Day: July 6, 2024

My favorite music

What is your favorite genre of music?

Folk music makes me happy.  It feels like something I could do, though I definitely can’t.  Since Andy Griffith introduced me to The Darlings, I’ve been hooked.  I loved the catchy, often nonsense lyrics, so catchy and easy to learn.  It was intended just for me.

Open this link to listen

Busy Boy

A farmer goes out and buys a new, young rooster. As soon as he brings him home, the young rooster rushes and gets busy with all 150 of the farmer’s hens. The farmer is impressed. At lunchtime, the young rooster goes at all 150 hens. The farmer is not just impressed anymore, he is worried. Next morning, not only is the rooster chasing the hens, but he is after the turkeys, ducks, and even the cow. Later, the farmer looks out into the barnyard and finds the rooster stretched out, limp as a rag, his eyes closed, dead, and vultures circling overhead. The farmer runs out, looks down at the young rooster’s limp body and says: “You deserved it, you horny devil!” The young rooster opens one eye, points up at the vultures with his wing, and says, “Shhhh!, they are about to land.”

The Rooster and the Boozers

The Austins lived just across the pasture from us.  Jody Austin “drank.”  In our neck of the woods, “drinking” meant a man was disreputable, deprived and likely beat his wife and children, probably didn’t hold a job, and likely was prone to violence.  It sounded a lot like today’s alcoholic.  Jodie qualified magnificently.  It was rumored that he had shot a man in a bar.  Folks left Jody alone.  Every Saturday night Jody hosted his “drinking” buddies for a binge. The festivities started with a huge bonfire.  As they sat around on barrels, old cars, and broken lawn chairs, they tossed their cans out in the darkness. They got louder, sometimes had a friendly fight, occasionally rolling all around the fire, finishing off with a little singing…a treat for all the neighbors.

When Jody got good and drunk, he started crowing, trying to wake his rooster!  Jody had a fine crowing voice. But roosters are territorial, determined to keep their harem to themselves.  Since roosters habitually are “early to bed and early to rise,” it usually took about four tries to get Rudy the Rooster going.  His first response was usually half-hearted and anemic.  Roo-ooh- ooh-ooh-ooh-oooooh.  He obviously needed his rest.  Jody’s buddies took a turn crowing.  Rudy was riled now and ready for a rooster fight, but couldn’t find a single rooster to whip.  The partiers thought this was high humor.  They all took turns crowing.  After a particularly authentic crow, Rudy called back “ROOH-OOH-OOH-OOH-OOOOOOH!!!”  The longer the competition went on, the madder Rudy got.  He must have hated Saturday nights and drinking…

See No Evil

muddy feetI didn’t like having syrup for breakfast on school mornings when I was a little kid since I was lazy about washing up afterwards. In class, my papers stuck to me all morning till I went out at recess. Then I usually romped around and came back in with dirt sticking to the syrupy patches. I never saw much point in washing up before meals anyway. I knew something as tiny as a germ couldn’t possibly hurt me.
Now, there were occasions I had no problem with washing, but really felt soap was overrated. I had my standards and expected to wash after contact with earthworms, snails, slimy animal carcasses, blood, axle grease, or chicken poop between my bare toes, sometimes even using soap voluntarily. I was on the fence about frogs. I wasn’t altogether sure they didn’t cause warts. Sue Lunsford played with frogs all the time and had lots of warts, so I erred on the side of caution, washing with soap after quality time with frogs. After I smelled a dog once who’d tangled with a skunk. I put that on my list, too. I figured if you could see dirt or it would rub off on people or furniture, it was good to wash. I also believed in washing loose sand off. I hated walking barefoot on gritty sand on smooth floors. I was also happy to take a bath if I’d been playing in sand. I hated the way it made the sheets feel. We threw sand and dirt at each other a lot, so I’d done the research.
Unfortunately for me, Mother didn’t share my philosophy about washing, insisting I wash my hands and arms up to my elbows with soap and water before every meal. Naturally, I fell short as often as possible, often just running my dirty hands and arms under the running water and drying on the towel by the sink. The dirty, streaked up towel ratted me out quite a few times.

Washing after meals would have been insane.

I Never Claimed to be Donna Reed!

My daughter zoned in on the Donna Reed Show when I started falling short in the motherhood department.  In case you don’t remember, Donna Reed was the perfect wife and mother, always prissing around in cinch-waist dresses with petticoats, high heels and jewelry.  She played bridge, called her friends Mrs. So and So, and kept an immaculate house.  If Donna had slipped in the mud, she’d have fallen daintily and ended up with a charming smudge on her cheek, whereas, I’d have busted my butt, ripped my britches, and farted.  No one would have been able to help me for laughing.  I could have fallen in a rose bed, and come out smelling like manure.

When Donna’s children lapsed into naughtiness, she’d rein them in with an understanding, quizzical smile, knowing they’d fall at her feet and confess because she was such a good mother. They only got in cute scrapes, like maybe accepting two dates for the prom or losing a library book, never anything involving calls from the school counselor or requests for bail. The queen of her home, effortless meals appeared on her dining table out of the air, no budgeting, shopping, or messy kitchen to consider.  Naturally, her handsome husband adored her.  Even though he was a doctor, it was clear he’d married “up.”

Donna never lost her cool when her children announced they needed a million dollars for a school trip as she dropped them off for school.  I have been known to be annoyed.  Should Donna’s kids want to eat what she’d cooked, she’d coax them along in the name of nutrition. If my kids didn’t want to eat what I’d put on the table, I told them, “Fine, that leaves more for the rest. It won’t be that long till breakfast.”  Donna was vigilant about nutrition, whereas,  I figure kids eat if they get hungry.

I can lay so many of my motherly shortcomings at Donna’s door, but thank goodness, she’s gone and I’m still bumbling along.