I don’t remember how we arrived to this part of the conversation but I mentioned to Jan that one of my best friends when I was little was named Scotty. “Scotty the Body?” she quipped.
“Where did you get that?”
“That’s what Ryan Seacrest called Scott McIntyre on American Idol.”
“No” I explained, “ His name was Scotty, but he didn’t have much of a body. He was just a little kid. I think Scotty the Body is a wrestler. Anyway, it sounds like the name of a wrestler.”
We then popped off several not very original wrestler names that would rhyme with Scotty. Such as Scotty the Haughty, Scotty the Naughty, Scotty the Gaudy, and, here’s the nine year old coming out, Scotty the Pottie.
After this deep cerebral conversation I began to think about the professional wrestlers I grew up with.
In thought progression most of our thoughts are linked one to another but, the end of the chain of thought can be very different from the beginning. To complicate things many of my links have rusted through, causing my thoughts to often jump randomly without restraint or logic.
Oh yeah, where was I?
So I began to recollect my younger days sitting around watching professional wrestling on the black and white Saturday afternoons. These matches were carried on local TV stations with most events originating from the Cow Palace in San Francisco. The wrestlers back then weren’t the steroid pumped cartoon characters of today. Some seemed to be a little on the pudgy side. However, these were real men with names like Pat Patterson, Ray Stevens, Pepper Gomez, Rocky Johnson and the heroic Italian Kenji Shibuya.
I’d watch intently as these warriors of the ring applied choke holds, threw opponents into the ropes, and, jumping from the top of the ring corners, fly through the smoky air onto their prostrate foes, forcing elbow, or knees to the midsection like a pneumatic hammer. There’d be stomps and plops, slaps and chops, pokes and jokes. There really weren’t any jokes. Mayhem is not funny.
In wrestling you always knew who the good and bad guys were. Pepper Gomez was a good guy. Ray Stevens was evil. Stevens talked in a raspy voice that sounded like he’d been chopped a few to many times in the chords. He referred to everyone as “pencil necks”, which I’m sure didn’t make a very good impression with the ladies. When he got the three count on the good guy it was usually because of an illegal hold, hit or slam the referees conveniently ignored. Oh, how I hated him.
The trouble with wrestlers is that they often trade off from being on the dark side to seeing the light. I heard that even Ray Stevens eventually began wearing the white trunks of goodness. I doubted that his conversion was sincere.
The name of a wrestler adds to their mystique. It characterizes the grappler’s persona and encapsulates who they are as fighters. The list that follows are real names of real wrestlers who really are fake but their names are not. Follow me?
There are the powerful names that evoke fear, such as: The Rock, Ultimate Warrior, Samoan Savage, Vampire Warrior, Killer Kowalski.
Then there are names of disasters, weather, earth and beyond like: Gold Dust, Road Dog, Cactus Jack, Earthquake, Shark-Typhoon, Avalanche, Saturn,
Man –Mountain- Rock, Thunder, and Lightning.
Some are named after cities and areas where wrestlers learn their craft through hard lives on the streets. Men such as Bobo Brazil, Vegas Connection, Belfast Brawler and the Flying Dutchman.
Some names are creatively mind boggling, confusing opponents with their wits. Names such as: Isaac Yankem DDS, Adam Bomb, Koko B. Ware, Bastion Booger, Cheetah Kid, Justin Credible, Dusty Roads, and Sparky Plug.
Then there are the just plain odd names who cause heads to itch and jaws to drop like Gangrel, Christmas Creature, PM News, Mini Mankind, Dude Love, The Soup Eater, The Fig Wasp, Balsamic Vinegar, The Shlub, The Keokuk Optometrist, The Tattle Tale, along with separate wrestlers who sound like they’re from a Disney movie: Doink, Dink, Wink, Queezy, Seezy and Cheezy.
There’s also a group of elite wrestlers whose names evoke thoughts that even I could slam them through the canvas mat and grind them into the concrete below. Sissy names that make you wonder what they’d been drinking when they registered their name with wrestling federations. Factual names such as The Really Tiny Mouth, Kimono Boy, Tickles, The Whispering Mime, Phineas Godwinn, The Flying Nun, Diabetes, The Pediatrician, The Old Coward, The Narcoleptic, The Impressionist, The Phonics Expert, Hospice Boy and The Poet Laureate.
Finally, for Christina, there is even a wrestler named…Smarty Pants.
One can understand the need for the alias. Real names don’t convey the message wrestlers want to send their ring foes. For example; Jake the Snake is actually Aureliao Smith. Killer Karl Drupp’s name is really George Momberg. Christian Pallies is that nemesis King Kong Bundy. The Mongolian Mauler? Real name is Peter Miller. I doubt he was even Mongolian. That feared wrestler of my early day Pat Patterson? The name given him by his parents was Pierre Clemant. Then there’s the vicious, high flying wonder name Sunshine with a not too tough name of Victoria Fenners. So what if Sunshine is a girl. Finally there’s the famous Tatsumi Fujinami who pummeled adversaries senseless. His given name is… Tatsumi Fujinami.
Wrestling names aren’t just for wrestlers. Here’s an opportunity for each person to create a name that is instantly identifiable as you, to describe your fierceness in a fight, that causes adversaries to cower into dark corners of sullen madness.
Here are instructions, according to a web site, for creating a mighty warrior name.
1) For your first name use the third letter of your last name. Since my last name is Smith the letter I will use is i.
2) For last name use the second letter of your first name. Make a verb into a noun, such as Abolisher rather than Abolish. With a first name of Greg I will use the letter r.
3) Review to make sure no other wrestlers have the same name. Make it unique, powerful, and expressive.
I looked through the dictionary for incredible identities included in “I”. Some of these are Ice Man, Ideal, Inca, and Infallible.
For the second name I searched for those powerful verbs turned nouns beginning with “r”. Like Relative, Rocker, and Rattler.
Putting these together I come up with: The Infallible Rabbi, The Incan Rassle-Dazzler, The Ivory Rhino, The Indian Reaper, The Imbecilic Roughneck and The Immaculate Rainbow.
However, despite the instructions, I’ve selected only one name that describes my powerful, brawny intensity. The wrestling name that I lay claim to is…
“The Incinerator”. Are you all quivering yet?
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
Senior Moments
Previously on Michael Park Bark: The lack of actual anniversary celebrations has eluded Jan and I. This year afforded us another unique opportunity to reflect on our 32 years of marriage.
My father recently turned 90 and all of his children were there to show their love for him. Because of the expense of the trip Jan and I decided that this trip would need to suffice for anniversary activities.
So we packed up our “newer” car, the one with 120,000 miles on it, and drove the 375 miles to Castro Valley, California. Dad lives in a retirement community, Baywood Court, where I believe residents need to be at least 70 years old in order to inhabit one of their bungalows. It’s been a great place for him. He’s built social networks, the food and dining room atmosphere are restaurant quality, and a maid comes in to make your bed, clean up your bathroom and leave fresh towels. I’ve asked Jan for the same type of service. The eye roll let me know where this would lead. So now I make the bed, clean the bathrooms and leave fresh towels for Jan to enjoy.
Baywood Court has a guest room that is cheaper to stay in than one of the hotels. Our last visit we stayed at a nearby hotel but for the money paid all we got were noisy drug dealers, screeching cars and the smell of garlic and curry. No, it wasn’t me.
So, we decided to again enjoy the confines of the guest room. Approaching the double front doors to Baywood I was tempted to press the button that automatically swings the doors wide so wheelchaired seniors could roll in. Or rather these days with battery powered chariots, drive in.
The first thing I noticed as we entered the lobby was a row of upholstered chairs where several women were sitting, watching people come and go through the front doors. It was disheartening to think these women were probably waiting for a loved one, who would never come, to whisk them away from this place and return them to their homes. I imagined that this comprised their whole empty lives; sitting, waiting, watching.
Walking by I gently placed my hand on the shoulder of one of the women and compassionately asked why they sat, and waited. She turned her wrinkled face and without a smile replied, “We’re waiting for Harold to come back from shopping. He’s so hunky, we just like to look at him.”
After checking in at the front desk we pressed the elevator button and waited for our ride to the third floor. I noticed all the residents wore name tags, complete with the Baywood logo, pinned to their shirts or blouses, or pajamas, or tank tops. Those from the outside world who choose to tarry awhile with loved ones were also asked to wear a name tag that identified them as visitors.
When the elevator doors opened a gentleman already in the elevator glanced at our tags and spritely welcomed us, “Hello visitors.”
I looked at his name tag and smartly said, “Good morning Jim.”
Jim twisted his shirt so he could see his tag then replied, “No, my name is Baywood.”
Later I was told that Jim, also known as Baywood, rode the elevator for most of the day.
The following is meant as a guide to living with old people. Hopefully we all will be old people someday.
Never try to pass two women with walkers side by side in a narrow hall. Some were in roller derby.
Don’t play pool with a hunched over gentleman named Sammy the Shark.
Stay away from the swimming pool during swimming time.
Don’t mistakenly leave the treadmill on high in the gym.
Never say, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” if you trip over the chair and tumble to the floor.
Don’t think that every light in the place can be turned on by clapping.
Don’t try to break up a verbal battle between men arguing over who has had more surgeries, whose scars are longer or who can remember what they were arguing about in the first place.
If you eat a meal there be prepared to add your own sugar, salt and other spices.
Never jokingly try to take someone’s walker for a spin. They tackle hard.
Remember to always repeat yourself because whoever you’re talking to didn’t hear it the first time.
You can learn about people’s TV viewing habits by walking down the hall. Their TV’s are cranked up like CD listening teenagers in a convertible.
Never complain about odd smells.
Never, no matter how clever you think you are, tape the word “final” next to an exit sign.
Finally, here’s a list of words and terms that should never be used in a sentence at Baywood Court: Remember, older folks usually only hear part of your sentence.
“His license has expired.”
“She passed on having a second helping of dessert”
“Oh, she just went to the other side of the building”
“What! My credit card has been terminated?”
“The losing water polo team made a last gasp effort to score.”
“I’m on my last leg. I need to make an appointment to get another one.”
Lastly, take time to listen. That’s how you learn about admirals of navy’s, symphony violinists, doctors who have healed, trumpeters in famous big bands, and even about a great man who won the Idaho state championship in baton twirling.
My father recently turned 90 and all of his children were there to show their love for him. Because of the expense of the trip Jan and I decided that this trip would need to suffice for anniversary activities.
So we packed up our “newer” car, the one with 120,000 miles on it, and drove the 375 miles to Castro Valley, California. Dad lives in a retirement community, Baywood Court, where I believe residents need to be at least 70 years old in order to inhabit one of their bungalows. It’s been a great place for him. He’s built social networks, the food and dining room atmosphere are restaurant quality, and a maid comes in to make your bed, clean up your bathroom and leave fresh towels. I’ve asked Jan for the same type of service. The eye roll let me know where this would lead. So now I make the bed, clean the bathrooms and leave fresh towels for Jan to enjoy.
Baywood Court has a guest room that is cheaper to stay in than one of the hotels. Our last visit we stayed at a nearby hotel but for the money paid all we got were noisy drug dealers, screeching cars and the smell of garlic and curry. No, it wasn’t me.
So, we decided to again enjoy the confines of the guest room. Approaching the double front doors to Baywood I was tempted to press the button that automatically swings the doors wide so wheelchaired seniors could roll in. Or rather these days with battery powered chariots, drive in.
The first thing I noticed as we entered the lobby was a row of upholstered chairs where several women were sitting, watching people come and go through the front doors. It was disheartening to think these women were probably waiting for a loved one, who would never come, to whisk them away from this place and return them to their homes. I imagined that this comprised their whole empty lives; sitting, waiting, watching.
Walking by I gently placed my hand on the shoulder of one of the women and compassionately asked why they sat, and waited. She turned her wrinkled face and without a smile replied, “We’re waiting for Harold to come back from shopping. He’s so hunky, we just like to look at him.”
After checking in at the front desk we pressed the elevator button and waited for our ride to the third floor. I noticed all the residents wore name tags, complete with the Baywood logo, pinned to their shirts or blouses, or pajamas, or tank tops. Those from the outside world who choose to tarry awhile with loved ones were also asked to wear a name tag that identified them as visitors.
When the elevator doors opened a gentleman already in the elevator glanced at our tags and spritely welcomed us, “Hello visitors.”
I looked at his name tag and smartly said, “Good morning Jim.”
Jim twisted his shirt so he could see his tag then replied, “No, my name is Baywood.”
Later I was told that Jim, also known as Baywood, rode the elevator for most of the day.
The following is meant as a guide to living with old people. Hopefully we all will be old people someday.
Never try to pass two women with walkers side by side in a narrow hall. Some were in roller derby.
Don’t play pool with a hunched over gentleman named Sammy the Shark.
Stay away from the swimming pool during swimming time.
Don’t mistakenly leave the treadmill on high in the gym.
Never say, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” if you trip over the chair and tumble to the floor.
Don’t think that every light in the place can be turned on by clapping.
Don’t try to break up a verbal battle between men arguing over who has had more surgeries, whose scars are longer or who can remember what they were arguing about in the first place.
If you eat a meal there be prepared to add your own sugar, salt and other spices.
Never jokingly try to take someone’s walker for a spin. They tackle hard.
Remember to always repeat yourself because whoever you’re talking to didn’t hear it the first time.
You can learn about people’s TV viewing habits by walking down the hall. Their TV’s are cranked up like CD listening teenagers in a convertible.
Never complain about odd smells.
Never, no matter how clever you think you are, tape the word “final” next to an exit sign.
Finally, here’s a list of words and terms that should never be used in a sentence at Baywood Court: Remember, older folks usually only hear part of your sentence.
“His license has expired.”
“She passed on having a second helping of dessert”
“Oh, she just went to the other side of the building”
“What! My credit card has been terminated?”
“The losing water polo team made a last gasp effort to score.”
“I’m on my last leg. I need to make an appointment to get another one.”
Lastly, take time to listen. That’s how you learn about admirals of navy’s, symphony violinists, doctors who have healed, trumpeters in famous big bands, and even about a great man who won the Idaho state championship in baton twirling.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Happy Anniversary
This past week Jan and I celebrated our 32nd wedding anniversary. For the most part this celebration was pretty low-key. Part of that has to do with the time of year we chose to marry. If we could have seen the future we would have changed the April 23rd date to at least into May or June.
Many of our anniversaries have been spent picking up one or more of our kids from BYU in Provo or BYU-Idaho, (formally known as Rick’s College). We’d drive all day, haul out stuff from their apartments and jam it into the car, then help clean their apartment so they could leave. Then, after a one day stay we’d take the 13 hour trip back home.
Some anniversary.
The worst anniversary we had was attending my mother’s funeral. No celebrating there.
So, this year I took Jan out to one of our favorite restaurants, Roadhouse Grill. A few weeks ago I had won a contest at work and received a $100 gift certificate to a restaurant of my choice. So I chose Roadhouse. Pretty nice, didn’t have to pay anything for the major date of the year.
Sometimes we’ll go and see a romantic movie like “The Fast and the Furious.” We really didn’t see that movie but I thought the title is fairly descriptive of many marriages...certainly not ours.
In fact, I was scanning a list of movie titles and discovered that there is secret meaning found in many. No, not the kind that gives clues on where to find historical artifacts that lead to treasure, but clues about successful marriage and family relationships. So, here’s a list of some movie titles that will help all of us be stronger in our commitments. I originally had commented at length about each of these but my editor thought I was too deep and filled with words no one would understand. Instead I’ve shortened each with a few descriptive words. Although this advice is aimed toward husbands, wife’s can flip these to apply to them. Disclaimer to wife’s: Don’t give this list to your husband with the intention of holding him hostage. Be gentle.
Here they are in a very random order:
12 Monkeys: Kids
Altered States: Go nuts whenever you see your wife
American Beauty: Need to tell her she’ beautiful no matter her nationality.
As Good as it Gets : And it can get great.
At First Sight: See her beauty even with no make-up.
A Beautiful Mind: Give her praise for her smarts.
Chicken Run: What to do when there’s an argument. Well, that’s what I do anyway.
A Civil Action: Treat her with respect
Chocolat : The peace offering
Eyes Wide Shut: Don’t see anything that she does that drives you crazy.
Fried Green Tomato’s: Never complain about a meal she’ cooked.
Girl, Interrupted: Let her finish her stories.
Heavyweights: Never, Ever go there.
Ice Age: What you’ll get if you go there (see Heavyweights)
The Music Man: A good serenade will make her swoon, even if you’ve made up the words.
The Never Ending Story: Cut your stories short and to the point
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest: Wives love crazy, spontaneous moments.
Pay It Forward: Stay out of debt.
The Relic: What she’ll refer to you as to her friends if you don’t get off the couch and do something.
Schindler’s List: Never make a list of what you would like to change about her.
The Searchers: Don’t throw out anything until she’s had a chance to decide if it’s a keeper.
The Sixth Sense: Be careful because she knows more than she lets on.
The Usual Suspects: Never blame her for anything.
A Walk in the Clouds: Take her on dates no matter how long you’ve been married.
What Dreams May Come: What happens when you do all the above.
Many of our anniversaries have been spent picking up one or more of our kids from BYU in Provo or BYU-Idaho, (formally known as Rick’s College). We’d drive all day, haul out stuff from their apartments and jam it into the car, then help clean their apartment so they could leave. Then, after a one day stay we’d take the 13 hour trip back home.
Some anniversary.
The worst anniversary we had was attending my mother’s funeral. No celebrating there.
So, this year I took Jan out to one of our favorite restaurants, Roadhouse Grill. A few weeks ago I had won a contest at work and received a $100 gift certificate to a restaurant of my choice. So I chose Roadhouse. Pretty nice, didn’t have to pay anything for the major date of the year.
Sometimes we’ll go and see a romantic movie like “The Fast and the Furious.” We really didn’t see that movie but I thought the title is fairly descriptive of many marriages...certainly not ours.
In fact, I was scanning a list of movie titles and discovered that there is secret meaning found in many. No, not the kind that gives clues on where to find historical artifacts that lead to treasure, but clues about successful marriage and family relationships. So, here’s a list of some movie titles that will help all of us be stronger in our commitments. I originally had commented at length about each of these but my editor thought I was too deep and filled with words no one would understand. Instead I’ve shortened each with a few descriptive words. Although this advice is aimed toward husbands, wife’s can flip these to apply to them. Disclaimer to wife’s: Don’t give this list to your husband with the intention of holding him hostage. Be gentle.
Here they are in a very random order:
12 Monkeys: Kids
Altered States: Go nuts whenever you see your wife
American Beauty: Need to tell her she’ beautiful no matter her nationality.
As Good as it Gets : And it can get great.
At First Sight: See her beauty even with no make-up.
A Beautiful Mind: Give her praise for her smarts.
Chicken Run: What to do when there’s an argument. Well, that’s what I do anyway.
A Civil Action: Treat her with respect
Chocolat : The peace offering
Eyes Wide Shut: Don’t see anything that she does that drives you crazy.
Fried Green Tomato’s: Never complain about a meal she’ cooked.
Girl, Interrupted: Let her finish her stories.
Heavyweights: Never, Ever go there.
Ice Age: What you’ll get if you go there (see Heavyweights)
The Music Man: A good serenade will make her swoon, even if you’ve made up the words.
The Never Ending Story: Cut your stories short and to the point
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest: Wives love crazy, spontaneous moments.
Pay It Forward: Stay out of debt.
The Relic: What she’ll refer to you as to her friends if you don’t get off the couch and do something.
Schindler’s List: Never make a list of what you would like to change about her.
The Searchers: Don’t throw out anything until she’s had a chance to decide if it’s a keeper.
The Sixth Sense: Be careful because she knows more than she lets on.
The Usual Suspects: Never blame her for anything.
A Walk in the Clouds: Take her on dates no matter how long you’ve been married.
What Dreams May Come: What happens when you do all the above.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Jeepers Peepers
I understand and appreciate the religious aspects of Easter. My heart is turned toward Christ’s atonement which includes His resurrection. However, I have always enjoyed the secular events of this holiday. No, I don’t get a day off from work. But, it’s the only holiday devoted to consuming huge amounts of candy.
I don’t remember if I ever believed in the Easter Bunny. The thought of a huge, egg laying, home invading rabbit was scary. I also wondered how this Spring time monster who victimized young children got into the house. Santa came through the chimney. Did the Bunny come through the plumbing?
Santa always avoided harm by sailing his sleigh through the crisp winter skies. The Easter Bunny apparently hopped from house to house. Not a speedy way to go. And, how traumatic for a child to see dozens of rabbits converted to road kill on Nevada highways. I never saw Santa’s smashed and flattened body on the road. Come to think of it I guess I have seen a few Santa’s who were smashed.
As a child my mom made sure we had enough hard boiled eggs to dye and then hide. The best part was finding an egg in July that had been hidden so well it was never located during the initial egg hunt. That would be one ripe egg. No one dared to crack it open.
My favorite candies were Peeps. Some think they’re tasteless lumps of goo but I’ve always been a Peep fan. If you want the full taste that satisfies your pallet Peeps need to harden. I bought a couple of trays of grass green rabbits and flaming red chicks. As soon as I came home I opened them up and they’re now aging on the shelf. I’ll give it a week before they’re ripe enough to consume. Hopefully the ant scouts won’t find them.
As the kids were growing up we always celebrated the candy and egg finding day on the Saturday prior to Easter. This separated the worldly from the spiritual. And, instead of hiding those awful eggs we hid various confections. The children would be given a basket and they would roam the living room or kitchen gathering goodies.
This morning, as Jan was propped up in bed reading the paper I quietly opened her drawer and took every pair of her socks. I was so stealthy, stealing her huge collection of stockings right under her nose. I clutched the socks in my crossed arms, holding them close to my chest. Quietly I shut the drawer, dropping a few pairs on the floor. As I bent over to retrieve the runaways all of the socks spilled to the floor. I quickly gathered them back into my arms, one eye watching to see if Jan were looking, the other eye locating the fleeing stockings. Yes, I am cross eyed and can do that.
I had learned from an old western movie, Indians, when stalking unsuspecting cowboys, didn’t walk on their tiptoes. Instead they placed their moccasined feet heel first. I used this technique to sneak out of the bedroom. Dumping the socks on the couch I made sure to take a count. There were fifteen pairs. Then I hid each pair in various places, from the obvious to the class five secret spot. I stashed them behind wall mounted paintings, in the bowl and pitcher sitting on the antique sewing machine cabinet and on the DVD shelves. I concealed the wooly foot coverings on top of the ceiling fan, behind the front window blinds and on top of the lamp. Feeling satisfied that this would be an adventure lasting hours I sat back, waiting for her to get dressed.
As I waited in anticipation I made some Saturday morning pancakes, put the dishes away from the dish washer, swept the floor. Nothing yet. I crept down the hall and peered into the bedroom. She was dressed but, as expected, bare foot. I snuck back down to the living room, snickering to myself and waited. I expected any minute to hear the drawer open and the shout of “Gregory!” vibrating through the roof of our home.
After a few minutes had passed there were still no yelps of sock despair coming from the bedroom. A second time I stole down the hall. I was startled to meet Jan coming out of the bedroom. I raised my eyebrows with a quizzical look expecting her to at least ask where her socks had disappeared to. Instead she looked back at me suspiciously and questioned, “What?”
I pointed at her bare feet, thinking that would clue her that something was missing from her wardrobe.
But, my eyes widened in horror! She had socks on!
I asked where she had gotten them. She replied she had taken them out of her drawer. I told her that was impossible.
“Why, did you take the rest?”
“Here, open your drawer again,” I begged.
Opening the drawer she saw the socks were gone.
I gave her a hug and yelled, “Happy Easter!”
Leading her to the living room I gave her a plastic bag from Target that substituted for the Easter basket. Jan went around the room, collecting her socks like she were picking daises from a field, and placing them in her improvised Easter treat carrier.
Oh yeah, there were a few she had to look hard for but I played the hot/cold game with her until I think she had found them all.
Hopefully, on some warm mid-summer day, I won’t hear, “Gregory!” as Jan discovers a pair of ripe socks that had been hidden so well they weren’t discovered on the initial sock hunt.
I don’t remember if I ever believed in the Easter Bunny. The thought of a huge, egg laying, home invading rabbit was scary. I also wondered how this Spring time monster who victimized young children got into the house. Santa came through the chimney. Did the Bunny come through the plumbing?
Santa always avoided harm by sailing his sleigh through the crisp winter skies. The Easter Bunny apparently hopped from house to house. Not a speedy way to go. And, how traumatic for a child to see dozens of rabbits converted to road kill on Nevada highways. I never saw Santa’s smashed and flattened body on the road. Come to think of it I guess I have seen a few Santa’s who were smashed.
As a child my mom made sure we had enough hard boiled eggs to dye and then hide. The best part was finding an egg in July that had been hidden so well it was never located during the initial egg hunt. That would be one ripe egg. No one dared to crack it open.
My favorite candies were Peeps. Some think they’re tasteless lumps of goo but I’ve always been a Peep fan. If you want the full taste that satisfies your pallet Peeps need to harden. I bought a couple of trays of grass green rabbits and flaming red chicks. As soon as I came home I opened them up and they’re now aging on the shelf. I’ll give it a week before they’re ripe enough to consume. Hopefully the ant scouts won’t find them.
As the kids were growing up we always celebrated the candy and egg finding day on the Saturday prior to Easter. This separated the worldly from the spiritual. And, instead of hiding those awful eggs we hid various confections. The children would be given a basket and they would roam the living room or kitchen gathering goodies.
This morning, as Jan was propped up in bed reading the paper I quietly opened her drawer and took every pair of her socks. I was so stealthy, stealing her huge collection of stockings right under her nose. I clutched the socks in my crossed arms, holding them close to my chest. Quietly I shut the drawer, dropping a few pairs on the floor. As I bent over to retrieve the runaways all of the socks spilled to the floor. I quickly gathered them back into my arms, one eye watching to see if Jan were looking, the other eye locating the fleeing stockings. Yes, I am cross eyed and can do that.
I had learned from an old western movie, Indians, when stalking unsuspecting cowboys, didn’t walk on their tiptoes. Instead they placed their moccasined feet heel first. I used this technique to sneak out of the bedroom. Dumping the socks on the couch I made sure to take a count. There were fifteen pairs. Then I hid each pair in various places, from the obvious to the class five secret spot. I stashed them behind wall mounted paintings, in the bowl and pitcher sitting on the antique sewing machine cabinet and on the DVD shelves. I concealed the wooly foot coverings on top of the ceiling fan, behind the front window blinds and on top of the lamp. Feeling satisfied that this would be an adventure lasting hours I sat back, waiting for her to get dressed.
As I waited in anticipation I made some Saturday morning pancakes, put the dishes away from the dish washer, swept the floor. Nothing yet. I crept down the hall and peered into the bedroom. She was dressed but, as expected, bare foot. I snuck back down to the living room, snickering to myself and waited. I expected any minute to hear the drawer open and the shout of “Gregory!” vibrating through the roof of our home.
After a few minutes had passed there were still no yelps of sock despair coming from the bedroom. A second time I stole down the hall. I was startled to meet Jan coming out of the bedroom. I raised my eyebrows with a quizzical look expecting her to at least ask where her socks had disappeared to. Instead she looked back at me suspiciously and questioned, “What?”
I pointed at her bare feet, thinking that would clue her that something was missing from her wardrobe.
But, my eyes widened in horror! She had socks on!
I asked where she had gotten them. She replied she had taken them out of her drawer. I told her that was impossible.
“Why, did you take the rest?”
“Here, open your drawer again,” I begged.
Opening the drawer she saw the socks were gone.
I gave her a hug and yelled, “Happy Easter!”
Leading her to the living room I gave her a plastic bag from Target that substituted for the Easter basket. Jan went around the room, collecting her socks like she were picking daises from a field, and placing them in her improvised Easter treat carrier.
Oh yeah, there were a few she had to look hard for but I played the hot/cold game with her until I think she had found them all.
Hopefully, on some warm mid-summer day, I won’t hear, “Gregory!” as Jan discovers a pair of ripe socks that had been hidden so well they weren’t discovered on the initial sock hunt.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
The Route
Brittany and Clay are typical struggling, financially challenged students. When we visited them last week our goal was to hold Maeli and leave imprints of grandparent lips all over her head. However, every morning the bleeping of the alarm sounded like a truck backing up at a construction site. At 4 am I felt like that truck had backed up over me. A light came on down the hall and my eye lids began to flicker as the pupils adjusted to the brightness.
Like a bear waking up after hibernation I stretched and growled as I rolled off the air mattress Jan and I had been sleeping on. In doing so I upset the balance of air in the cosmic mattress universe causing Jan to suddenly sink lower into the mattress. The sudden decompression beneath caused her to let out a gasp.
Patting the floor to find my jeans and a shirt I drearily slipped into them only to discover my shirt was inside out and my feet had led my legs into the same pant hole. I thought the pants were awfully tight as I hopped around like a drunken Easter bunny with an arthritic knee joint.
After correcting the wardrobe malfunctions a surprised Brittany stumbling out of the bathroom asked what I was doing. I proudly announced that I was going to help them on the paper route they had started several weeks ago. She yawned and told me I was nuts. She also pointed out my shoes were on the wrong feet.
As Clay, Brittany and I approached the Jeep, Brittany made a confession. “I have to warn you, Dad, I drive fast and crazy doing this paper route.” I told her I wasn’t worried. After all I had ridden with her mother for many years.(1)
Brittany took her place behind the wheel while I was assigned the front passenger seat. Clay took the backseat I learned so he could sleep while we drove to the newspaper pick up and folding warehouse several miles away.
As we entered the warehouse I noticed several of the other carriers still wore their pajama bottoms and slippers. (No, they weren’t topless. They also had a sweatshirt or jacket on. I didn’t want you to think this was a risqué sort of a newspaper place.). I was waiting to see if any came in wearing a robe and eye mask. (2)
I don’t think I would trust a paper carrier driving around in an eye mask. It would be sort of like placing a blindfold on a sharpshooter aiming his rifle at his assistant with a red balloon clenched tightly between her front teeth. But in this case the shooter would be a newspaper flinger trying to hit the target of the porch, roof, car or cat.
Since the weather was gamey all the papers were bagged. I took a stack and began to zip through them, folding, bagging and stacking them into a cart. I still had the newspaper tri-fold touch. Then Brittany pointed out I had just folded the newspapers of the guy next to us. I’m sure he was appreciative when he came in and saw his papers neatly bagged and stacked. I love to give unexpected service.
Brittany and Clay have over 200 papers to deliver and the route is spread throughout Orem. I soon learned what Brittany meant by driving fast and crazy. Blue bagged newspapers filled the back of the Jeep and cascaded into the back seat with every sharp turn. Clay rode shotgun, literally. With the back left window down as they approached a house he would lean as far out as he could then hurl the paper Frisbee style toward the desired target.
Often this was the driveway but some customers preferred their papers porched. One would think he’d get out of the car to get a better shot, but no, Clay would extend his body even further out the window then chuck the paper toward the porch. He had varied results. Often he would have to leave the car to correct his errant throw.
Now, for the driver, Brittany. She would hurtle through the dark neighborhoods NASCAR style, barely slowing down for Clay to launch the newspapers. I kept Brittany alert with my snappy conversation. Here’s a sampling of our Father-Daughter dialogue as I sort of remember:
Brittany: “I told you this was fast and crazy.”
Dad: “You need to slow down when you take those corners. You’re going to flip this thing over when you’re only on two wheels.”
Brittany: “I’m not going that fast.”
Dad: “Just because its 4 am doesn’t mean you can buzz through stop signs!”
Brittany: “You’re’ sounding like when I had my permit and you were teaching me how to drive.”
Dad: “I never taught you to drive like this!”
Brittany: “We need to go fast so we can get done in time.”
Dad: “You need to be safer. I doubt you’re covered by insurance because you’re using your vehicle for business.”
Brittany: “We’re covered. Now hold on…”
Dad: “Yikes, there’s no need to make those joggers scatter like pins in a bowling alley!”
Brittany: “I didn’t hit anyone…”
Dad: “Maybe not, but that old lady walking her dog is lying on the sidewalk clutching her chest… I think she had a heart attack.”
Brittany: “That wasn’t my fault. I can’t help it if her dog pulled her into my path.”
Dad: “Yeah, path of destruction. Who’s that person curled up in pain in the middle of the street behind us?”
Brittany: “Oh great, Clay’s fallen out the window again.”
Dad: “Don’t back up so fast!”
Brittany: “Don’t worry he’ll roll out of the way.”
Dad: “I’m feeling car sick.”
Brittany: “Here, use this blue bag if you’re going to throw up.”
Dad: “But there’s a paper in there.”
Brittany: “That’s OK. I know just the person to give that paper to.”
Finally arriving back to their apartment I staggered out of the Jeep like a sailor on a wobbling ship. Brittany thanked me for helping out.
As we entered the apartment Jan was still stirring on the mattress. “Are you done already?”
“Oh yeah, I’m done.”
(1) Marriage saving disclaimer: Jan, you are actually a very safe driver. Now please, let me back in the house.
(2) See prior blog entry titled “Sleep Deprivation.”
Like a bear waking up after hibernation I stretched and growled as I rolled off the air mattress Jan and I had been sleeping on. In doing so I upset the balance of air in the cosmic mattress universe causing Jan to suddenly sink lower into the mattress. The sudden decompression beneath caused her to let out a gasp.
Patting the floor to find my jeans and a shirt I drearily slipped into them only to discover my shirt was inside out and my feet had led my legs into the same pant hole. I thought the pants were awfully tight as I hopped around like a drunken Easter bunny with an arthritic knee joint.
After correcting the wardrobe malfunctions a surprised Brittany stumbling out of the bathroom asked what I was doing. I proudly announced that I was going to help them on the paper route they had started several weeks ago. She yawned and told me I was nuts. She also pointed out my shoes were on the wrong feet.
As Clay, Brittany and I approached the Jeep, Brittany made a confession. “I have to warn you, Dad, I drive fast and crazy doing this paper route.” I told her I wasn’t worried. After all I had ridden with her mother for many years.(1)
Brittany took her place behind the wheel while I was assigned the front passenger seat. Clay took the backseat I learned so he could sleep while we drove to the newspaper pick up and folding warehouse several miles away.
As we entered the warehouse I noticed several of the other carriers still wore their pajama bottoms and slippers. (No, they weren’t topless. They also had a sweatshirt or jacket on. I didn’t want you to think this was a risqué sort of a newspaper place.). I was waiting to see if any came in wearing a robe and eye mask. (2)
I don’t think I would trust a paper carrier driving around in an eye mask. It would be sort of like placing a blindfold on a sharpshooter aiming his rifle at his assistant with a red balloon clenched tightly between her front teeth. But in this case the shooter would be a newspaper flinger trying to hit the target of the porch, roof, car or cat.
Since the weather was gamey all the papers were bagged. I took a stack and began to zip through them, folding, bagging and stacking them into a cart. I still had the newspaper tri-fold touch. Then Brittany pointed out I had just folded the newspapers of the guy next to us. I’m sure he was appreciative when he came in and saw his papers neatly bagged and stacked. I love to give unexpected service.
Brittany and Clay have over 200 papers to deliver and the route is spread throughout Orem. I soon learned what Brittany meant by driving fast and crazy. Blue bagged newspapers filled the back of the Jeep and cascaded into the back seat with every sharp turn. Clay rode shotgun, literally. With the back left window down as they approached a house he would lean as far out as he could then hurl the paper Frisbee style toward the desired target.
Often this was the driveway but some customers preferred their papers porched. One would think he’d get out of the car to get a better shot, but no, Clay would extend his body even further out the window then chuck the paper toward the porch. He had varied results. Often he would have to leave the car to correct his errant throw.
Now, for the driver, Brittany. She would hurtle through the dark neighborhoods NASCAR style, barely slowing down for Clay to launch the newspapers. I kept Brittany alert with my snappy conversation. Here’s a sampling of our Father-Daughter dialogue as I sort of remember:
Brittany: “I told you this was fast and crazy.”
Dad: “You need to slow down when you take those corners. You’re going to flip this thing over when you’re only on two wheels.”
Brittany: “I’m not going that fast.”
Dad: “Just because its 4 am doesn’t mean you can buzz through stop signs!”
Brittany: “You’re’ sounding like when I had my permit and you were teaching me how to drive.”
Dad: “I never taught you to drive like this!”
Brittany: “We need to go fast so we can get done in time.”
Dad: “You need to be safer. I doubt you’re covered by insurance because you’re using your vehicle for business.”
Brittany: “We’re covered. Now hold on…”
Dad: “Yikes, there’s no need to make those joggers scatter like pins in a bowling alley!”
Brittany: “I didn’t hit anyone…”
Dad: “Maybe not, but that old lady walking her dog is lying on the sidewalk clutching her chest… I think she had a heart attack.”
Brittany: “That wasn’t my fault. I can’t help it if her dog pulled her into my path.”
Dad: “Yeah, path of destruction. Who’s that person curled up in pain in the middle of the street behind us?”
Brittany: “Oh great, Clay’s fallen out the window again.”
Dad: “Don’t back up so fast!”
Brittany: “Don’t worry he’ll roll out of the way.”
Dad: “I’m feeling car sick.”
Brittany: “Here, use this blue bag if you’re going to throw up.”
Dad: “But there’s a paper in there.”
Brittany: “That’s OK. I know just the person to give that paper to.”
Finally arriving back to their apartment I staggered out of the Jeep like a sailor on a wobbling ship. Brittany thanked me for helping out.
As we entered the apartment Jan was still stirring on the mattress. “Are you done already?”
“Oh yeah, I’m done.”
(1) Marriage saving disclaimer: Jan, you are actually a very safe driver. Now please, let me back in the house.
(2) See prior blog entry titled “Sleep Deprivation.”
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Travel Tip$
A week or so ago Jan informed me that we were going to be attending a “free” (I’ll explain the quote marks later) seminar at the AAA office featuring an international guru specializing in packing. This is not about packing supplies on mules for a trip down the walls of the Grand Canyon. This packer helps travelers pack more economically and lighter so extra baggage isn’t needed or luggage is not over weight, thus causing additional excessive charges to fly.
I don’t know why Jan felt the need to attend this seminar. We’ve only flown a few times since we’ve been married. If we go anywhere it’s by car. Maybe she has anxiety that I will begin charging her for each bag she checks into the trunk and enforce a new policy that all carry on items must be able to fit underneath the seat.
The packer’s name is Anne McAlpin. She actually lives in Jacksonville and travels the world giving these seminars. Her claim to fame is that she’s appeared on the Today Show, CNN and Oprah.
Now, don’t think for a moment that I didn’t protest going to this seminar. Protesting with Jan is always futile but I need to put up a little fight so she thinks I’m making a huge sacrifice on her behalf. That’s just part of our relationship. Make her think she owes me. Jan also invited her sister Jeanne who is very supportive in her sister’s anxieties.
Reservations were required to insure a seat. As we drove to the early morning meeting I wondered if we would be the only ones attending. We were surprised to see that the parking lot was quickly filling up. We announced our arrival at the front desk and were given some literature along with a raffle ticket because there would be a few prizes given out at the end of the seminar.
We found seats in the back and listened to the excited chatter of the attendees. Anne then walked from the back of the room to check out her audience. She walked aisle by aisle like a stewardess, making sure our seats were comfortable and that we had everything we needed. I expected to see her pushing the airline drink cart down the aisle or that she would begin giving instructions on how to use the oxygen masks while pointing out the emergency exit doors.
I would have been very interested in those exit doors.
The oxygen masks would have been very appropriate given the age of most of the attendees. I think we were the youngest attending. Retired people must have more time and disposable income than we who support them with our monthly Social Security extractions from our pay checks.
To begin her presentation Anne asked the audience where people were going to be traveling. Many mentioned exotic, exciting places like the Pacific Islands, Italy, Greece, France and the Orient. After each person’s comment Anne repeated it with excitement in her voice. I just couldn’t resist and my hand shot up automatically. As Anne pointed in my direction I blurted out, “Lincoln, Nebraska!” Right in cadence she repeated. “Lincoln, Nebraska.”
I’m sure she wondered what kind of jerk was sitting in the back row. As people turned and gave me stares of disbelief I pointed at Jan as if she somehow had changed her voice and shouted that ridiculous reply. However there were actually a few chuckles and even some claps. They must have thought I’d said Yukon, Alaska because one woman in front of us turned and said, “I’ve been on that cruise before.”
I wondered how you book a cruise to Nebraska.
Anne then went into her pitch with all the flurry of a salesman standing on the steps of his medicine wagon selling his ‘magic’ elixir that cures everything from cancer to gout. She showed us luggage with the nooks and compartments that you could hide things in for years and not know they were there. She showed us how to roll clothes up to prevent wrinkling, stowing shoes and heavy items at the bottom of the suitcase and how to get through security without having personal care products confiscated.
She also showed various products that were compact, and would fill emergency needs. There was the solar/crank powered flashlight that I wondered when would that be needed. OK, a radio was also part of the device but still, to the best of my knowledge solar power doesn’t work in the dark.
Noting the age of her audience Anne also showed a nifty pill organizer. This was obviously very important because it was listed three times on the brochure that reviewed some of the products. However, my favorites were the compression bags. Simply place your clothes in the bag then roll out the air and the clothing is compressed flat and airless. I wondered about other applications for these bags such as when moving just place your boxes and furniture in the compression bag and you can move entire households in a wheel barrow. Or, for a quieter ride on the way to vacation put the kids in one of these bags to save space and whining. I haven’t figured out the bone crushing air breathing thing yet for the kids but it’s worth a try.
When the hour long seminar was over Anne invited some of the AAA office staff to talk. They wanted to make sure we reviewed the brochures. Originally we thought they were just check lists for packing but in reality they were checklists for buying. The staff explained that most of the items in Anne’s presentation were available in the AAA travel store. That’s when I knew we’d been set up.
When the staff was through with their instructions those in attendance rushed toward the travel store. Older people can be very aggressive when they think there’s a deal out there. Chairs went flying as bodies pushed against bodies, gray hair flew (I think it was actually someone’s wig). People attacked these travel items like flocks of hungry seagulls fighting over French fries spilled in a parking lot.
Even Jan was caught up in the excitement, slowly moving from shelf to shelf filling her arms with various gizmos. As an extra incentive if you spent a minimum of $75 consumers would receive a free copy of Anne’s book and DVD. Anne would then autograph the books and the frenzied travel fans would walk out the door pushing their new luggage with happy grins. Using anti-hypnosis techniques I learned in Scranton, Pennsylvania, I was able to snap Jan out of her catatonic shopping state and convinced her to put several of the items back, explaining that we could just borrow Jeanne’s book.
So, the “free” seminar was actually a conniving sales pitch that cost me tens of dollars. After the last autograph I’m sure Anne sat comfortably in a chair in the back room, clasped her hands together behind her head with her feet propped up on a piece of luggage and said with a devilish grin, “Suckers.”
I don’t know why Jan felt the need to attend this seminar. We’ve only flown a few times since we’ve been married. If we go anywhere it’s by car. Maybe she has anxiety that I will begin charging her for each bag she checks into the trunk and enforce a new policy that all carry on items must be able to fit underneath the seat.
The packer’s name is Anne McAlpin. She actually lives in Jacksonville and travels the world giving these seminars. Her claim to fame is that she’s appeared on the Today Show, CNN and Oprah.
Now, don’t think for a moment that I didn’t protest going to this seminar. Protesting with Jan is always futile but I need to put up a little fight so she thinks I’m making a huge sacrifice on her behalf. That’s just part of our relationship. Make her think she owes me. Jan also invited her sister Jeanne who is very supportive in her sister’s anxieties.
Reservations were required to insure a seat. As we drove to the early morning meeting I wondered if we would be the only ones attending. We were surprised to see that the parking lot was quickly filling up. We announced our arrival at the front desk and were given some literature along with a raffle ticket because there would be a few prizes given out at the end of the seminar.
We found seats in the back and listened to the excited chatter of the attendees. Anne then walked from the back of the room to check out her audience. She walked aisle by aisle like a stewardess, making sure our seats were comfortable and that we had everything we needed. I expected to see her pushing the airline drink cart down the aisle or that she would begin giving instructions on how to use the oxygen masks while pointing out the emergency exit doors.
I would have been very interested in those exit doors.
The oxygen masks would have been very appropriate given the age of most of the attendees. I think we were the youngest attending. Retired people must have more time and disposable income than we who support them with our monthly Social Security extractions from our pay checks.
To begin her presentation Anne asked the audience where people were going to be traveling. Many mentioned exotic, exciting places like the Pacific Islands, Italy, Greece, France and the Orient. After each person’s comment Anne repeated it with excitement in her voice. I just couldn’t resist and my hand shot up automatically. As Anne pointed in my direction I blurted out, “Lincoln, Nebraska!” Right in cadence she repeated. “Lincoln, Nebraska.”
I’m sure she wondered what kind of jerk was sitting in the back row. As people turned and gave me stares of disbelief I pointed at Jan as if she somehow had changed her voice and shouted that ridiculous reply. However there were actually a few chuckles and even some claps. They must have thought I’d said Yukon, Alaska because one woman in front of us turned and said, “I’ve been on that cruise before.”
I wondered how you book a cruise to Nebraska.
Anne then went into her pitch with all the flurry of a salesman standing on the steps of his medicine wagon selling his ‘magic’ elixir that cures everything from cancer to gout. She showed us luggage with the nooks and compartments that you could hide things in for years and not know they were there. She showed us how to roll clothes up to prevent wrinkling, stowing shoes and heavy items at the bottom of the suitcase and how to get through security without having personal care products confiscated.
She also showed various products that were compact, and would fill emergency needs. There was the solar/crank powered flashlight that I wondered when would that be needed. OK, a radio was also part of the device but still, to the best of my knowledge solar power doesn’t work in the dark.
Noting the age of her audience Anne also showed a nifty pill organizer. This was obviously very important because it was listed three times on the brochure that reviewed some of the products. However, my favorites were the compression bags. Simply place your clothes in the bag then roll out the air and the clothing is compressed flat and airless. I wondered about other applications for these bags such as when moving just place your boxes and furniture in the compression bag and you can move entire households in a wheel barrow. Or, for a quieter ride on the way to vacation put the kids in one of these bags to save space and whining. I haven’t figured out the bone crushing air breathing thing yet for the kids but it’s worth a try.
When the hour long seminar was over Anne invited some of the AAA office staff to talk. They wanted to make sure we reviewed the brochures. Originally we thought they were just check lists for packing but in reality they were checklists for buying. The staff explained that most of the items in Anne’s presentation were available in the AAA travel store. That’s when I knew we’d been set up.
When the staff was through with their instructions those in attendance rushed toward the travel store. Older people can be very aggressive when they think there’s a deal out there. Chairs went flying as bodies pushed against bodies, gray hair flew (I think it was actually someone’s wig). People attacked these travel items like flocks of hungry seagulls fighting over French fries spilled in a parking lot.
Even Jan was caught up in the excitement, slowly moving from shelf to shelf filling her arms with various gizmos. As an extra incentive if you spent a minimum of $75 consumers would receive a free copy of Anne’s book and DVD. Anne would then autograph the books and the frenzied travel fans would walk out the door pushing their new luggage with happy grins. Using anti-hypnosis techniques I learned in Scranton, Pennsylvania, I was able to snap Jan out of her catatonic shopping state and convinced her to put several of the items back, explaining that we could just borrow Jeanne’s book.
So, the “free” seminar was actually a conniving sales pitch that cost me tens of dollars. After the last autograph I’m sure Anne sat comfortably in a chair in the back room, clasped her hands together behind her head with her feet propped up on a piece of luggage and said with a devilish grin, “Suckers.”
Saturday, February 21, 2009
The Hacking
The morning frost was just beginning to settle on the housetops and lawns on Michael Park Drive as the hooded figure slowly walked down the middle of the street. All the houses were dark as their occupants snatched the last few moments of Saturday morning slumber. So no one noticed this figure also carried a set of crude tools of violence to be unleashed on unsuspecting innocent victims. His choice this time was a rusted saw and long handled pruning shears; "weapons of crass destruction."
Turning the corner he lashed into his first victim with pent up anger and frustration. The pruning shears cut off needled fingers and the saw sliced through limbs with precise extraction. The sun was barely rising to be the only witness to this horrid act of annihilation. Body parts were piled along the sidewalk as a warning to others to stay back and not interfere.
OK, this really happened. The figure with the hoodie was me. I had become frustrated with the pine trees along the sidewalk that obstructed my view as I tried to cross traffic in my car. In our neighborhood maintaining the trees and shrubbery behind homes are the individual homeowner’s responsibility. The back of these homes faced the highly trafficked street and the owners had planted these trees in an effort to block the noise. I guess I could have knocked on each door and asked politely if the owners would kindly trim these trees back. But, as usual, I took matters in my own hands.
After my morning walk I went into my garage and fetched the small hand saw and pruning shears. Then I went to work on these trees. Once you start pruning it triggers some sort of hacking cells in the brain and it’s very hard to stop. Every branch is under scrutiny for the cut. I worked quietly so the home owners wouldn’t react to this carnage. The branches began to pile up as I slashed and cut. Finally I came to my senses and looked at the heap of small and large branches on the sidewalk. I began to feel a little nervous about someone seeing these so I began to hide the debris under the juniper bushes, kicking the sawed off limbs under the pokey shrubs like one hides dirt swept from the floor under the rug. ( uhh, no Jan, I don’t really do that.)
As I was bending over, concentrating on the clean up, a voice from a passing runner startled me.
“I’m just cleaning up this mess that someone left!” I blurted as the runner distanced herself.
The larger branches wouldn’t fit under the already crowded bushes so I carried them to the irrigation ditch and tried my best to hide them along the surrounding fences. I didn’t want to think I was dumping clippings along the canal's path so I reasoned I would come back later and pick them up. My cutting finished, I hurriedly hid the pruning shears in my sweat shirt and the saw inside my sweat pants. As I walked back home the saw began to slip down the leg of my pants, causing me to walk with a limp to prevent the teeth of the saw from performing an amputation. I thought this was the way the trees were trying to pay me back for my clipping barrage.
Later that day Jan and I began our trip to get groceries. As we pulled to the stop sign at the entrance to the street I pointed out to Jan how clear the view now was. However, now a speed sign with a steel post still blocked the view to oncoming traffic hurtling down the hill.
After our errands we returned home. Immediately, I entered the garage and began to search for the metal slicing hacksaw while planning my next deed of dastardly early morning ventures.
Turning the corner he lashed into his first victim with pent up anger and frustration. The pruning shears cut off needled fingers and the saw sliced through limbs with precise extraction. The sun was barely rising to be the only witness to this horrid act of annihilation. Body parts were piled along the sidewalk as a warning to others to stay back and not interfere.
OK, this really happened. The figure with the hoodie was me. I had become frustrated with the pine trees along the sidewalk that obstructed my view as I tried to cross traffic in my car. In our neighborhood maintaining the trees and shrubbery behind homes are the individual homeowner’s responsibility. The back of these homes faced the highly trafficked street and the owners had planted these trees in an effort to block the noise. I guess I could have knocked on each door and asked politely if the owners would kindly trim these trees back. But, as usual, I took matters in my own hands.
After my morning walk I went into my garage and fetched the small hand saw and pruning shears. Then I went to work on these trees. Once you start pruning it triggers some sort of hacking cells in the brain and it’s very hard to stop. Every branch is under scrutiny for the cut. I worked quietly so the home owners wouldn’t react to this carnage. The branches began to pile up as I slashed and cut. Finally I came to my senses and looked at the heap of small and large branches on the sidewalk. I began to feel a little nervous about someone seeing these so I began to hide the debris under the juniper bushes, kicking the sawed off limbs under the pokey shrubs like one hides dirt swept from the floor under the rug. ( uhh, no Jan, I don’t really do that.)
As I was bending over, concentrating on the clean up, a voice from a passing runner startled me.
“I’m just cleaning up this mess that someone left!” I blurted as the runner distanced herself.
The larger branches wouldn’t fit under the already crowded bushes so I carried them to the irrigation ditch and tried my best to hide them along the surrounding fences. I didn’t want to think I was dumping clippings along the canal's path so I reasoned I would come back later and pick them up. My cutting finished, I hurriedly hid the pruning shears in my sweat shirt and the saw inside my sweat pants. As I walked back home the saw began to slip down the leg of my pants, causing me to walk with a limp to prevent the teeth of the saw from performing an amputation. I thought this was the way the trees were trying to pay me back for my clipping barrage.
Later that day Jan and I began our trip to get groceries. As we pulled to the stop sign at the entrance to the street I pointed out to Jan how clear the view now was. However, now a speed sign with a steel post still blocked the view to oncoming traffic hurtling down the hill.
After our errands we returned home. Immediately, I entered the garage and began to search for the metal slicing hacksaw while planning my next deed of dastardly early morning ventures.
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