Hilariously s post from Daily Atholian
KEITH M. CAGED, ATHOL PEACEKEEPER:
ELSIE WHAT-WHEN’S MOTHER COMMENTED:
ELSIE WHAT-WHEN’S FATHER SAID:
DR. LONG, ATHOL TOILET PLUNGER SPECIALIST:
DR. EYE, ATHOL SIGHT SPECIALIST:
TOILET PLUNGER ADVOCATE:
Month: June 2016
The Joy of Delivering Bad News
Old Lady Borden was a saint! We had it on good authority, hers. She had been widowed longer than anybody knew. Hateful as she was, had I been her husband, I would have claimed to be dead, too. Though she was devout in another denomination, she was in attendance at our little country church every time the doors opened. Her own church was twelve miles away and she didn’t want to bother anyone for a ride to services so far afield. It was much more expedient walk a few hundred feet and stir up no end of trouble closer to home, inserting herself fully into all matters related to church business, be it financial, theological, or just some sinner in need of her hateful opinion.
Mother was very particular about our language. We would have never been allowed refer to Ms. Borden by the B word, but she turned a deaf ear when we referred to her as an Old Bat. Old Lady Borden played a vital role pointing out flaws that might have gone unnoticed for a while, a pregnant bride, a baby with a crossed-eye, a child who stuttered, a woman who’d gained weight, or was a bad housekeeper. She begrudged any good fortune coming to a neighbor, such as good crops, or getting a good job. They were “gittin’ uppity.” Should a church member appear too prosperous, they were probably “gittin’ in the c’lection plate.”
Old Lady Borden was the first to the home of the bereaved, making sure to crowd the younger women out at the kitchen sink, then complaining loudly about how “lazy them gals was. “ Any one unfortunate enough to be handed a drying towel would be treated to her acid tongue about what a pitiful job they were doing. Nothing excited her more than a tragedy. Long before the days of cell phones, or even many house phones in our rural community, the school principal got the word that Mr. Barnes, the school bus driver’s father had collapsed and died a few minutes after his daughter Becky left on her bus route. He got in his vehicle, hoping to catch up with her before she home and found a shocking scene. When she stopped to let off Old Lady Borden’s grandson, the old woman rushed out to meet her at the bus stop with the horrible news. “Becky, yore daddy just dropped dead. He’s still a’ laying out in the yard a’waitin’ for the coroner.”
Naturally, Becky and her young children were distraught. There were still a half-dozen other children, some of them relatives, on the bus who’d heard the whole thing. They became overwrought at hearing the news of Mr. Barne’s death. Becky had no idea how to manage till the principal caught up to comfort and relieve her. He had to finish her route with her and the upset children still on the bus, since there was no other way to get them home.
It was a shocking situation, but at least she had the pleasure of delivering the terrible news. She was the meanest Christian I ever met.
Doo Doo Bossier
In college, I suppose I was just a bit slow to catch on when Bud and his cousin Freddie kept talking about a guy in one of their classes named “Doo Doo Bossier.” I was always hearing, “Doo Doo did so and so.” or “Wait till you hear what Doo Doo did now!”
As I was walking to class one day, I met, Judy, Bud’s cousin’s wife walking with another girl. She introduced us, “This is Becky Bossier. Her brother has a lot of classes with Freddie and Bud.”
I am friendly, if not too smart. “Oh, then you must be Doo Doo Bossier’s sister.”
She made sure I knew her brother’s name was Gerald. We never became friends.
Shot in the Foot, Again
Have you ever seen a happier face?
It was a perfect storm. I’d made up my mind not to take Mother to the garden center any more this summer, not that I have anything against garden centers. Mother is addicted to flowers, just like I am. She just isn’t strong enough to dig holes. In contrast, I’d never be able to convince anyone I couldn’t dig a hole. If I tried, they’d hand me a shovel and point me toward China. Anyway, I’m tired of digging holes. If all the holes I’ve dug this summer, in my yard and hers, were lined up end to end, they’d reach…..well, you know.
Anyway, one of my meddling sisters called one day last week and invited Mother and me to lunch. It sounded innocent enough. At the worst, I would only get stuck with her lunch ticket. Mother doesn’t believe in paying her own ticket when she dines with her children. I can’t say I blame her, after all the biscuits and gravy she’s cooked over the years. Connie’s husband generously treated us all to lunch. I had a wonderful time till somebody shot me in the foot.
“__________ has their plants marked down. Anybody want to stop by?”
Mother was the first in line. I was loading my buggy up when I heard Connie ask Mother.
“Is that all you’re getting? Get whatever you want and I’ll pay for it!”
“Nooooooo! ………..only if they sell the holes to go with them!”
Mother was deaf to my protests and loaded her cart. Connie went home proud of herself for being good to her mama. The checkout lady even gave her a lantana someone had left at the counter because she looked so cute standing behind that cart full of plants.
I took my posthole digger over a couple of days later and spent some time digging holes. If anyone else buys her any plants this summer, I will have to commit mayhem.
,Garden hint: Posthole diggers are great for digging holes for your plants!
Oh To Be a Child in Spring
Reblogged from Aunt Beulah
It pleased me when winter finally gave way to spring and children came out to play. As daytime temperatures responded to an insistent sun, young bicyclists, wearing smiles, swarmed outdoors and turned my neighborhood into a colony of happy bees.
Two sisters pedaled along the sidewalk: both in dresses with bows in their hair, both on bicycles with the shine of Christmas presents, and both singing in clear young voices. Joel and I, discussing the green shoots battling winter’s silt in our flowerbeds, stopped talking and listened. Riding together, singing together, the young cyclists echoed happiness back to us.
Then three pre-adolescent boys hooted derisively when a fourth, the last to try, attempted to jump his bicycle onto our curb and nearly toppled. Shrugging his shoulders, the youngster laughed, accepted their judgment, then pedaled after them ready to try again.
A helmeted child, relying on the security of training…
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The Sad Saga of the Beakless, Tailless, Gizzard-bobbing, One-leg Hopping chicken
Repost of an earlier post.
Being a farm kid is not for sissies and cowards. The dark side of the chicken experience is slaughtering, plucking, cleaning, and preparing chickens for the pot. I watched as Mother transformed into a slobbering beast as she towered over the caged chickens, snagging her victim by the leg with a twisted coat-hanger, ringing its neck and releasing it for its last run. We crowded by, horribly thrilled by what we knew was coming. It was scarier than ”The Night of the Living Dead”, as the chicken, flapping its wings, running with its head hanging crazily to one side, chased us in ever larger circles until it finally greeted Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates. It looked horribly cruel, but done properly, a quick snap of the wrist breaks the chicken’s neck instantly, giving a quick death. Of course, this is my assessment, not the unfortunate chicken. The chickens always looked extremely disturbed.
Afterward, my mother grabbed the dead chicken, plunged it into a pot of boiling water, plucked the feathers, slit its pimply white belly, removed its entrails, cut off its feet and head, and prepared it for dinner. I was repulsed when Mother found unlaid eggs in the egg cavity and used them in cooking. That just didn’t seem right. I was happy to eat the chicken, but future eggs….disgusting. It kind of seemed like genocide, or chickenocide, to coin a new term.
Mother looked out one day and saw one of her chickens eating corn, oblivious to the fact that her gizzard was hanging out, bobbing up and down merrily as she pecked corn with all her lady friends. Apparently she had suffered injury from a varmint of some kind. Clearly, she wouldn’t survive with this injury, so Mother and I set about catching her. At least she could be salvaged for the table. Well, she could still run just fine. We chased her all over the yard with no luck.
Finally, Mother decided to put her out of her misery by shooting her. She missed. She fired again and shot the hen’s foot off. I knew I could do better. I shot her beak off, then hit her in the tail. By this time, we both felt horrible and had to get her out of her misery. Her injuries had slowed the poor beakless, tailless, gizzard-bobbing, one-leg hopping chicken down enough so we could catch her and wring her neck.
All chickens didn’t end life as happily. The LaFay girls, Cheryl, Terry, and Cammie raised chickens to show at the fair for 4-H, with a plan to fill their freezer with the rest. Late one Thursday evening while their widowed mother was at work, they realized tomorrow was the day for the big barbecue chicken competition. Mama wouldn’t be in until way too late to be helping with slaughtering and dressing the chickens. After all the time and effort they had put in on their project, they had no choice but to press forward without Mama’s help. They’d helped Mama with the dirty business of putting up chickens lots of times. They’d just have to do manage on their own.
Cheryl, the eldest, drew the short straw, winning the honor of wringing the chicken’s neck. She’d seen Mama do it lots of times, but didn’t quite understand the theory of breaking the neck with a quick snap. She held the chicken by the neck, swung it around a few times in a wide arc, giving it a fine ride, and released it to flee drunkenly with a sore neck. The girls chased and recaptured the chicken a couple of times, giving it another ride or two before the tortured chicken managed to fly up in a tree, saving its life.
Acknowledging her sister’s failure, Terry stepped up to do her duty. She pulled her chicken from the pen, taking it straight to the chopping block, just like she’d seen Mama do so many times. Maybe she should have watched a little closer. Instead of holding the chicken by the head and chopping just below with the hatchet, Terry held it by the feet. The panicked chicken raised its head, flopped around on the block, and lost a few feathers. On the next attempt, Cammie tried to help by holding the chicken’s head, but wisely jumped when Terry chopped, leaving the poor chicken a close shave on its neck.
By now, all three girls were squalling. Cheryl tied a string on the poor chicken’s neck, Cammie held its feet and they stretched the chicken across the block. By now, Terry was crying so hard so really she couldn’t see. She took aim, and chopped Henny Penny in half, ending her suffering. Guilt-stricken, they buried the chicken. Defeated, they finally called their Aunt Millie, who came over and helped them kill and dress their chickens for the competition, which they won. All’s well that ends well.
Watson, the Great Hunter
My granddog, Watson, managed a successful hunt, despite overwhelming odds. He found this plush toy beside a trashcan. After valiant pursuit, he was able to wrestle it into submission and drag its sorry carcass home. At last report, he was still standing guard over it.
In the shot above, Watson has slain an unfortunate football that landed in his yard from the schoolyard across the street. As you can clearly see, he has placed it in his food bowl in preparation for dinner. He is not a catch and release kind of dog. I am concerned that he will never be able to pass this ball even if he is successful in eating it.
In the shot above, you see Watson snoozing in the bathtub. He sleeps with his snout at the drain where his snores can be amplified throughout the house. He is like a two-year-old child. He thinks he should get a bath anytime anyone else does. Should they forget to lock the door, he pushes his way in to get in the tub with them. If he gets in before they dry off, he wants to lick water droplets off. He is not a good shower friend.
Nutsrok 