My husband I are both retired RNs so we frequently spot errors in commercials. The other evening, one of those frequent “Help, I’ve fallen and can’t get up!” commercials came on.
Bud watched the poor woman intently for a moment and said, “I know damn good and well she didn’t fall. She didn’t piss her pants.”
He knows whereof he speaks, having worked on a physical rehab floor for more than twenty years.
It is the time of year people start to crave pumpkin: pumpkin coffee, pumpkin coffee creamer, pumpkin bread, pumpkin pie. I didn’t realize until a few years ago that decorative pumpkins, the kind used for jack-o-lanterns weren’t intended for cooking. Canned pumpkin is much better in recipes.
I made pumpkin butter today for Mother and her friends at her independent living facility. I found it rather endearing that one of the lovely ladies asked me to make some, knowing I love to can. It is a very simple recipe.
Crock Pot Pumpkin Butter
4 29 oz. cans pumpkin
2 lbs. light brown sugar
4 tbs. Pumpkin Pie Spice
Mix all ingredients in crock pot. Cook on high 3-4 hours till flavors blend. You may add more pumpkin pie spice if desired. Put in clean pint jars with clean flats and rings. To process, put in rack in deep pot. Cover tops with at least 1 inch water. Bring to a full boil and process at least 15 minutes. Put jars to cool on rack or cutting board. Tops should pop and depression in lid should snap down as they cool. Makes 8 pints.
This makes a wonderful gift!
My husband I are both retired RNs so we frequently spot errors in commercials. The other evening, one of those frequent “Help, I’ve fallen and can’t get up!” commercials came on.
Bud watched the poor woman intently for a moment and said, “I know damn good and well she didn’t fall. She didn’t piss her pants.”
He knows whereof he speaks, having worked on a physical rehab floor for more than twenty years.
We just got back from camping on the Gulf Coast. We had fun and I learned a couple of things. First of all, if you think you might fall and bust your fanny, carry your extra glasses. I was standing behind the trailer trying to wave Bud in as he backed the trailer up and Buzzy wrapped me in his leash, plopping me flat on my keester. I fell flat, banging right on my glasses. I hadn’t gotten in Bud’s line of vision yet, so he thought I’d wandered off, as I am prone to do. He continued backing up, but fortunately I was able to get out of the way before he flattened me.
Although the fall did kill my glasses, I escaped. I was worried whether I would have a black eye, but luckily I didn’t. If I had, I would have to have blacked both Bud’s eyes or I would have been ashamed to be seen when we met friends later. I was able to get the frames replaced, using the same lenses. What a relief. I had dreaded trying to get by with just reading glasses till I could get new ones made. I will never go off without a spare again.
Buzzy had a fine time camping as always. We patrolled the camp several times a day. He got to meet new dogs, see an alligator, smell the Gulf, roll in some different flavors of mud, walk on the beach, and sleep in the camper. His favorite part of camping is sitting on the bench seat between us at meals. He doesn’t get a place at the table at home.
This story seems to be too complicated to be true, but it is. It looked like my mother had to tried to set my dad up but she was never organized enough for this. Daddy had worked graveyard shift, so was settling in for his day sleep. The last thing Daddy told her before lying down was that he was expecting a “man to come see him about a dog.” Knowing Mother had business to attend to that day, he was expecting the man to honk his horn to wake him.
Expecting Daddy to sleep a while, Mother took the opportunity to finish waxing the hall before leaving. Sure it would be dry before Daddy had to get up.
Her waxing done, Mother headed out the door. When she got to the end of the two-hundred-yard long driveway, Mother’s path was blocked by a complacent cow. Frustrated, Mother edged closer to cud-chewing old Bessie, who regarded Mother sagely. Bessie was unconcerned. Not to be bested by a cow, Mother laid down on the horn till Bessie got out of the way.
Meanwhile, back at the house Daddy lay lightly snoozing, mindful that he was listening for the horn-blowing signal of his friend. Hearing Mother’s distant horn blast, he jumped out of bed, struggled into his pants and launched down the recently waxed hall. It was slick as a gut. Head over heels, he slid the length of that hall on his butt, only to get to the window just in time to see Mother’s car disappearing in the distance. Muttering angrily, he headed back to bed.
Later that day, Mother arrived home just before Daddy’s visitor. Seating the man, she put the coffee on before going to rouse Daddy. Headed down the hall to wake him, she was surprised to see the wide unwaxed stretch right down the middle of the hall. The timing probably saved her life. When Daddy launched into the story of of the trap Mother had set and his perilous slide down the hall, his buddy laughed so hard at him, they all had a big laugh.
That’s probably the only thing that saved Mother’s life.
My husband I are both retired RNs so we frequently spot errors in commercials. The other evening, one of those frequent “Help, I’ve fallen and can’t get up!” commercials came on.
Bud watched the poor woman intently for a moment and said, “I know damn good and well she didn’t fall. She didn’t piss her pants.”
He knows whereof he speaks, having worked on a physical rehab floor for more than twenty years.
One of Daddy’s coworkers also indulged in the hunt. I loved hearing the stories they told.
Slim was a God-gifted liar, so well-known for his lying, that anyone who repeated one of his tales had to buy coffee for the group. One day, Slim came rushing by several of the fellows standing around at work and one of them called out, “Slim, stop and tell us a lie.”
“I ain’t got time.” He called over his shoulder. “Martin Bishop just fell in Smokestack 19 and I’m on the way to call an ambulance.” He rushed on as the other men took off in the opposite direction to check out the accident at Smokestack 19. They were breathless upon getting there and found Martin hard at work, totally unaware that he’d just been tragically killed. I guess they all had to buy their own coffee.
Slim and his wife, Ida Ruth, had a large family. Like many men of the time, his work was done once he left the job. One blazing August afternoon he came home to find a workman, a man of his acquaintance, digging a ditch that ran along the right of way in front of his place. The man was stripped down to his undershirt in the sweltering heat with sweat pouring off him. Slim stopped to talk and sent one of the kids for a glass of ice water. “Man, it’s too hot for you to be shoveling in this heat. Git on out of that ditch and let Ida Ruth finish it!” I don’t guess Ida Ruth heard about it, because there was no murder.
Mike Parsons had been raised in Arkansas and considered himself an authority on all things Arkansas. No one could mention Arkansas without getting an earful of his knowledge, experience, or connections. He must have had a hundred sisters, since he had a brother-in-law in every town. It was getting a little tiresome and Ray Marshall decided to set him up. “I’m going to come in to work tomorrow telling a wild tale about a town in Arkansas I made up. Y’all follow along and see what ol’ Mike has to say.”
The next morning at work when they stopped for coffee, Ray started his story, “Any of y’all ever heard of a little town up in the Arkansas called Catscratch? I was driving through there one time and………”
Mike Parsons jumped in. “Sure, I been there several times. My sister married an old boy from there. He raises them big pink tomaters just outside Catscratch. They got a real nice little place.”
I am an early riser, not by choice. Thirty years of getting up at four-thirty as a nurse has reset my internal clock so Most often, I still wake the roosters. I’d be happy to roll over and doze a while, but once my eyelids flap up like cheap window shades, sleep has fled.
On a recent visit to relatives, I found myself watching an autumn sunrise as I dawdled over a cup of coffee. No one else moved. As light peeked through the trees, one cup of coffee stretched to two and I heard the first of the birds getting about making their living. I happened to notice my reflection in the window and took a photo to capture the quiet
moment. Just as the sun broke through the trees, I heard gunfire from the woods behind the house. The peace of the morning shattered for me and the deer. I hope that one got away to enjoy the peace another fall morning.
My dad had a fool-proof plan to get his yard-work done easily and painlessly (for him). Let the leaves and tree debris pile up pretty high in the fall and spring. Mention casually a couple of times, “You kids are gonna’ have to clean up this yard in a few days.” Let a couple of days pass so they hope you’ve forgotten or gone blind. Come home from work on Friday afternoon in a jovial mood. This works best if you are normally a real grouch. It’s best if one of your brothers is visiting and your kids ask to spend the night with Cousin Becky, Susan, or Joey. Implement step #1
“No, Y’all have to clean the yard tomorrow, but they can stay with you if they want to help.”
He was serious about them staying, always hoping to get a little of work out of them. Even though there were no Einstein’s in our family, no cousin was ever that dumb.
“No, I am not staying! I don’t wanna’ clean the yard!” They were in the car before the screen door slammed.
Traitors!
Step #2 The next morning he’d roll us out at six am, anticipating a good day. We didn’t talk much at breakfast, especially avoiding the words yard, sweep, work, and leaves. It’s amazing how often a word jumps out when you are studiously avoiding it. “Billy didn’t LEAVE any jelly for me.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll get all the LEAVES you want today.” He made crappy jokes, playing on our dread.
Finally, he’d push his chair back, “Time for the friendships to end and the work to begin.”
I would have enjoyed flailing the genius from whom he’d picked up that cruel witticism. He routed us into the one-acre yard where the lecture began. “Now, get the wheelbarrow, rake, and yard broom. I want all these sticks picked up first. Then one of you can rake, the other sweep and the other pick up the leaves and haul them back yonder to the burn pile. Now, I mean for this yard to be clean when I get home.”
With that, he was off to whatever he had planned that day. The task looked endless, with drifted leaves from dozens of trees, shrubs, and fallen sticks. I would have gladly traded places with Sisyphus and his rock.
We had to fight a while before we got started. Phyllis was the oldest, so she commandeered the yard broom, the prize implement. Billy and I got stuck with the rake and wheelbarrow for loading and hauling leaves. Of course, we had to fight a while before we made a good start. Mother usually brought the little girls out and redirected us before she got back to her work of the day.
Step #3 Cleaning that yard would have been a huge job for a yard-proud person. Three fighting kids cleaning a yard didn’t go that well. The first time or two, we were of the mistaken belief we could make a pathetic excuse and get by with a half-done job. Daddy was of the opinion that no well-balanced kid could get through a day without a good whooping, anyway, so he was happy to oblige. He frequently quoted, “I might as well whip y’all first thing in the morning and get it over with.” A few stripes paid off handsomely in the next day’s efforts, and he had the satisfaction of knowing he hadn’t “spared the rod and spoiled the child.” We were motivated to do the job right.
Yes, indeed, Daddy knew how to get his yardwork done in three easy steps. Just so you know, I am not advocating this plan.
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"Creative Insights for Designers & Digital Artists
Emmitt Owens
Let’s fix it
Finding Meaning in Modern Life
Real motherhood. Real fun. Real life with two wild boys.
Exploring biblical promises and their fulfillment in Israel and the Middle East.
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