. In fact, my grandparents were nowhere in sight. Dad pulled the car into a gas station and we waited for my grandparents. We waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. Finally, just about the time Mom and Dad had decided to file a missing persons report, here came the camper scampering down road. Gramps was behind the wheel, driving, but Grandma no longer sitting beside him—she was in the camper, lying on the upper bed, peering out of the window. From the expression on their faces, we knew what had happened; Gramps had, true to form, taken one of his short cuts, and they had gotten lost. Both had a look on their faces that would have made Adolf Hitler shiver with fear, yet, when Gramps departed this life they’d been married over 60 years.

Perhaps back-seat driving was the ruin of my marriage. The former Mrs. Bagley was so paranoid about my driving that I had to threaten to tape her eyelids shut when I was behind the wheel.

You don’t suppose it had something to do with the fact that every single piece of damage inflicted upon our vehicles happened when I was the driver? Hey, none of them were my fault including that darn light pole that jumped in front of the truck as I pulled forward out of my parking spot at the shopping center.

Kids Say the Darnedest Things

Throughout one’s life, misunderstandings are inevitable. That’s just the way life is. Sometimes these misunderstandings can be amusing, like the time I caused my parents immense embarrassment from a misunderstanding when I was just four years old.

My dad was working long hours so my parents had to make good use of what little free time they had to discuss family matters, plan things, etc. So, it was not unusual, while dad was taking his evening shower, for mom to slip into the bathroom, take up a seat on the counter, and chat with dad.

One particular evening, while mom was chatting with dad as he showered, the phone rang. Unfortunately for my parents, I answered it.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi there, is your daddy home?” a man asked.

“Yes, but he’s in the shower.”

“Well, is your mother home?”

“Yes.” I answered.

“Can I speak to her?”

“She’s in the shower with my daddy.” To my young mind, two people, a bathroom, and running water added up to a two-person shower.

Now this, of course, was rather embarrassing for my folks (you have to realize this took place during a period in time when talking of such things as a man and woman showering together was a social taboo), but what made it even more humiliating was that the caller was our local clergy.

I just couldn’t understand why my parents were red in the face the next Sunday when they shook hands with him at church, nor could I understand why our clergy had such a big grin on his face as my parents sheepishly said hello to him.

Then there was the time when I gave my first grade teacher cause for deep concern about my upbringing. It was during a time in my life my when my grandfather, whom I idolized, had taken a partial retirement from his job, with plans for a full retirement in the near future.

Well, the whole family was excited for gramps. Now he’d have more leisure time to do more of the things he loved to do: camping, fishing, hunting, puttering around the house, just to name a few.

Caught up in all of the excitement, I just had to share with my classmates what was going on in the life of my hero. So, one morning, during show and tell, I stood in front of the class and proudly announced that my grandfather was partially retarded and things were going to be even better for him because soon he’d be fully retarded.

My children, I fear, have followed in their father’s footsteps. You see, a few years back, when my sons were little I was discussing the subject of life and death with them. Youngest son asked me to explain to him what a baby’s umbiblical cord was and middle son asked a question about the Grand Raper who comes to get you when you die.

You don’t suppose it’s an inherited thing do you?

Everything but the Kitchen Sink

For me, one of the more interesting mysteries in life is the difference in how men and women carry their necessities with them. Now, guys carry in their back pocket what is referred to as a wallet. It carries all of the essential items a man will ever need: money, credit cards, pictures, driver’s license, social security card, etc. If it won’t fit into the wallet it isn’t worth taking.

But with women it’s a whole other matter. My ex-wife, for instance, couldn’t go anywhere without carrying a bag bigger than the one Santa Clause uses when delivering toys.

I think it started when eldest child was born. How was I, a naïve kid of 21, supposed to know that having a child meant bringing a whole arsenal of equipment along where ever we’d go? Instead of a diaper bag we could have used a pirate’s chest big enough to hold a Shetland pony. Between the 10 million diapers, the 20 million diaper pins (yes, we used cloth diapers), the 5,000 baby bottles, and all of the play things from a Toys-R-Us store, we needed a U-Haul to carry it all just to visit my parents . . . and they lived just a block away!

Of course, you know who did all of the toting, me. Why, when eldest child was born I swear my feet and hands instantly turned into hooves. I started walking on all fours, and my ears grew long and pointed. When asked a question, instead of answering it in English, I’d answer it with, “Hee haw, hee haw.” My how I quickly gained a healthy respect for my distant four-legged cousin the pack mule.

Now, one would think that after the kids were out of diapers former Mrs. Bagley would’ve downsize her carrying bag to a pocket book or at least to an average sized purse. WRONG! She continued to carry with her a satchel that puts the duffle bag of any professional sports player to shame.

What all she carried in there I never did find out. I mean, she had so much stuff in there I could’ve rummaged through it for a week and not seen the same item twice—I once found a dead cockroach and enough change in there to fill a bank vault.

Funny thing was, she not only knew what she had in that satchel but she also knew where every item was located. If we were away from home and in need of some odd thing like say a tire patch kit, seemingly out of no where ex-wife would produce one.

Actually, it’s my belief that former Mrs. Bagley inherited this character flaw from her mother. Boy could that woman fill a handbag. Like they say, she stuffed everything in there but the kitchen sink.

One time when her parents were visiting I had bronchitis, and it was my job to take them around town to see the sites. Anytime I displayed an outward sign of my illness, SHAZAM! Like Florence Nightingale, ex-mother-in-law would dip a hand into “Nurse June’s” carry-all bag and produce the correct medicine to ease the symptom. Cough drops, Aspergum, throat spray, you name it, it went in me—thank goodness the one thing she didn’t have in that bag was Preparation-H.

But you know, though I get a chuckle over women and their carrying bags, there’s usually something in them that I need. Now that I think of it, I should’ve had former wife search her bag for that five-man-tent we misplaced when moving here. Who knows? It might have been in there.

Adulthood

When I was a child I couldn’t wait to become an adult. Adults were older, wiser, knew the answers to the complicated questions of life. After all, it was they who determined the age one had to be to acquire a driver’s license. It was they who decided the age at which someone was mature enough to have a say in government, via the vote. It was they who determined when to go to war or when to try other means of dealing with those whom they deemed our enemies.

But well into my adult years now, if nothing else I have learned one thing about life: the older I get the less I know.

You see, adult life is not that “cut and dried”. In fact, as a child, life was by far simpler than it is as an adult.

Shades of Gray, a song on The Monkees 1967 album Headquarters, nicely sums all of this up. I share that song with you now.

Shades of Gray
By Barry Man and Cynthia Weil

When the world and I were young just yesterday
Life was such a simple game a child could play
It was easy then to tell right from wrong
Easy then to tell weak from strong
When a man should stand and fight or just go along

But today there is no day or night
Today there is no dark or light
Today there is no black or white
Only shades of gray

I remember when the answers seemed so clear
We had never lived with doubt or tasted fear
It was easy then to tell truth from lies
Selling out from compromise
Who to love and who to hate
The foolish from the wise

But today there is no day or night
Today there is no dark or light
Today there is no black or white
Only shades of gray

It was easy then to know what was fair
When to keep and when to share
How much to protect your heart and how much to care

But today there is no day or night
Today there is no dark or light
Today there is no black or white
Only shades of gray
Only shades of gray

The Lesson of the Fountain (Skunky and I Get An Education)

Shortly after college graduation, I spent time with my childhood buddy and all around great American if there ever was one, Skunky Wilson and his wife Dawn, back home in Booger Hollow. While there, I leaned a great lesson concerning women and men—their thought processes operate in two different hemispheres.

One morning, Skunky asked if I would help him bring home a surprise for Dawn. We drove to the local home-and-garden store, where in a dark, musty back corner stood a large, ugly, puke-green garden fountain.

The look on Dawn’s face as we carried the fountain into the house was cold enough to put out the Statue of Liberty’s torch. And from that expression, I knew Skunky was sadly mistaken if he thought that ugly squirter of water would bring his wife many moments of immeasurable pleasure.

When the initial shock of the pure “pig-dog” ugliness of the thing wore off, Dawn hollered, “You’re not bringing that ugly thing into my living room!” But bring it in we did.

“There now, it’s not that ugly,” Skunky told her after he and I set it up in a corner.

“That thing is so ugly,” replied Dawn, “if I were a bird I wouldn’t take the time to poop on it!”

“That’s not a nice thing to say to someone who’s just tried to do something nice for you,” said Skunky.

“Nice for me? I wouldn’t have bought such an ugly thing let alone bring it into this house! Why would you say buying that butt-ugly fountain was doing something nice for me?"

"The other day, when we were at the store, you said you wanted it," was Skunky's answer.

"No I didn't!"

"Yes you did, when I pointed it out to you."

"What?! All I said when you pointed it out to me was, 'yes, that's nice.'"

"Well, there you are," said Skunky. And the conversation deteriorated from there.

Needless to say, as the intensity of the battle over the fountain increased so did the temperature in the house. But when I heard Dawn say, “Ask Doug what he thinks [evidently, she saw the look on my face and read my mind],” the temperature increased ten fold. When she told Skunky she’d have me help her return the fountain to the store in the morning, I found a place to hide. Hey, as the saying goes, “My momma didn’t raise no fool.”

Later that night, Skunky and Dawn called a truce and the conversation was pleasant. Pleasant, that is, until Dawn said to Skunky, “Go ahead, ask Doug what he thinks of the fountain.” She and I discussed the issue when Skunky returned to work, after he and I had delivered and set up Dawn's surprise.

Let me tell you, I slumped so low in the recliner I was sitting in I could barely be seen over the armrest. But I was trapped and forced to give an answer.

So, I put it to Skunky as gently as I could. “Skunky," I said, "that’s the most gosh awful, ugliest, most hideous, gaudy looking thing I’ve ever seen. My [ex] wife has put up with a lot from me over the years, but I believe bringing that [I nodded to the fountain] home would be the thing that would do me in.”

“And there won’t be a wedding anniversary next month in this house if that thing doesn’t go back to where it came from,” Dawned chimed in.

Well, the fountain didn’t exactly go back to where it came from. You see, Skunky sold it to some naïve fellow who hadn’t yet discovered that men and women don’t always operate on the same plain of thought—boy, did Skunky’s brother catch heck when he brought his newly purchased fountain home to his wife.

It Sucked the Machismo Right Out of Me!

There’s nothing like a broken piece of machinery to make an adult feel like a helpless infant. This well known fact became clear to me a few years ago when youngest son dropped our vacuum down the stairs.

At a glance, it looked alright, but when I tried to vacuum the living room, it roared like the devil himself had been sucked up into it and was fighting to get out.

Upon closer inspection, I noticed a little plastic piece, which helped to hold the beater bar in place, had been broken. No problem. I’d have to replace the whole base of the thing, but hey, I’m a relatively intelligent person—the key work here is relatively—I should be able to accomplish the task without too much difficulty.

WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF THE VACUUM: the one machine that can suck a guy’s “MACHO” image away as efficiently as it does dirt.

It seemed to me that all I’d have to do would be to unfasten a few screws, replace the old base with a new one, and I’d have that old vacuum working as if it had never been broken.

By the time I’d undone six or seven screws, a handful of springs, and had various other little parts come tumbling out of that confounded machine, I knew I was in for a long duration of frustration and tongue biting.

After four days of trying to piece together this puzzle, I realized that I was showing signs of premature senility (with each passing day I would forget a little more of how all the parts fit together). It was time to swallow my pride and call the repair shop.

Thirty dollars for them to put together a vacuum, which I only paid seventy dollars for to begin with, seemed a bit ridiculous.

When one considers that I paid nearly thirty dollars for the new part, it didn’t seem feasible to dish out another thirty bucks to have it installed.

Upon the suggestion from former Mrs. Bagley, I contacted ex-father-in-law and asked for his help in solving my mechanical woes. After all, he was and still is more mechanically minded than myself, but then again, so is a baby duck.

By now the vacuum was in several pieces and hardly resembled an appliance used for house cleaning.

Gathering all the different parts, I loaded my truck with them and headed toward my in-laws’ (by the way, what’s the difference between in-laws and outlaws? Outlaws are wanted, but enough frivolity) place.

Confiscating a corner of the basement, my father-in-law and I began to play Joe Mechanic. After 45 minutes and a few words you wouldn’t want your mother to hear, we decided the repair shop had given me the wrong base for my machine.

If I were to make a list of things I detest, returning merchandise, especially a part which had been promised to be the correct one, would have to be in my top five.

If a sales clerk were to make a list of things he detests, being told, “You sold me the wrong part” would probably rate right up there in his top five.

Imagine the response I received when I not only informed the clerk at the vacuum store that he sold me the wrong part, but I told it to him in front of a customer.

I almost had to grab an extinguisher to put out the fire in his yes. It didn’t help matters when he looked at the part I brought in and informed me that it was, indeed, the right one. I was just too unintelligent to figure out how to secure the rear axle of the vacuum in place. Red-faced, I slinked out of the store and once again headed to my in-laws’ house. Back in the deep, musty corner of the basement, father-in-law and I worked feverishly in our attempt to resurrect my vacuum.

Things went rather well until we started working on the height adjuster mechanism. The adjuster looked like it could be attached to the vacuum a number of different ways.

After a period of time—elephant embryos are in the womb in less time—we let out a cheer of celebration; we’d finally figured it out.

Caught up in our little celebration of how smart we were, we’d forgotten to secure the front axle, which happens to sit right under the height adjuster. Yep, you guessed it, we had to disassemble that whole blame thing and start over.

At last, we finally pieced the machine together—well, sort of. When we were done, we had a handful of screws and springs left over, and the handle was as limp as a steamed noodle. That height adjuster we so aptly figured out ended up with only two settings, high and low. Plus, the darn vacuum had to be raised off the floor (which isn’t easy with a limp handle) in order to change the adjustment of the height.

“Plug it in and let’s see if it works,” father-in-law suggested in a tone that let me know it matter whether the vacuum worked or not, we were done.

One of us plugged the vacuum into the nearest outlet, but I don’t remember who. I only remember the cloud of smoke and dust that engulfed us after it was turned on.

Once it was on, that monster let out a screech which cold beard three countries wide. Like a dragon, it spit fire and moaned as if it were mad at us for waking it from a peaceful slumber, and the handle swished up and down with a thud that shook the beams in the ceiling of the basement. The outer casing, or cover as some call it, spun in circles around the handle like a dog wormed with turpentine.

Quickly turning it off, I cradled that temperamental beast in my arms, carried it outside, gently set it down in the bed of my truck, and headed home.

The next day, I scanned the newspaper for sales on vacuums.

A Warm and Pleasant Memory

It’s said that boys and dogs go together like peanut butter and jelly. Dad must have believed this for though he never cared much for animals, he saw to it that my brothers and I always had a dog during our years at home. One dog in particular that we owned will always hold a special place in my heart.

Pepper, a Pekinese-Cocker Spaniel cross, became part of our family when I was just seven years old. She was a birthday present to me and she was a fur-ball of a dog with the interesting feature of having hind legs that were bigger than her front ones. This created a humorous scene when she’d run down hill, for her front legs couldn't keep up with her back ones, causing her to run sideways, hind quarters even with her front. She was a funny sight but she was my dog and I loved her.

From the time she was a pup, Pepper and I spent a lot of time together. Sometimes Mom and Dad would let her lie beside me at bedtime until I fell asleep--but that came to an abrupt end for a while after the night Pepper and I got to wrestling around and, in her playful puppy way, she bit down on my ear and proceeded to play tug-of-war with it. As the old saying goes I bled like a stuck pig. But that’s the way of puppies; they love to chew on things, and though I was left with a scarred ear no one blamed Pepper for the wound.

As stated earlier, Pepper was a ball of fur and sometimes when rough housing she’d clamp down on the end of a rag, and I’d drag her around behind me, polishing the linoleum kitchen floor with her furry little body.

As we grew up together, Pepper and I became more and more inseparable. During the school year our routine was basically the same; I would arrive home from school, grab something to eat, sit down beside my dog, and tell her about my day as I shared my food with her. Then we’d head across the street to run in the forest.

Growing up in a small town on the Oregon coast there was plenty of forest for us to explore, and most days, one could usually find me in the forest building a fort, playing army, or maybe a game of hide-and-seek with friends. What ever I was involved in, Pepper could be found right beside me, wagging her tail and, so it seemed to me, smiling.

Besides being a compatible companion, Pepper was also a friend who would listen to me and who loved me unconditionally. When the world seemed unfair, many was the time I’d disappear to the garage or the patio, sit down beside Pepper, and while hugging her neck I’d sob on her shoulder as I told her my troubles. She always sat patiently listening, making no judgments, giving me a reassuring lick across my arm every once in a while.

Now, during summer vacations my brothers and I would spend several weeks with my grandparents on their farm in Idaho. As much as I loved spending my summers there, I would get terribly homesick, and by the end of my stay I was always anxious to get back home to my parents and, of course, my dog.

Once I was home, I’d fill Pepper in on all my activities during my time in Idaho and then we’d find something to do—play fetch with a ball, chase each other around the yard, go hiking and exploring, what ever came to mind.

Sometimes, in celebration of my return from the farm, Pepper was allowed to sleep next to me on my bed for a night or two. That came to an abrupt end the summer of my eleventh year, and my young heart was broken in a way I’d never thought possible.

My brothers and I had just returned from spending our vacation on our grandparents’ farm. We burst through the front door of our house and ran to the living room to receive welcome-home hugs from our parents. After hugs were exchanged and my siblings and I recounted our summer adventure, I asked Mom where Pepper was.

“Uh, Bob,” Mom said to Dad as she rolled her eyes in my direction, “where’s Pepper?”
Dad took me aside and explained to me that while I was at the farm my beloved dog was seriously injured by a car as she attempted to cross the street. It was plain to see she was dying and in a lot of pain, so Dad asked a neighbor if he’d take our dog and put her out of her misery. The neighbor obliged.

Somehow, I was able to hold back mourning for my dog throughout the day. But that night, while lying in bed with no Pepper beside me, I sobbed uncontrollably. My Pepper was gone and I felt like a piece of my heart had been torn right out of my chest.

That night, and for many nights thereafter, I cried my self to sleep, but with time the tears dried and Pepper became a warm and pleasant memory.

Now when I look back on my life I understand the important role Pepper played in my childhood development and can’t help but realize that there truly is something special about the relationship between a boy and his dog.

So Pepper, you and all the other dogs that have been my pals over the years, keep a warm spot for me up there in Heaven, and when it’s my time leave the surly bonds of earth, what a reunion we will have.

Inanimate Objects Have a Life of Their Own

If anyone tells you that inanimate objects are lifeless, don’t believe them. Experience has taught me that, in fact, the opposite is true.

Clothes hangers, for instance, are good examples of what I’m talking about. I’ve never seen a closet with just the right amount of hangers in it. There’s always a few extra. In fact, just shut two of those frisky little rascals in a dark, empty closet, then stand back and watch them multiply. In a month’s time they’ll be taking over the house; you’ll find yourself tripping over them everywhere. And there’s not a whole lot you can do to relieve yourself of the problem either.

Giving away your excess hangers isn’t really an answer. First off, most people, like your, are madly fighting their own personal battles in the war against clothes hanger overpopulation. More than likely, if you call someone on the phone to ask them if they would like some clothes hangers, as soon as you ask, you’ll hear a click and then nothing but silence on the phone.

Now, even if you do happen to pawn the little happy breeders off on someone, you still have to keep some clothes hanger around for personal use. There in lies another problem—all it takes are two those succors left alone in a dark closet and in a very short time, once again, you’ll be hearing click and then nothing but silence on your phone. It’s a vicious circle.

Another case-in-point are socks. When I was a youngster I could never figure out what happened to my socks after I’d put them in the wash. My socks would always come back missing their mates. Were they taken prisoner in some sock war that goes on in the washer or dryer after the lids on those contraptions were shut? I didn’t know.

Actually, I blamed my mamma. I thought it was some diabolical scheme she’d thought up as punishment for being the petulant child that I was. But when I got married, the problem still persisted. Perhaps my mom taught my ex-wife how to punish me for being the petulant husband that I was. Not so. I’ve learned different.

The truth to this most exasperating problem came to me when I took over the wash of our household. Because I was working out of the home at the time, I took charge of the wash. And you know, nothing changed when I took over. Socks were still turning up in the wash without their mates, and my kids thought it was some diabolical scheme on my part to punish them being the petulant children that they were.

Now, I’d put every stitch of dirty clothing into the washer and dryer, so I knew I was not responsible for the disappearing socks. Somewhere between the time that I put them in the washer and the time I took them out of the dryer, they disappeared. The only logical conclusion I could come up with is that one or both of those machines was feeding on socks. It’s the nature of those beasts. And since our dryer at the time was acting like it was choking on a sock, I suspected it was the culprit.

One last group of items I’d like to bring to your attention as evidence that inanimate objects do live is pens. These rascals not only live, they have a sense of humor and can read your mind.

It doesn’t matter what I’m doing (as long as it doesn’t require using a pen), I find them everywhere, always in my way. But the minute I even think of writing something down on paper all the pens in a twenty mile radius disappear. Where they run and hide is anybody’s guess. I can tear the house apart and the only thing I’ll come across that remotely resembles a pen is the carcass of one someone has dismantled.
I’ll place a pen by the phone to use for writing down messages. Five minutes later the phone rings. It’s a business call. I need to take down important notes. No pen. I’ll ask the person I’m talking with to hold on a minute while I look for a pen, but to no avail. They’ve all run off to where ever it is they go when they run away, and I end up using a crayola the size of an elephant’s leg to scribble down the important information.

Well, I could go on and on, but I won’t. I have an important task to accomplish today—I’m going to straighten some wire clothes hangers and use them to bind together all of my dirty socks in the clothes hamper. That’ll keep them from getting separated during the wash. While I’m at it, I think I’ll super glue a pen to my phone. Works for me.

Getting "Hosed"

At a campground, the sewer hose running from the Wilson’s trailer to the park’s sewage system became blocked. So, Mr. Wilson took a garden hose, hooked one end to an outside water faucet and carried the other end to the trailer’s commode to flush the blockage down.

Mr. Wilson asked Skunky and me to help him with this project, and I suspect the invitation had something to with our using dynamite to rid the Wilson’s barn of cow pies—Mr. Wilson was so touched by our handy work he was left speechless.

“What I want you to do,” he said to us, “is to stand by the faucet and listen for me to yell out the bathroom window for you to turn on the water. Then, when I’m finished I’ll yell for you to shut it off. Can you handle that?”

Could we handle that? What a kidder. He knew from past experience that we could handle it, but he always gave us a hard time, acting like we were going to make a mess of things. Why, he could be so convincing with his tone of voice that someone who didn’t know better would think Skunky and I was a couple of goof balls. Ha! What I guy.

So there we were, standing by the faucet, waiting for our instructions.
“O.K,” Mr. Wilson shouted, and Skunky turned the faucet on.

After 10 to 15 minutes of power flushing the commode, Mr. Wilson yelled for us to shut the water off. We did. But for some reason Mr. Wilson changed his mind for we heard a faint, albeit, kind of scratchy, high-pitched voice yell, “OK!” We looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and Skunky cranked the water back on.

“What the . . . !” we clearly heard Mr. Wilson holler, and what a sight did we behold. The trailer rocked violently back and forth as things inside of it crashed, banged, cracked, and went wham! And water was coming out of that trailer from everywhere, through the window screens, out the trailer door, down the steps, and on to the ground, forming a puddle.

Not fair! They were having a water fight in there and Skunky and I were left outside with only our imaginations to envision the fun they were having.

Well, Mr. Wilson exited the trailer and he did not have a fuzzy, warm, kindly look on his face—I’ve seen mug shots on the show America’s Most Wanted that looked more serene and tender.
According to Skunky’s mom and siblings, when the garden hose regained life, it acted like one of those “water weenies” they used to advertise on TV. It wiggled out of Mr. Wilson’s hands, flip-flopped around in all directions, spraying water everywhere.

Pictures went flying, nick knacks on the counters went sailing through the air, knocking people in the head, and everyone tumbled over each other as they looked for cover.

Skunky’s younger sister took a direct hit between the eyes from the water cannon and his dad bruised his shoulder diving to the floor in an effort to smother the thing and gain control of it.

Finally, he did regain control of the hose and bolted out the door with it in hand. Always the kidder, he pretended like he wasn’t having fun and blamed all the chaos on Skunky and me.

“Why the heck did you crank the water back on after you shut it off?!

“We did what you told us to do,” we were laughing so hard at his “act” we could barely speak.

“What are you talking about?!” he asked.

“You said to turn on the water when you shouted ‘OK.’

“Yeah, so why’d you turn it back on after I yelled to cut if off?!”

“Because you again said ‘O.K.’”

“No I didn’t, and lying about it is just going to make it worse.” He was really out doing himself with his teasing this time.

“We swear dad,” Skunky said, “we heard you say ‘O.K.' after we turned off the water.”
He acted like he wasn’t convinced.

“Well, you two stay out here ‘til I figure out what to do with you.” Hmmm, sounded like we were going to get a special treat or something for helping him with the water fight.

Suddenly, from inside the motor home parked in the spot next to us, we heard that squeaky, high-pitched voice again say, “OK.” Seems our neighbors had a parrot that was very quick at learning new words.

Still, Mr. Wilson wasn’t totally convinced that we couldn’t tell the difference between his voice and a parrot’s. But he eventually calmed down and Skunky and I were allowed back inside the trailer . . . the next morning.

I Choose to Laugh

It’s said that when bad things happen to us we can either laugh or cry about them. A recent experience at my local hospital provided me the opportunity to make such a choice.

First, I find it interesting how the emergency room of my local hospital is ran. Silly me, I was under the assumption that patients are seen in the order of the seriousness of their affliction. Granted, I didn’t come in there with my entrails hanging out of my stomach, but the fact that someone had to drive me to the hospital because I was doubled over and profusely sweating from the excruciating pain in my stomach should’ve been a clue that something serious was going on.

But like a department store, patients at our E.R. are evidently seen in the order they arrive. I’m surprised I didn’t have to pull a ticket from one of those wall contraptions and stand in line, waiting for my number to be called. Can’t you just picture the scene?

“Number 250 is now being served!”

“Uh, ma’am, I believe that’s him there on the floor having convulsions in what appears to be the throws of death.”

“Oooooh w—ell; now serving number 251!” But enough of my diatribe.

My name was finally called and I was escorted to a chair, where a nice young lady began asking questions and filling out forms. Then the “fun” really started.

But you know, it’s amazing how quickly the demeanor of an E.R. staff changes when a patient falls out of the “questionnaire chair,” grabs his stomach in pain, and violently projects his dinner into a garbage can he had the presence of mind to grab.

I mean to tell you, in a heartbeat the staff went from casual to all business. Before I was done spewing forth my last meal, SHAZAM! I was surrounded by all sorts of personnel with all kinds of equipment: barf bag, I.V., a wheelchair to carry me to an actual room with a bed, and my own doctor and nurse.

Of course the doctor had to do what all good doctors do in such circumstances…push and probe my stomach. Out of reflex I slapped his hands away. He didn’t much like that and made it known.

Well, one C.T. scan and a heavy dose of pain killers later, the doc diagnosed the problem as an obstructed intestine and informed me I would be a guest of theirs until my intestine either un-kinked on its own or was un-kinked by the doc via surgery.

Now, before I go any further, I need to make a disclaimer of sorts by reminding you about the affects of drugs on one’s mind. I’m still learning from others some of the things I said while “under the influence.”

For instance, according to youngest son, when told I’d have to stay in the hospital a few days, my response was a very loud, “Oh sh##! I can’t afford that.”

Oldest son told me that when explaining to him how I was pleasantly surprised at the quality of the hospital food (once I was allowed to eat again) I said, “The only thing is if I get up to use the bathroom during my meal those dirty little [bass excrements] steal my drink!” Hey, I plead innocent on grounds the doc had me doped up like a junkie in a back ally. And of course, nobody took my sodas. But I’m getting ahead of myself here.

I was finally admitted into the hospital and given a room on the 6th floor--across the nurses’ station. Do you know how noisy the nurses’ station is? And the quiet of the night seems to magnify the noise. Needless to say, with my door open all night and having my vitals taken every four hours, I didn’t get much rest, not even with the heavy-duty pain medicine they gave me around the clock.

Well, by mid Saturday morning the pain killers were working so well I decided a refreshing shower was in order. Pulling my I.V. tree along with me I headed to the shower. After turning on the water, I undressed and stepped in, leaving the curtain open just enough for my I.V. tube to squeeze through.

A few minutes later, I cut off the water and began toweling off. Now, I don’t know if House Keeping was playing some kind of a sick joke or whether the hospital just thinks we’re living in Munchkin land, but the towels they gave me wouldn’t go around the waist of an ant. At least they were kind enough to leave me a stack of those dinky little things, and as it turned out I would need every last one of them.

I was about halfway dried off when something red on the shower floor caught my attention. BLOOD, my blood! Evidently, in the process of drying off, I pulled my I.V. tube from the needle in my left forearm, allowing a steady stream of blood to flow out.

Now, I don’t consider myself a prude, but I do believe a bit of modesty is a good thing and therein laid my dilemma, should I try fixing this problem myself or pull the emergency cord in the shower, alerting the nurses’ station that I needed help--I really didn’t want the nurses, especially the one that looked like the actress Minnie Driver, to come flying in there while I was standing buck naked in the shower.

So, with blood running steadily from my arm, splattering everywhere, I debated the subject. Finally, I decided to fix the problem myself and tried plugging the flow of blood by putting my right thumb over the open end of the I.V. needle, but to no avail. The blood flow was too much for my thumb to stop.

Next, I tried several times to one handedly re-hook the I.V. tube to the needle in my arm, but that too was unsuccessful. Finally admitting defeat I pulled the emergancy cord.

As I waited for the nurse, I quickly grabbed the last non-bloody mini towel with my I.V. hand and held it strategically over “the lower 48,” while using my other hand in a continued effort to stop the blood flowing from my forearm.

“Minnie Driver” came hustling into my room and when she saw the blood on me, the towels, and the floor, she quickly called for backup. Backup sized up the situation immediately and reconnected the tube and needle. Minnie then proceeded to flush the blood out of the tube. Me? I just awkwardly stood there mumbling something about how I knew that seeing a naked man was not big deal to nurses but…I never finished the sentence, she got the drift.

The next bit of fun was the inserting of the nasogastric tube, a long narrow plastic thing hooked to some contraption on the wall that acts like a vacuum cleaner. The suction decompresses the intestines as it sucks out bile. If successful, the intestine straightens out and surgery is avoided.

You can trust me on this one. If you think you’re having a rough day just have a nasogastric tube inserted up your nose, into your throat, down your esophagus, and into your stomach. Oh, and have it left like that for a couple of days. I guarantee what ever stresses you thought were making your life miserable will pale in comparison.

My third day in the hospital I received a room mate. You know, it’s interesting how territorial human beings can be, isn’t it? When I realized I was getting a room mate my reaction was less than enthusiastic. Man, I had the place all to myself. I could get up and cross the room to pee without an audience, I could close the door to my room for piece and quiet, I could snore to my heart’s content, and I didn’t have to worry if my T.V was blasting over my room mate’s. It was a nice setup and I feared losing all those advantages.

When roomy and his wife arrived and opened their mouths my fear was confirmed. They had barely entered my room when they began bellyaching about not having a private room. Then roomy started in whining about every little discomfort of his.

“My head hurts.”
“We’ll get you something for that,” replied the nurse.
“Why is my throat raw?”
“During surgery a tube was placed down it.”
“My stomach hurts.”
“That’s normal. It’s post surgical pain.”
“No! The pain isn’t where my incision is. It’s over here.” And on and on he went.

Mrs. Roomy went to use the bathroom and she came out of it with a whine of her own.
“Eeeeuuuuuuwwww,” she said in disgust. “There’s a urinal in there [one reason for the I.V. was to pump lots of fluids into me, but the nurses needed to make sure the fluids going in were also going out. The only way to accomplish that task was by measuring my output of urine, thus the reason for the urinal]. My husband needs a private room as soon as possible.”

I was thinking, “Excuuuuuse me, but I was here first (nanner, nanner, nanner). You are an uninvited disruption to what was my peaceful existence and you have the nerve to fuss about sharing my room with me? Man, some people’s kids!”

Luckily, roomy’s stay was for only one night. My little stay ended shortly thereafter.

As I look back on this whole ordeal, the physical pain, the nasogastric hose, a rude roomy, etc., I’ve tried to focus on the humorous side of it all and it’s worked fairly well . . . that is until the medical bills started arriving. And I thought I was in severe pain before I went to the hospital.

Remember When?

Part of the fun of growing older is comparing the present with the past. See if the following doesn’t trigger some memories.

Remember when:

• Gay meant you were happy?

• You could phone a business and talk to a real live human being?

• Something bad was undesirable?

• A joint was a part of one’s anatomy?

• Kids respected their elders, the flag, and the law?

• A man and a woman fell in love, got married and then began producing children?

• American ingenuity?

• Physical intimacy between a man and woman outside of marriage was considered a sin?

• Personal hygiene was a private matter not to be discussed on T.V or in mixed company?

Remember when:

• Wrapping was something one did to a gift?

• There were only three networks on television?

• Television programming was clean and wholesome?

• When the speed limit was changed from 70 miles per hour to 55 miles per hour and then changed back to 70?

• Horses under the hood?

• Sales clerks who weren’t courteous and helpful were fired?

• Coke was something you drank, not snorted?

• Taking a trip had nothing to do with taking mind altering drugs?

• People waved and spoke to each other whether they knew one another or not?

• Making out meant you were getting by?

• The cost of admission to see a movie was 25 cents?

• You could understand the movie rating system?

• You could take your children to a picture show and not worry about the content of the film?

• Heroes and tough guys on the movie screen didn’t swear?

• The word ain’t couldn’t be found in the dictionary?

• When doh wasn’t a word?

• People weren’t afraid to help a stranded motorist?

• You could compliment someone of the opposite sex without the fear of sexual harassment charges being filed against you?

• Men stood behind their word?

• Sunday was a day of rest and businesses were closed?

• Clothing was for covering the body, not for making a fashion statement?

See if you remember these:

• Drive-in-movies.

• Car hops.

• Vinyl records—45,33,78.

• Eight track tapes.

• Wire recorders.

• Being taken to the woodshed.

• “A little dab will do ya.”

• Girdles.

• Gas wars.

• Opening doors for women.

• Full-service gas stations. You know, “You can trust your car to the man who wears the star….” (And don’t forget having your windshield cleaned and your car fluids and tire pressure checked at the full-service station.)

Yes, reminiscing over the past can be a lot of fun, but be careful, it can also give your age away.

Why I Don't Hunt

I don’t hunt. Now, I’m no animal rights activist, though I don’t believe in being cruel to animals--including ex-spouses, so my reasons for not hunting don’t stem from what some might call moral or ethical reasons. No, my decision not to be a hunter is less complex than that.

First and foremost, I have too many enemies (I don’t hate my enemies; after all, I created them) that are expert hunters. I can hear one of them now saying to the authorities, “Gee, Officer, I don’t why he was wearing that brown furry coat and wearing antlers on his head.”

Plus, there are too many crazy people out there who shouldn’t be trusted with a gun. I know, I’m one of them. Those who have taken me on the few hunting trips I’ve participated in are aware of this fact too. I remember one such trip with my grandparents when I was 15 years old.

I was sitting in the back seat of the car, directly behind Gramps who had the unfortunate task of driving us out to his coveted duck blinds. Don’t ask me why, but for some illogical reason, I thought of a prank (which at the time seemed funny) I could pull on Grandpa.

We were traveling down the interstate at about 70 miles per hour when I grabbed a pillow and, in a flash, put it over my grandpa’s head, completely covering his face and greatly restricting his air intake.

Talk about panic. If you were to look up the word “panic” in the dictionary you’d see a picture of my grandfather behind the steering wheel of his car, arms flung out, grabbing air, with a pillow pulled tightly against his face.

I’ve never seen a person sweat so much in such a relatively short period of time. I mean to tell you, after he somehow maneuvered the car to the side of the road, shakily climbed out of it, and regained control of his now spasmodic body, we noticed a good sized puddle of moisture where he had just been sitting. Now, would you put a loaded gun in the hands of someone who would pull such a prank? I didn't think so.

That was just the beginning of a most memorable trip. It seems that in the excitement of being invited along for the hunt, I forgot to put water in the leaky radiator of Grandpa’s car and, of course, our vehicle broke down—but not until we were miles off the main road.

A couple of hours passed, when at last, an older couple in a truck rambled by and stopped to offer assistance.

Between both of our parties nobody had a thing to tow us with. So we all scrounged around until someone found an old inner tube, from a tractor tire, hidden in the weeds of a nearby field.

What a carnival ride! The amusements parks around the world should have such a ride. After we tied both ends of the tube to our vehicles, our new friends proceeded to pull us to the nearest gas station.

As the old gentleman and his wife slowly began driving forward, we could see that old tube begin to stretch further and further until all of a sudden—whoosh!—like a rubber band stretched to its limit and then let go of, we were pulled at neck-break speed directly toward the rear bumper of the old couple’s truck.

Up to that point in my life, I’d dreamed of becoming an astronaut, but after being thrown back into the trunk of our car by the “G” force from our takeoff, I decided I was better suited for a slower paced job (perhaps something in the field of science—like observing the mating rituals of the snail).

“We’re gonna die! We’re gonna die!” Grandma screamed over the horrid screech which enveloped the car, that is, it enveloped the car until Gramps reached back and slapped me silly in an effort to help me regain my senses and quiet down.

Gramps yelled, “Hang on!” And our eyes widened to the size of silver dollars as we smacked the rear bumper of the truck towing us.

Well, that momentarily stopped our car…and lulled us into a false sense of security. No sooner had we gathered our wits when our towing friends moved forward and the whole thing started over again.

It was 40 miles to the nearest help, and you can well imagine the looks we received from the two “good ol’ boys” leaning back in a couple of chairs against the gas station wall, whittling on a couple of sticks, when all of a sudden they heard vaaaroooom-smack, vaaaroooom-smack as we were being towed down the road toward them.

It took us a good two and a half hours to cover those 40 miles, and all the Dramamine in the world wouldn’t have prevented the awful stomach wrenching which took place after crawling out of our car at the gas station.

Recovering from falling over each other with laughter, the two guys, sitting in the chairs, took one look at us, sobered up some, and said, “You folks is a lookin’ like you seen the inside of a sausage grinder.” I guess they noticed our bluish-green complexions.

“Thanks,” I said between convulsions, “after what we’d been through, I’ll take that as a compliment.

I don’t know, but I think that particular hunting trip did more to Gramps than just make him nauseas. You see, after that outing, when I’d mention something to him about taking me on another trip, he’d act like I wasn’t even there and mumble something about remembering to pick up new hearing aid batteries the next time he went to the drug store. Heck, I didn’t even know he wore hearing aids.

Life's Little Annoyances

There are a lot of things in this world that I could do without. Take a look, for instance, at those annoying dryer sheets. Now I’m not a man prone to violence, but whoever is responsible for their creation should be forced to wear them under their armpits as deodorant shields—that’s where many of them have turned up in my laundry.

I’ve come to the conclusion that it must have been some inexperienced man who invented the dryer sheet; no realistic home-maker would have made such a nuisance. Or maybe the development of dryer sheets started out as a bad joke that got out of hand. All I know is, when I put one of them in the dryer, with a load of clothes, it disappears—only to turn up in the strangest places.

Let me tell you something. It’s not all that fun to be undressing in the school locker room for gym and have the whole class bent over in laughter at the dryer sheet stuck to the left cheek of your derriere.

On the flip side, I have to admit I have found some good uses for those sheets. For one thing, by dropping them behind me, they serve as trail markers for finding the path back to my laundry room. Who knows? I might hit my head some day while doing the wash and suffer from a case of acute amnesia.

Dryer sheets can also be used as deodorizers. I once knew a woman who put used dryer sheets in her shoes. The manager at the local thrift store was always happy to receive her discarded shoes, and personnel never had to worry about scrubbing them to get out bad odors. In fact, her shoes were always the pair that sold the quickest.

Another useless invention is scented toilet paper. The way I figure it, if a guy is going around sniffing people’s rear ends he ought to be arrested. Of course that’s if he’s still alive after the person he’s smelling kicks the bejeebers out of him.

On the other hand, think of the money we could save on aftershave and perfume by stuffing scented toilet paper in our shirts and blouses. Shoot, if I owned a perfume company I’d be worried. Someone should scout the different scents available in the toilet tissue business. Personally, I’d enjoy snuggling up to a woman who smelled like a Carolina pine forest.

I know a guy who invented a toupee for bald eagles. When he made a sweater for a cold duck, his family became concerned. I try to visit him at the “home” no less than once a week.

For years now, I’ve been trying to figure out the reasoning behind the invention of leaf blowers. Were they designed as a tool for getting back at your neighbor for some atrocious offense? It seems to me that ridding your yard of fallen leaves by blowing them into your neighbor’s yard has been responsible for more feuds than moonshine, boundary disputes and shot gun weddings.

Thousands of years from now, archaeologists will be digging up our ruins and will come to the conclusion that the demise of our culture was caused because we were a warring people. They’ll declare that our main weapon of war was a gas-powered machine with a long tube-like trunk, our friend the dreaded leaf blower. They may not determine exactly how this machine was used, but evidence will show that it seemed to be the root of many tribal conflicts—such an ugly scene.

Throughout history there has always been those “flash in the pan inventions,” or as some call them, the “here today, gone tomorrow” contraptions.

The electric lawnmower was one of those. Now there was a winner. “Save on gas, buy a plug-in mower.” Just suppose you had an accessible electrical outlet near your yard. You'd have to have had a very small yard or a lot of extension cords and plenty of electricians tape for the thing to have been of any use.

Now, in every neighborhood there’s always at least one resident who has to be the first to buy the latest gadget on the market. He’s the one who doesn’t want to just keep up with Joneses; he wants to be the Joneses. This was the guy who after seeing an advertisement for the electric lawn mower ran right out and bought one. Six months, 15 extension cords, and miles of electricians tape later, he reverted back to the trusty ole gas mower, after providing the neighborhood with a half a year of good laughs.

They’re part of life; there’s no escaping them. Useless inventions will always be around as long as there’s people to dream them up and others to purchase them.

Maybe I’ll start working on an electric belly button lint picker. Who knows? It just might work—it just might.

One Dynamite Father's Day--Another Skunky and Me Adventure

One memorable Father's Day happened when I was about 14 years old. It was the time I helped my childhood friend Skunky Wilson surprise his dad with a special gift.

Now, Skunky got his nickname on account of--well, let's just say that when Skunky left home the State's natural gas resources were depleted by one half.

The Wilsons lived on an old farm, and over the years no one had ever taken the time to scrape the cow waste out of the barn. After two or three generations the pile of cow patties began to be a problem--the barn doors wouldn't shut and Mr. Wilson had to duck when entering the building to keep from hitting his head on the door frame.

So, Skunky dialed me up one day to ask if I would help him with his Father's Day gift of removing the patty pile.

"I don't know," I said, "I'm already committed to something else."

"Like what?" Skunky asked.

"Like sitting on the porch with my little brother and watching the grass grow." Hey, anything was better than shoveling out an over-filled barn of manure.

"I've found some dynamite for the job," Skunky said in a sing-song, teasing kind of voice.

"I'll be there!"

In the early hours on the Saturday before Father's Day I met Skunky in front of the Wilson's barn. He stuck a piece of a dynamite stick in the center of the mound of manure and lighted it.

Now, rarely do the minds of 14-year-old boys work in a logical mode. Skunky and I were no exception. It never dawned on us that when the dynamite exploded, all that stuff had to go somewhere. It wouldn't just dissipate into thin air.

We took off running toward the corral gate, just a few yards away. We were almost there when we heard a loud KAAABOOM, followed by a hot blast of stifling air and manure, which swept us up into the air and deposited us against the corral fence.

After peeling ourselves off of the fence, Skunky asked, "Booger [that was me], you all right?"

With a loud ringing in my ears, I shook my head in the affirmative. "But you really should stop banging that bell. It might draw your father's attention and ruin the surprise. By the way, when does the plane land?" I was just a wee bit disoriented.

Well, we gathered ourselves together and sauntered toward the barn to inspect our workmanship. "No need worrying anymore about the barn doors not shutting," I said. They were no longer there.

Entering the building, we were blinded by the bright morning sun. "Yeeeeee haaaaw!" yelled Skunky. "Betcha we're the only family in the county with a sunroof in their barn." Even an idiot couldn't argue with him on that one.

As we stood there a moment, admiring our handy work, we suddenly felt cold, calloused hands-of-steel wrap around our necks--Mr. Wilson! For some reason he none too pleased with his Father's Day gift.

Just Say Neeeeeiiiiiiiiigh

It’s come to my attention that people will go to no end to improve (or so they think) their looks. Just look at what we do to our hair and you’ll understand what I’m talking about.

Back when I was married, I was in the bathroom when I noticed something that got me to thinking, and we all know how dangerous that can be. I noticed that on one of the shelves was a conditioner the “Mrs.” had bought for her hair. What’s strange about buying conditioner for one’s hair? Nothing, except for the fact the conditioner, MANE-N-TAIL, is a product used on horses!

Now, I wasn’t too worried when she began having cravings for carrots and Quaker Oats, nor was I worried when I asked what time she’d be returning from the supermarket and she stamped her foot three times. Heck, even the night she snuggled up to me in bed and whinnied in my ear caused no worries, but it was a real blow to my male psyche when she left me for Mr. Ed (in case you’ve forgotten, that was the old 1960s TV show where Ed, the horse, talked)!

As you might guess, this incident stroked my curiosity a bit, so I began taking a closer look at hair products. Needless to say, I had a good laugh or two at what I discovered.

The label on one of the shampoo bottles in our bathroom claims, in big bold letters, that it is PURE AND MILD. Is that a shampoo or a sermon? It sounds more like something taught in Sunday school than a claim on a shampoo bottle.

We used to have a shampoo at the house that claimed to be a “hair salad.” Now, I’ve heard of a fruit salad, a potato salad, and a garden salad, but a hair salad? Is that served with a drink or what?

Speaking of salads, there are shampoos on the market whose ingredients include jojoba, honeysuckle, kiwi, mango, coconut, apple pectin, wild cherries, vegetable oil, soy protein, corn, pineapple, cucumber, garlic, carrots, tomatoes, bitter orange (and what’s wrong with using a sweet orange?), peppermint, and Paraguay tea (as opposed to what, English tea?), reads more like the menu of the salad bar at a Shoney’s or an Olive Garden restaurant, doesn’t it? I mean, which do you do, eat the stuff or put it on your hair? Also, seems to me we could grow most of these ingredients in our gardens and make our own shampoo, easing the house-hold budget a bit.

And did you know there’s a product that claims to be a botanical hair humectant conditioner? A what? I can hardly say “botanical hair humectant conditioner” without tripping over my tongue let alone explain what the heck it supposedly does for your hair.

There’s also a product which is supposed to provide therapy for your hair. So, if my hair is out of control does it get a 45 minute therapy session? I’m not sure my health insurance covers that.
You know, this just begs the questions; exactly how does one go about getting a degree in hair psychoanalysis and what kind of questions would a therapist ask your hair? “So, when do you feel you started losing control? Were you fine as a child or have you always been a bit on the kinky side?” And would the therapy session include a check of your roots in search of ugly behavior patterns throughout past generations?

Yes, it certainly seems society’s obsession to obtain “perfect” hair has risen to a whole new level of bizarre, and . . . oh, oh, I have to end this little tirade now; the timer just buzzed, indicating it’s time to rinse the motor oil out of my hair.

The Pillsbury Dough...EUNUCH!

I saw on the news the other day that the Pillsbury Doughboy had been kidnapped. I have just one thing to say to the kidnappers: please, please, DON’T return him. I’m sooooo sick of that little guy I could just kick him in the doughnuts!

Now, I have to admit, when he first came waltzing across my television screen I thought he was cute, would make a heck of a best friend. But after 40 plus years of him prancing across my television screen like some little dough nymph high on cornstarch, I have had enough! He’s just not cute anymore. In fact, he’s rather annoying (just once I’d like for that little squeaky-voiced nit-wit to prance across my kitchen counter top--I have a spatula with his name on it just waiting for him, and oh the things I’d do to him)!

First off, how old does one have to be before one is not considered a boy? Did you know that that little dough-head turns 55 this year? Fifty-five, the double nickel, yet he’s still a boy? Why, he’s closer to retirement, collecting Social Security, and using Medicare than he is to producing any little dough juniors that’s for sure.

And speaking of retirement, from the look of his wardrobe, when the doughboy retires he’s going to need some financial help from Uncle Sam. I mean fifty-five years on T.V. as Pillsbury’s spokesman and all he can afford is that little chef’s hat and a scarf? What’s up with that?

Also, how do we know he’s a boy? Have you ever looked closely at what’s below (or not below) that scarf and hat? It seems to me dough eunuch would be a more appropriate title for him.

Besides, I’ve never seen him driving with a dough woman, in a dough station wagon, full of a bunch of little dough kids. So, if in fact he is a doughboy, but he never gets together with the dough women, where will Pillsbury get their next generation of dough spokespersons? It’s worrying the heck out of me.

On the other hand, it’s a scary scenario to think that there’s a dough girl out there, and she and the doughboy hook up, get married—couldn’t have them living in sin you know--and have a bunch of little dough kids. Perish the thought! But I divert.

Here’s one last point to ponder concerning whether this little “dough person” is a boy or a girl. Weren’t we told all those many years ago by the good folks in T.V. land that Lassie was a girl? Turns out all the while the dog was really a male. Shoot, after learning that, along with learning there’s no Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, or Superman, I’ve been emotionally scarred for life! I’m still in therapy.

Well, I for one think the people at Pillsbury owe us some explanations, but after 55 years of silence on these matters I doubt we’ll ever get them. Do I smell a conspiracy by the folks there? Nah, it’s just the doughboy’s buns baking in my oven.

Blanket Wars

One of the most asked questions a divorcee is asked by single members of the opposite sex is “what were the reasons for your divorce?” So, when first asked this question I took some time and delved deeply into my past in search of answers. Thirty seconds later, I discovered the cause for my divorce: men and women are not compatible bedroom buddies.

You see, when I “hit the sack,” I very sloppily throw the covers backward (almost completely off the bed), pirouette into a back flop, and fall onto the mattress. Once in bed, I toss and turn, flip-flop, and wiggle around until I’m comfortable. Of course, this puts the bedding in disarray, but that’s not a problem. I can sleep like that.

On the other hand, former wife had a completely different approach for getting into bed. Inevitably, after I performed my nightly ritual and was almost unconscious to the world, she’d come into the bedroom, cut on the light, which seemed brighter than the landing lights of a jumbo jet, and proceed to straighten and de-wrinkle the bedding. This, of course, rolled me in every direction on the mattress one can imagine.

Now, as she tucked the bedding back under the mattress, former wife would lecture me on the proper way to enter a bed. What? Like the good housekeeping fairy was going to sneak in at night and grade us on how neat our bedding looked after we’d crawled into it?

And Heaven help me if former wife daintily got into bed ahead of me. Waking her up with my back-flop-drop and my tossing and turning was worthy of a penalty too torturous to mention.

During a good chunk of our marriage, we lived in the Rocky and Ozark Mountains. Winter temperatures could be brutal, and the fact that my body produced little heat and hers put out more heat than a Dutch oven, didn’t make things any easier.

You see, it always took me a while to get warm when I slept. So at bedtime, I’d pile on the blankets. But sometime during the night my body’s thermostat would kick in and, in my sleep, I’d kick all of the blankets off of me. And the blankets I kicked off never seemed to find their way to the floor. No, they ended up on former wife. A few hours later, feeling as if she were about to have a heat stroke, she’d throw the blankets back onto me. Once again, I’d overheat and the blankets would get kicked back in her direction, and so it went all night long.

Of course, this worked in the reverse. If for some reason we didn’t have enough blankets on the bed to keep us warm, I was known to steal the blankets off former wife as I tossed and turned in my sleep. She would wake up near dawn with icicles hanging from her eye lashes and frost on her teeth, chattering the accusation that I was a sadistic, evil person who loved to see her suffer.

I must say, we’d tried everything we could think of to solve the war of the blankets, including an electric blanket. The first night we used it, I turned the control for my side of the blanket up three or four notches, but the blanket didn’t get very warm. In fact, it seemed that the higher I cranked the control the cooler the blanket would get. At one point during the night, I had the heat control set so high my side of the blanket should’ve been hot enough to defrost a frozen adult buffalo. But nooooo, the opposite was true! It was as if I hadn’t turned on the electric blanket at all, and I began wondering if we hadn’t wasted our money on the darn thing.

The next morning, ex-wife mentioned that the blanket had a heck of a thermostat. When she crawled into bed that night, she had set her control to the lowest number for heat. Still, within a couple of hours she was so hot she was drenched in sweat, so she cut off her side of the blanket altogether, but it continued baking her like a roast. Well, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what had happened; we’d plugged the controls in backward. My control was connected to her side of the blanket and her control was connected to mine.

But even after we straightened out that problem, we found ourselves right back in the blanket war. As usual, I’d warm up as the night went on, and in my sleepy stupor, instead of turning down the heat on my side, I’d kick the blanket off, which of course landed on former wife.
Eventually, she’d throw it back on me and then I'd throw it back on her, around and around we'd go.

You know, during 20 years of blanket wars, we never did find a solution to the problem. Well, actually, I take that back. We did find a solution—sleeping single in a double bed.

In the Words of Doctor Evil, “Zzzzzzzp It!”

What is it with men and zippers? We seem to have a history of problems with them, especially when it comes to our pants. Unfortunately, I speak from experience.

Years ago, I worked on the water department for a small city. One July afternoon I was walking main-street, reading the water meters. As I walked, I felt a slight breeze penetrate my jeans just below my belt buckle. “Hmm, that’s odd,” I thought. But I continued on my way.

Twenty minutes later, I received cat calls and whistles from a group of teenage girls as they drove by in their car. “Ahhhh, you devil you,” I said to myself, “you still got it.” I’m telling you, my ego grew so large it’s a wonder my neck didn’t break from the weight of it.

This incident repeated itself three or four times, and I was really getting full of myself when a car full of guys drove past me and did the very same thing. Still, undaunted, I walked on.

It wasn’t until I’d walked half the city that I happened to glance down and notice the fly to my pants was down, and a new dilemma arose. Just how does one nonchalantly zip up one’s fly while walking a street where the majority of traffic flows? It’s not easy.

A couple of years later, I’d reentered college. One warm July morning, as I traipsed across campus, I noticed people looking my way and smiling. I was worrying over an up-coming exam, and though I took mental note of the smiles given me, it never dawned on me those smiles had something to do with my attire.

That afternoon, I was still receiving curious looks and smiles from passersby when a thought occurred to me, “oh, oh,” I said softly as I glanced down at the fly of my pants. Sure enough it was down.

After graduating from college, I moved to Branson, Missouri where I, among other things, wrote a couple of entertainment columns. Early one summer evening, at Branson’s North Beach Park, I was walking to my truck when I spied Barbara Fairchild (For those of you who are old enough, do you remember the “Teddy Bear” song. That was one of her hits) at the tennis courts. “Hey Barbara,” I yelled. “How ya doing? Did ya read my review of your morning show?”

Well, after a little chit chat, I headed home. It was there I discovered that Ms. Fairchild had probably been smiling at me throughout our conversation not because of my charming personality. No, more likely it had something to do with the fact that, once again, my fly was gaping wide open, providing, I’m sure, amusement for all who noticed.

But the granddaddy of embarrassment happened at church a couple of years ago on Mother’s Day. I was asked in advanced to give a talk that Sunday on mothers, makes sense.

The service began with announcements from the pulpit, an opening hymn by the congregation, and a prayer. It was during the opening hymn, as I was sitting on the stand in front of the whole congregation, I noticed, to my horror, my fly was undone!

I broke out in a cold sweat as an unfortunately familiar dilemma reared its ugly head. Just how does one nonchalantly zip up one’s fly while sitting where the whole congregation of one’s church can see him?

I was saved by a prayer, literally. You see, it dawned on me that during the prayer the congregation would hopefully have its collective eyes closed, and that would be my chance to save face as it were. It either worked or people were just too nice to say anything for it was never mentioned to me by anyone, including the teenagers I taught in Sunday school.

Well, from these experiences, all I can conclude is with as much trouble we men have keeping our zippers closed, it’s certainly a good thing our brains aren’t zipped into our heads—they’d be constantly falling out. Although, sometimes I’m accused of acting as if have that problem.