Month: May 2024

Pig in Mud

Two farmers are in the pub having a beer. Both are skint and in dire need of some money. All they have is one pig each, but luckily one is male and the other female.

So after having a few more beers they hit on a marvellous plan to make money. By mating the two pigs they will have lots of little piggies to sell. 

So the next morning at the crack of the dawn, the farmer with the female pig gets up, loads the pig in a wheel barrow and walks around to his mates farm. He introduces her to the male pig and after much sniffing, serious bonking ensues

“How will I know she’s pregnant”, enquires the first farmer.

“Easily replies the other, when you get up, look at the pig and if she’s rolling in mud, she’s pregnant. If she ‘s eating grass she isn’t so you will have to come back.”

Next morning comes and the farmer dashes to the window And the pig is happily eating grass in the field.

“Damn”, he says going downstairs. He grabs the pig and puts her in the wheel barrow and trundles off to the other farm and more bonking ensues.

This goes on all week with no success. 

So on the Sunday morning the farmer tells the wife to look out the window and tell him what the bloody pig is doing “Is she eating grass ?” he asks 

“No”, says the wife.

“Is she rolling in the mud?” 

“No”, says the wife.

“What the hell she doing then” he cries. 

“She’s sitting in the wheel barrow waiting for you!”

Bucket List for a Spring Chicken Part 2

This battered beauty makes  every mile with Mother.  I will never forgive my daughter-in-law, Carissa, for gifting Mother with it when Mother complained  her old one had worn out.  I’d been looking forward to its demise for a while.   Except for that betrayal,  Carissa is a perfect DIL.  Please note the frayed seams […]

Bucket List for a Spring Chicken Part 2

Traffic Joke Sitting on the side of the highway waiting to catch speeding drivers, a State Police Officer sees a car puttering along at 22 MPH. He thinks to himself, this driver is just as dangerous as a speeder!” So he turns on his lights and pulls the driver over. Approaching the car, he notices that there are five old ladies — two in the front seat and three in the back — wide eyed and white as ghosts. The driver, obviously confused, says to him, Officer, I don’t understand, I was doing exactly the speed limit! What seems to be the problem? “Ma’am,” the officer replies, you weren’t speeding, but you should know that driving slower than the speed limit can also be a danger to other drivers. Slower than the speed limit? No sir, I was doing the speed limit exactly… Twenty-two miles an hour! “The old woman says a bit proudly. The State Police officer, trying to contain a chuckle explains to her that 22” was the route number, not the speed limit. A bit embarrassed, the woman grinned and thanked the officer for pointing out her error. But before I let you go, Ma’am, I have to ask… Is everyone in this car OK? These women seem awfully shaken and they haven’t muttered a single peep this whole time, “the officer asks. Oh, they’ll be all right in a minute officer. We just got off Route 119.”

Grandma J

Knowing Grandma J was a pure pleasure. Having spent fifty years on an isolated Kansas farm, she truly enjoyed her cushy life in town with a gas stove, refrigerator, and wringer washing machine. She’d raised eight wild boys and three girls. Though she’d lost a young baby early in her marriage, it had been so long she no longer mourned. She’d been widowed many years by the time I knew her, and was well- satisfied in her neat little house in town. Should one of her many children not come by, she could walk to the store, beauty parlor, or church. She had neighbors in or went to their kitchens for coffee.

Though she was built like a refrigerator on spindly legs, she was a very attractive lady. She always dressed in floral cotton dresses with a freshly-ironed apron tied around her waist. Her silvery hair was always softly curled. Should she be going out on a windy day, it was ensconced in a hairnet for summer or scarf for wind or cold. Before Grandma went out, she always donned a freshly ironed housedress and good apron, both of her own making. She always picked up her big black purse last thing before heading out the door.

She still adhered to many lifelong habits: washing on Monday, ironing on Tuesday, and baking bread and pies on Friday. It would have been a rare weekend to not have some of her huge family or to visit in their homes.

As you might expect, her house was filled with beautiful hand-made items, quilts, rag rugs, doilies, and embroidered dresser scarves, napkins, and tablecloths. We still have a pair of crocheted trivets she made us for a wedding gift fifty-three years ago.

As you can see, they are well-loved.

Bucket List for a Spring Chicken

Reblogging a post just before Mothers 90th. She turned 96 May 5, 2024. She still lives at home with a lot of help.

Mother will be ninety in May.  A few weeks ago, my youngest sister asked if she had a bucket list. “Not really,” she answered.  “I’ve seen London, …

Bucket List for a Spring Chicken

Good Jokes

Boyfriend trouble

A teenager brings her boyfriend home to meet her folks. They’re appalled by his haircut, his tattoos, his piercings.

Later, the girl’s mom says, “Dear, he doesn’t look like a very nice boy.”

“Oh, please, Mom!” says the daughter. “If he wasn’t nice, would he be doing 500 hours of community service?”

Holy cow!

A pair of cows were talking in the field. One says, “Have you heard about the mad cow disease that’s going around?”

“Yeah,” the other cow says. “Makes me glad I’m a penguin.”

Grandpa and the Corn Thief

Grandpa J was a mighty man. Though of average height, a lifetime of farming and good genes he was barrel-chested with the arms of a blacksmith. A man to be reckoned with, he didn’t tolerate fools lightly. It was unlikely any of his neighbors would have wanted to tangle with him, so he was mystified to find someone had been slipping in and stealing corn from his corncrib at night, but it was the depression and times were hard.

Determined to put a stop to the theft, Grandpa and his son,Frank, made their way to the shed well before daylight, Frank carrying a shuttered lantern. Grandpa whispered, “When I open the door, open the shutter.”

Sure enough, when Grandpa flung open the door, the lantern revealed the thief. A half-grown white-face yearling stared blindly at them. Reacting instinctively, Grandpa hit the surprised bovine between the eyes, knocking him out.

Grandpa jumped back, cursing and cradling the fist he’d just pounded into the unconscious yearling’s bony head. Enjoying the story later, one of the family asked Frank, “Did you laugh?”

“Hell no!” He replied. “ He still had one good fist.!”

Have you ever broken a bone?

Not one of mine. I am a retired register nurse. Sometimes with frail patients, ribs break with CPR.

Saddle Shoes and Pointy Bras

That is me in my despised saddle shoes.  I was too young to hate them, yet.

The first, longest lasting, and most redundant misery my was frizzy, old lady perms.  Mother did this so my sister and I would be social outcasts.  Vastly overestimating our sexual attractiveness, from the time we went into puberty until we got old enough to fight her off, she maliciously inflicted home perms on us.

She bought our underwear at the Dollar Store or the cheapest thrift store or fire sale around, should Grandma lag in keeping us rigged out in home-made torture underwear.  Long after pointy bras were unavailable in normal circulation, Mother managed to ferret out pointy padded bras in the cheapest stores known to mankind, never mind the fact that the stiff cups caved in if they were bumped.  I’d have loved some not-too badly-worn cast-offs from the lucky, poor kids down the street, but they laughed when they caught me going through their trash. I tried to hide when changing in gym to keep anyone from seeing my Grandma’s home-made drawers.  They were made without benefit of elastic in the waist and tended to lengthen your legs by several inches as the day went on.  Grandma didn’t worry a lot about soft, cotton fabric.  Coarse, woven prints were good for the soul.


I was stuck in saddle-shoes for years because they were durable and Mother had loved them in high school.  Never-mind the fact that no other kid would have been caught dead in saddle shoes.  Best of all, I was a total slob, not the kind of kid who would ever voluntarily polish a shoe.  Most of the time, I didn’t even remember I had shoes till the school bus driver was honking the horn outside our door and I was simultaneously looking for my books, trying to get a note signed (bad news) and looking for lost shoes.  My shoes were inevitably, wet, filthy, and most likely stinking from ripping through the barnyard.  Not a good look for black and white shoes.  A more forward-thinking mother would have dressed me every day in a slicker and rain boots, so she could have hosed me off.