Day: November 8, 2024

Podcasts

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A Rose by any Other Name at

teacherWhen the little girl started first grade, the teacher asked her name.

“Happy Butt.”

“Happy Butt. That’s not a name.  Let me check my records.”  She checked her records and came back.  “You’re name is Gladys, not Happy Butt!”

“Glad Ass, Happy Butt.  Same thing!”

Goody, Goody! Goody, Goody!

The first and last days of school I got called down for running my mouth, and probably every day between. Born without a muffler or filter it paid off handsomely if not happily.

My sister, Phyllis, on the other hand was the model of decorum and every teachers’ darling. It was unlikely she ever got scolded, but she often had to be told to “let someone else answer.” Of course, she knew all the answers, since she did all her homework as soon as she got in from school. From her earliest days, it was obvious she’d be a wonderful teacher, which she was. All her games revolved around playing school, especially after my teacher relatives passed discarded textbooks on to us.

Many of those books were still in use in our classrooms. Imagine her joy when she poured over them and started school way ahead of her class. I was not so much interested in the textbooks and playing school. That’s where our trouble lay. She expected me to be her perfect student, as we went from reading to math to science to geography.

I was all in to the reading lesson, but ready to go when we moved on. That wasn’t how her school worked. She’d get her fly-back paddle after me, so school was over and the fight was on. I never hung around too long. She’d go to Mother to back up her discipline and get disappointed time after time. Homeschooling just didn’t work for her.

To my great joy, Phyllis did get in trouble one time. In the first grade, she shared a desk with Richard. Travis sat right behind them. When Mrs. Hanks passed back their work, Phyllis and Richard got an A. Travis got an F. Phyllis and Richard turned around and sang to him, “Goody, goody Travis.” Mrs. Hanks called them to the front of the class and made them sing to each other, “Goody, goody, Phyllis. Goody, goody, Richard.”

Of course, Phyllis came straight home with the story of how she’d suffered, only to get more trouble. That took care of their classroom “Goody, goodies” but I think I still heard it at home a few times.
Desk

Perfect Happiness

It is so easy to make Bud a perfect meal, I don’t know why I don’t do it every night.

There are several interchangeable choices. All I have to do is cook steak, chicken, roast beef or pork, ribs, or meatloaf with gravy. My second decision is between rice, stewed or mashed potatoes. The third decision is the side. Black-eyed peas, always Bud’s first choice, either pinto, lima, red, or green beans.

Of course, we need a bread. Biscuits, cornbread, or rolls are always fine. Should I feel particularly industrious, dessert is in order, preferably homemade apple pie or yellow cake with buttercream frosting.

I can throw all the salad in the trash. Oh yes, Bud always volunteers to make the gravy if its not cooked along with the meat.

Fire!

I was not envious of Bud when I was a kid. He lived directly across from the Baptist church. He’d never have been able to come up with an excuse to skip church if his feet worked.

As was usual in that day, the parsonage was alongside the church. Also, as usual, the preacher’s kid was a rotter. Although there were no kids his age at the Bethea household, they’d made the mistake of tolerating him, so he haunted Bud’s poor sisters. He never bothered to knock, just made himself welcome.

One day, he showed up just as they were taking brownies out of the oven. The brownies were intended for an upcoming social event. Nonetheless , without waiting for an invitation, he helped himself. Finding them to his satisfaction, he remarked, “That was good. I’ll have another.”

On another occasion, he let himself in the front door without invitation, as usual, announcing he had a box of matches. Cognizant it was the fall of the year with tempting piles of dry leaves lying about the yard, one of the girls reminded him to keep those matches in his pocket. Her direction went in one ear and out the other. Within five minutes, he was tearing through the house shouting, “Fire! And I don’t know how it got started!”