A Sin a Minute

In the unlikely event I’ve not mentioned this before, I was raised Southern Baptist in Louisiana back in the fifties. That theology would pretty much pass for Christian Evangelical now, not to mention the “What will the neighbors think?” factor. No drinking, dancing, or provocative dress such as short or tight skirts, shorts, or swimsuits for women or girls. Most church members gave lip service to the rules and went on their way, but my Dad fervently embraced any rule that backed him up in rendering his daughter’s lives joyless.

Fortunately, it wasn’t one of those extreme cults that required long hair, dresses for girls, and no makeup, a fact I was truly thankful for. I soon understood that most sin resulted from trashy women leading men astray since “boys will be boys.” The subject of sex was off limits, except in sermons with scriptures and admonitions against fornication and iniquity, which flew way over my head as a young child. After a tentative question or two that seemed headed toward sex, I learned “That’s none of your business.” That was wildly incongruous coupled with the admonition we could talk to our parents about anything. I soon learned any question had consequences. By the time I actually garnered any true information about sex, I had amassed a fascinating compendium of misinformation from my friends, who were as clueless as I.

Way too many times, Mother rushed to turn the television off if it appeared a woman was about to go into labor. Should Red Skelton get too risque, the screen went black, which was a real shame, since we had no idea what he was referring to. The point was, anything suggesting sex was a sin. That promiscuous laboring woman and the evil Red Skelton had to be censured.

Fun was suspect, particularly fun not experienced and executed under the watchful eyes of a parent or stuffy chaperone at the youth group. I soon learned it was a sin to even ask about attending a dance or the school’s end of year party at the lake. “Don’t you have any morals?”

I knew better than to give a truthful response, “uh…..no. I just want to go the party or go swimming with the other kids.”

Nubile girls parading around in the modest swimsuits of the sixties was sure to incite uncontrollable lust in the hearts of schoolboys. Hayrides were pure iniquity. Imagine carelessly throwing boys and girls together to ride around on a wagon full of hay after dark unleashing their devilish hormones!

Lust inciting lovelies

Don’t Spin Your Greens, Granny!

greens 2

When you live in the South and visit old folks in the country, the first thing you have to do is admire their garden. If you run out of excuses, you’ll come home with a “mess of greens.” I hate dealing with greens. For the unenlightened, greens include turnips, collards, or mustard greens. Boiled down low, with a bit of pork, and garnished with a splash of “pepper sauce,” greens make a delicious meal. A true connoisseur polishes off by sopping up the juice, or pot-liquor with cornbread. If you’re above the Mason-Dixon Line, try a roll. That’s the happy ending.

Now, we get down to the nitty gritty, literally. Greens have to be “looked and washed.” The first step is dispossessing the wildlife who habituate greens. Nobody wants to find half a worm or a cluster of bug eggs in their pot-liquor. You have to give both sides of each rumpled leaf a good look, wash, and then rinse copiously. I’d heard the glorious news that greens could be washed in the washing machine, cutting down tremendously on prep time.

The next time Bud visited an elderly family member, he came back wagging a bag of greens. I didn’t moan like normal, having recently heard the good news that greens could be washed in the washing machine. As usual, the basic information registered, not the total technique. I loaded the washer with dirty greens and detergent and hit the start button. Quite a while later, the alarm sounded, and I went to retrieve my sparkling greens. Alas, no greens remained, just a few tough stems and a few bits of leaves. A follow-up conversation with my friend revealed that I should have only washed them on gentle and not continue on to spend.

Though I hoped he’d forget, Bud came in that night expecting greens. I feigned innocence. “What greens?” It didn’t fly. “The greens I brought in yesterday.” It’s hard to come up with an excuse how precious greens went missing. I gave up and told the truth, though I don’t like worrying Bud stuff with that gets his blood pressure up. I’m considerate that way.

“They went down the drain.”

“How in the Hell did they go down the drain?” I don’t know why he gets all up in my housekeeping and cooking business. “

“They just did. Now don’t keep asking nosy questions!” “

“Exactly what drain and how did that happen?” “

“The washing machine drain.” I

I hoped if I answered matter-of-factly, he’d move on. I didn’t work. “

“You put greens in the washing machine? What in the Hell were you thinking?” I

I hate it when he apes back what I’ve just said. I’ve told him it gets on my nerves. “It takes forever to look and wash greens. Jenny told me she puts hers in the washer and it works great. I didn’t realize I wasn’t supposed to put them through spin.”

“Grouch, grouch, grouch @^%&( , #@$%! Don’t ever put )(^%&# greens in the washer, again!”

“Okay, okay. Don’t go on forever about it. I get tired of your nagging” Since then I’ve been careful not to spin them. It works great.

Can’t Be Sure

Bob was driving home on a moonlit night. As he rounded the curve in the darkness on a quiet road, flashing lights, flares, and police officers came in view beside an overturned car. When he tried to pull over, the officer tried wave to wave him on.

“Move on, Buddy. No rubbernecking,” said the officer.

“But officer, that looks just like my my buddy Joe’s car.” answered Bob.

“”Oh yeah, “ said the officer. “

Then you might be able to help us out. We haven’t found an ID yet, but I have to warn you, the guy is dead. It’s actually worse than that. He’s decapitated. You need to think about it first. It might be too much for you.”

Bob was horrified, but didn’t want to look unmanly in front of the officers. “I can do this,” he thought.

Screwing up his courage, he replied. “I’m ready. Take me over.”

The officer led him a short distance away where a bloody body had been thrown from the car and piled into a tree. In the dark, some distance away lay a head. The officer asked, “ Is this your friend?”

Bob took a long look.”Well, that’s the way Joe had his hair cut.” Taking a closer look, he said, “and Joe’s got a gold tooth like that with a star in it, but I still can’t be sure.”

Picking up the head, he held it up in the moonlight to get a better look. “It sure looks like Joe, but I don’t remember him being this tall.”

Things Happen

“They’re in the dishwasher, but should be finished by now.”I told him.

During my errands yesterday, I got a phone call from Bud. “Didn’t you tell me you washed those jars of corned beef you canned? I was going to put them in the pantry and I can’t find them. Where did you put them?” He sounded totally bewildered.

“Why in the world did you do that? Oh, never mind!” He blustered.

We’ve been married more than fifty years, but Bud still forgets it makes perfect sense to me to wash jars of canned goods in the dishwasher. We paid a lot for that dishwasher and need to get full value. Why run a sink full of soapy water to wash them by hand and risk having a slippery jar crash and break? The dishwasher does a great job.

I’ve always felt appliances should be multi-functional. I’ve already done my own research and can tell you some pitfalls, but the idea is great.

Ovens make excellent emergency dryers, but don’t do your hair. Putting your head in the oven makes a bad impression. Properly done, ovens could be used for clothes, shoes, and other stuff you might not want, or be able to put in your clothes dryer. Also, the dryer might be on the blink. (Possibly from Multi-Function Appliance Use)I do have a couple of cautions, however. When drying your dainties in the oven, pre-heat it to a nice warm temp, then turn it off. Be sure to put them on a nice cool cookie sheet before you slide them in. When mine hit the hot oven rack they sizzled and melted. Long crosswise burns across the butt was not a look I could live with.

I ran into a little problem drying my son’s tennis shoes in the oven before I’d worked all the kinks out of my system. His only pair had to be dry for school the next morning, so in the oven they went. It’s a lot easier to set the temperature higher than you think, believe me. I forgot to set the timer. In just a bit, I smelled rubber burning. By the time I got to them, melted shoe soles dripped to the oven floor. Still thinking they could be salvaged, I worked the shoes free, hoping I could saw the drippy soles off smooth. Didn’t work. The toes curled up till the shoes looked like skis. We ended up making a flying trip to the store with him in his socked feet, getting there just before the store closed at nine.Bud was totally unreasonable about the whole situation

To be continued

One Small Thing

The snake had some questions for God about his latest creation.

“What’s this?” Snake.

“its a man.” God

“What are these two round things?” Snake

“Those are eyes, so they can see my other creations” God

“and these things?” Snake

“They’re called hands, so they can create things just like i did” God

“and these?” Snake

“Those are feet. The four toes will help man balace when he walks.” God

“”Can I add just one thing, big toe for the furniture?” Snake

“ what is furniture? God

“trust me, it will be hilarious” Snake

Fifty-Two Pies

I love a well-stocked pantry. It makes me feel good to can and freeze food so that I can pull out good, wholesome “fast food” to serve at a moment’s notice. My husband, Bud loves pie. One summer, we had a bumper crop of butternut squash, so I reasoned it would be a great idea to make some of these up into pies and freeze them. I rolled
enough piecrust to build a driveway, prepared large kettles of pie filling, and kept my oven going till I had fifty-two beautiful butternut pies ready for the freezer. My kitchen looked like a bomb had gone off, but I was proud of those pies as I wrapped them and stacked them in the freezer, anticipating the pleasure of pulling out a pie from time to time to enjoy after a good meal with family and friends, along with a good story.

It didn’t exactly work out as I planned. I hadn’t taken Bud’s love of pie into consideration but I did get a good story out of the deal. Bud was delighted with “his” pies. All the food at our house undergoes an immediate conversion the minute it is cooked and becomes “his” as in, “Is there any more of my apple pie?” or “Who ate the last piece of MY pie?” I wouldn’t dream of making a dessert to take to work without making an identical one for home. I don’t know if he would be more hurt if I “ran around” or “cooked around” on him. He still hasn’t forgiven me for giving away a strawberry-rhubarb pie over twenty years ago and still brings it up regularly.

Anyway, Bud and I had pie after dinner that night. It was delicious. He finished the pie off the next day after lunch. When he went to get “his” pie after dinner that night and found the pies all frozen, he was horrified. I explained to him, again, that I made them to freeze and serve over the next few months. Apparently, my first explanation had gone straight over his head, like so much of my mindless babbling. (We’ve been married fifty-four years That’s how it works.) Frozen, in relationship to food he was planning to eat right then, is the F word at our house. We try to avoid it.Heartbroken and betrayed, he self-righteously pulled a pie from freezer and left it on the counter to thaw overnight. He consoled himself with butternut squash pie for breakfast the next morning, adding it to his new breakfast menu. That was just the start. Unless there was another dessert on the menu, you can bet Bud had butternut squash pie, sequentially going through that mountain of pies in less than three months. When I had the satisfaction of eating the last, lonely piece of the final pie, Bud spoke what were very nearly his last words, “You ate my pie!”

All’s Fair

A trucker stopped at a roadside diner for lunch and ordered a cheeseburger, coffee and a slice of apple pie. As he was about to dig in, three bikers stomped in.

One stared him down, grabbed his cheeseburger and took a huge bite from it. The second one drank the trucker’s coffee, and the third gobbled down his pie. The truck driver didn’t say a word as he paid the waitress and left.

As the waitress walked up, one of the motorcyclists growled, “He ain’t much of a man, is he?”

“He’s not much of a driver, either,” the waitress replied. “He just backed his 18-wheeler over three motorcycles.”

Louie, Louie!

Louie was an amazing stature of a man in stature though not in intellect. Sadly, he was developmentally about three-years-old and spoke in broken phrases at a very low level of understanding. Louie and his ancient mother lived in a battered old house not too far from us. I only saw his mother a few times as she hung on to the door frame shouting out terse commands at him. “Hush up that dog!” “Go git the mail and don’t drop none of it!” “Fetch me six taters out of the tater house.” She resembled nothing so much as a witch. The only visitors the old lady had were her son and his family who lived across the road. The two small boys played happily up and down the road, totally unconcerned with traffic. Neighbors voiced concerns the kids would be run over but the last I heard, thy’d outlived the neighbors who’d had to dodge then.

In that day, most kids were free-range, kicked outdoors to play first thing in the morning. Mothers locked the screen doors behind them, only letting kids in for bathroom privileges or lunch. They knew to refresh themselves at the garden hose to the mantra of “….and I’ll skin your hide if you leave that water running.” Sadly, my mother was conscientious and made us play in our own yard. It was a sad thing to look over our picket fence to see the other kids enjoying a life of total freedom. Most were only called in for supper.

When he was free from his mother’s demands, Louie roamed the neighborhood dressed in overalls and white Tee-shirt just poking around the neighborhood, going to the store with a note from his mother, or walking down the railroad track to town. It’s unlikely Louie had a friend.

Disconcertingly, Louie was known to open unlatched doors in the neighborhood. Should a neighbor neglect to latch her screen door, He was well-known to open the door, so she walk in and pick up a leftover biscuit or pancake left on the stove for kid’s snack. It must have been terrifying to turn and find a behemoth of a man standing silently behind you in your kitchen.

Louie’ mother was totally unconcerned. “He ain’t hurting nothing.“

The city marshall shared her opinion. “He ain’t never hurt nobody. Just lock your door.” Neighbors warned newcomers. The general opinion was,”If you don’t want Louie walkin’ up on you, lock your door.”

Nurse’s Nightmare

Even though I’m long retired I am long retired, I still torment myself with the occasional work anxiety dream. Last night, I treated myself to another.

I found myself back in my unit, desperate over the late start. Once there, instead of the highly trained, caring, and professional staff I expected, I was met by a madhouse of crazed clowns led by Nurse Ratched and the psychotic nurse Annie Wilkes, from the movie, Misery. Patients were lying on the floor, falling out of bed, and dumped into trash cans, arms and legs askew. The macabre nurses blocked me at every turn as I struggled to rescue patients. The unit was littered with feces, blood, and filthy dressings strewn on the floor, a nurse’s worst nightmare.

If that weren’t enough, just as the madness peaked, the CEO of nurses marched in, leading a group from Joint commission of American Hospitals, an unannounced visit to rate our services. I’ve never met any hospital staff who don’t dread this. When I saw their stern faces, I realized I’d forgotten to renew my nursing license. The CEO gestured to an officer. “Book’er Danno”

I was so glad to wake up.