Family Humor

Survival of the Fittest: Easter Egg Hunt Stories

Easter egg hunts with my cousins were a lot more like cage boxing than gentle competitions.  I had more than forty first cousins, mostly wild animals and heathens. By the time their parents herded them to the scene of the festivities, their hellions had exhausted them so just opened the car doors and all Hell broke loose.  Exhausted from defending themselves and their babies on the ride over, it was every man for himself.  God help anybody in the way,

The monstrous kids ripped through the house under the guise of needing the bathroom and a drink of water, destruction in their wake, before being cast out into the yard like demons into swine.  Actually, they were cast out onto the other cousins.  We’d get a baseball or football team going, all the big kids on one team, so the little ones never got a chance to bat, or got mowed down in football.  They’d go squalling in to their daddies who’d come out long enough to straighten us out a vague semblance of fairness, often lingering to play a while.

Once the egg hunt started, it was chaos.  It was survival of the meanest. The horrendous kids showed no favoritism between their sibligs and cousins shoving all the smaller kids down, stomping the hands of little ones reaching for eggs. The event was a melee of squalling, battered young ones, and sometimes even a few bloody noses. More than a few times they hurled eggs. My antisocial cousin, Crazy Larry, kept trying to pee on us while we were distracted by the madness.

One aunt in particular didn’t think her big kids ought to have to share at the end of the hunt, even though they’d hoarded a basketful and babies had none.

“They found ‘em!” my aunt asserted, sticking up for her devilish offspring.

It didn’t matter that she’d only brought a dozen eggs to the hunt. She resented the host confiscating her evil progeny’s bounty and redistributing them so every kid got a few, and converting most to the Easter Delight of deviled eggs.

Ah, family.  Better get busy.  I have company coming.  But not Crazy Larry.  He’s in the witness protection program.

The Sad Saga of the Beakless, Tailless, Gizzard-bobbing, One-leg Hopping chicken

Being a farm kid is not for sissies and cowards. The dark side of the chicken experience is slaughtering, plucking, cleaning, and preparing chickens for the pot.  I watched as Mother transformed into a slobbering beast as she towered over the caged chickens, snagging her victim by the leg with a twisted coat-hanger, ringing its neck and releasing it for its last run.  We crowded by, horribly thrilled by what we knew was coming.  It was scarier than ”The Night of the Living Dead”,  as the chicken, flapping its wings, running with its head hanging crazily to one side, chased us in ever larger circles until it finally greeted Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates.  It looked horribly cruel, but done properly, a quick snap of the wrist breaks the chicken’s neck instantly, giving a quick death. Of course, this is my assessment, not the unfortunate chicken. The chickens always looked extremely disturbed.

Afterward, my mother grabbed the dead chicken, plunged it into a pot of boiling water, plucked the feathers, slit its pimply white belly, removed its entrails, cut off its feet and head, and prepared it for dinner.  I was repulsed  when Mother found  unlaid eggs in the egg cavity and used them in cooking.  That just didn’t seem right.  I was happy to eat the chicken, but future eggs….disgusting.  It kind of seemed like genocide, or chickenocide, to coin a new term.

Mother looked out one day and saw one of her chickens eating corn, oblivious to the fact that her gizzard was hanging out, bobbing up and down merrily as she pecked corn with all her lady friends.  Apparently she had suffered injury from a varmint of some kind.  Clearly, she wouldn’t survive with this injury, so Mother and I set about catching her.  At least she could be salvaged for the table.  Well, she could still run just fine.  We chased her all over the yard with no luck.

Finally, Mother decided to put her out of her misery by shooting her.  She missed.  She fired again and shot the hen’s foot off.  I knew I could do better.  I shot her beak off, then hit her in the tail.  By this time, we both felt horrible and had to get her out of her misery.  Her injuries had slowed the poor beakless, tailless, gizzard-bobbing, one-leg hopping chicken down enough so we could catch her and wring her neck.

All chickens didn’t end life as happily.  The LaFay girls, Cheryl, Terry, and Cammie raised chickens to show at the fair for 4-H, with a plan to fill their freezer with the rest.  Late one Thursday evening while their widowed mother was at work, they realized tomorrow was the day for the big barbecue chicken competition.  Mama wouldn’t be in until way too late to be helping with slaughtering and dressing the chickens.  After all the time and effort they had put in on their project, they had no choice but to press forward without Mama’s help.  They’d helped Mama with the dirty business of putting up chickens lots of times.  They’d just have to do manage on their own.

Cheryl, the eldest, drew the short straw, winning the honor of wringing the chicken’s neck.  She’d seen Mama do it lots of times, but didn’t quite understand the theory of breaking the neck with a quick snap.  She held the chicken by the neck,  swung it around a few times in a wide arc,  giving it a fine ride, and released it to flee drunkenly with a sore neck.   The girls chased and recaptured the chicken a couple of times, giving it another ride or two before the tortured chicken managed to fly up in a tree, saving its life.

Acknowledging her sister’s failure, Terry stepped up to do her duty.  She pulled her chicken from the pen, taking it straight to the chopping block, just like she’d seen Mama do so many times.  Maybe she should have watched a little closer.  Instead of holding the chicken by the head  and chopping just below with the hatchet, Terry held it by the feet.  The panicked chicken raised its head, flopped around on the block, and lost a few feathers.  On the next attempt, Cammie tried to help by holding the chicken’s head, but wisely jumped when Terry chopped, leaving the poor chicken a close shave on its neck.

indian-dress-and-henBy now, all three girls were squalling.  Cheryl tied a string on the poor chicken’s neck, Cammie held its feet and they stretched the chicken across the block.  By now, Terry was crying so hard so really she couldn’t see.  She took aim, and chopped Henny Penny in half, ending her suffering.   Guilt-stricken, they buried the chicken.  Defeated, they finally called their Aunt Millie, who came over and helped them kill and dress their chickens for the competition, which they won.  All’s well that ends well.

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The Children’s Guide to Funerals: Lessons from Mr. Bradley

I am reposting an old post from September 23, 2014

Mr. Bradley died!! Mr. Bradley died!!

mr_bradley

This was unbelievable! I had seen people get shot on “Gunsmoke,” but I’d never known anyone who had actually died. I knew I was supposed to cry when someone died but I couldn’t manage it. First of all, Mr. Bradley was an old grouch. He wore khaki pants and shirt and an old gray felt hat with oil stains around the hat band. He was really selfish. Continue reading →

Out of Town

I’ve neglected my writing the last few days for the best of reasons. I’ve been out of town for a a family holiday. We gathered with family at one of Bud’s last remaining aunt’s home in Kansas. Family members ranged between five weeks and past ninety years in age. As you’d expect, everybody brought their finest food. As always, the macaroni and cheese and chocolate cake disappeared first. The weather was perfect, balmy and pleasant.

Aunt Beulah’s yard was perfectly groomed with plenty of shade and tempting seating spots. Everyone spent the day outdoors as we admired the baby, noted how big the children were getting, watched budding romances, and teased cousins about getting old. There were eighty-eight relatives and friends present. I don’t think I could gather a crowd like that if my life depended on it. Aunt Beulah is obviously well-loved. It was like dozens of family gatherings I’ve attended over the years. Bud’s aunt is nearing ninety with all the first cousins Bud romped with in the seventies, far past romping. They brought out all their stories of hijinks and amped them up. It was a perfect day!

Some of the cousins
Aunts Anita and Beulah

The Sad Saga of the Beakless, Tailless, Gizzard-bobbing, One-leg Hopping chicken

Repost of an earlier post.

Being a farm kid is not for sissies and cowards. The dark side of the chicken experience is slaughtering, plucking, cleaning, and preparing chickens for the pot.  I watched as Mother transformed into a slobbering beast as she towered over the caged chickens, snagging her victim by the leg with a twisted coat-hanger, ringing its neck and releasing it for its last run.  We crowded by, horribly thrilled by what we knew was coming.  It was scarier than ”The Night of the Living Dead”,  as the chicken, flapping its wings, running with its head hanging crazily to one side, chased us in ever larger circles until it finally greeted Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates.  It looked horribly cruel, but done properly, a quick snap of the wrist breaks the chicken’s neck instantly, giving a quick death. Of course, this is my assessment, not the unfortunate chicken. The chickens always looked extremely disturbed.

Afterward, my mother grabbed the dead chicken, plunged it into a pot of boiling water, plucked the feathers, slit its pimply white belly, removed its entrails, cut off its feet and head, and prepared it for dinner.  I was repulsed  when Mother found  unlaid eggs in the egg cavity and used them in cooking.  That just didn’t seem right.  I was happy to eat the chicken, but future eggs….disgusting.  It kind of seemed like genocide, or chickenocide, to coin a new term.

Mother looked out one day and saw one of her chickens eating corn, oblivious to the fact that her gizzard was hanging out, bobbing up and down merrily as she pecked corn with all her lady friends.  Apparently she had suffered injury from a varmint of some kind.  Clearly, she wouldn’t survive with this injury, so Mother and I set about catching her.  At least she could be salvaged for the table.  Well, she could still run just fine.  We chased her all over the yard with no luck.

Finally, Mother decided to put her out of her misery by shooting her.  She missed.  She fired again and shot the hen’s foot off.  I knew I could do better.  I shot her beak off, then hit her in the tail.  By this time, we both felt horrible and had to get her out of her misery.  Her injuries had slowed the poor beakless, tailless, gizzard-bobbing, one-leg hopping chicken down enough so we could catch her and wring her neck.

All chickens didn’t end life as happily.  The LaFay girls, Cheryl, Terry, and Cammie raised chickens to show at the fair for 4-H, with a plan to fill their freezer with the rest.  Late one Thursday evening while their widowed mother was at work, they realized tomorrow was the day for the big barbecue chicken competition.  Mama wouldn’t be in until way too late to be helping with slaughtering and dressing the chickens.  After all the time and effort they had put in on their project, they had no choice but to press forward without Mama’s help.  They’d helped Mama with the dirty business of putting up chickens lots of times.  They’d just have to do manage on their own.

Cheryl, the eldest, drew the short straw, winning the honor of wringing the chicken’s neck.  She’d seen Mama do it lots of times, but didn’t quite understand the theory of breaking the neck with a quick snap.  She held the chicken by the neck,  swung it around a few times in a wide arc,  giving it a fine ride, and released it to flee drunkenly with a sore neck.   The girls chased and recaptured the chicken a couple of times, giving it another ride or two before the tortured chicken managed to fly up in a tree, saving its life.

Acknowledging her sister’s failure, Terry stepped up to do her duty.  She pulled her chicken from the pen, taking it straight to the chopping block, just like she’d seen Mama do so many times.  Maybe she should have watched a little closer.  Instead of holding the chicken by the head  and chopping just below with the hatchet, Terry held it by the feet.  The panicked chicken raised its head, flopped around on the block, and lost a few feathers.  On the next attempt, Cammie tried to help by holding the chicken’s head, but wisely jumped when Terry chopped, leaving the poor chicken a close shave on its neck.

indian-dress-and-henBy now, all three girls were squalling.  Cheryl tied a string on the poor chicken’s neck, Cammie held its feet and they stretched the chicken across the block.  By now, Terry was crying so hard so really she couldn’t see.  She took aim, and chopped Henny Penny in half, ending her suffering.   Guilt-stricken, they buried the chicken.  Defeated, they finally called their Aunt Millie, who came over and helped them kill and dress their chickens for the competition, which they won.  All’s well that ends well.

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…

It’s been a while

Bud and I have been together for 73 years. This is our first photo together. I am the baby on right in fitst row. He is the little boy behind me. The photographer has us facing the sun, so we are shielding our faces. I remember always being posed facing the sun. Who know the rationale behind that?

Bud’s mother came to help out when I was born. She often said she should have pinched my head off when she had a chance. Live and learn. Our families were friends, so we grew up playing together. He was a nice boy, never mean to girls, so I always liked him.

He first started coming to visit on his own when I was seventeen. Our family was generally confused as to whom he was visiting. My sister and I thought he was interested in her, so I went to my room and read. I was always looking for a chance to read, anyway, since Daddy kept us really busy on the farm. My brother thought Bud was coming to see him.

The matter was further complicated since Bud had bashed his left thumb with a 24 lb. hammer . The doctor pushed the ball of his thumb back in place until it was approximately thumb shaped, stitched it to his nail, and splinted it. One week to the day, while he was still splinted, a sprocket fell on his right foot, breaking it. Consequently, he was effectively disabled on the right and left side, though his job kept him on, probably out of guilt. He didn’t feel much like a suitor during this period.

The next week, he pitched his crutches in the back of his truck on the way to the doctor. They blew out. He retrieved them but one had suffered the loss of a rubber tip, not optimal for a lame guy with no grip due to a smushed thumb. Bud managed to hobble in the doctor’s door before hitting a slick tile. One crutch went one way, one the other. Pulling himself up on receptionist’s desk,he inquired “Is there a doctor in the house?” It must have been horrifying to the staff who were trying to remain professional.

So, he did finally live through the indignities of his injuries. All the while, I got a good bit of reading done while Phyllis and Bill courted him. I suppose I was inadvertently playing hard to get. When he eventually got off the crutches, he asked me out. I don’t know which of the Swain kids was most surprised, me, Phyllis, or Billy.

We got married two years later, while we were still in college.

Kathleen Carries On Part 6 or Keep Your Hands off the Offering Plate

Mother is scrupulous about paying her tithe. On the last Sunday before January 1st, she was dressing for church and found $300 in her underwear drawer. “Oh, I must have been saving this for my tithe!” Tucking it in her purse, she dropped it in the offering plate as it passed. Almost immediately, she remembered she’d been saving for a new floor but it was too late to grab it back. She didn’t have all bad luck with the offering, though. One Sunday, she made change for a large bill when the plate was passed and came out $20 ahead. I never did believe that was a mistake. She wanted me to take her by Thrifty Liquor one Saturday. Since she is a rabid teetotaler, I had to know why. “They have the cheapest money orders in town. I always get my offering money order there” Mother believes in watching her pennies. I offered to go in and get it for her.

“Look at this, Mother! Mr. Thrifty is printed on here as big as Dallas! They’re going to think you’re one of those drinking Baptists!”

Of course I told my family. “ My nephew is a minister. Mother frequently attends his church and is well-known to his congregation. He acknowledged her attendance but turned to the ushers as they passed the offering plate,”I’m proud to have my grandmother here, but don’t let her get her hands on the offering plate.”

That’s not the last of her indiscretions. I was talking to her one Sunday as she changed clothes after church. “Well, where’s my bra? I can’t find bra!”

I acted disgusted. “Mother, I’ll bet you left it it the back seat of the deacon’s car again!” She didn’t deny it.

Kathleen Carries On Part 1

surprise
Kathleen, Surprised

Mother is sensitive about her age and height, so I can’t mention the fact that she is past ninety-six and “not tall.” In fact, she got busted by the nurse at her last exam. “How tall are you?” asked the nurse.

Mother looked her in the eye and said, “5’2,” bold as brass.

The nurse stared her down. “Let’s measure you.” They came back in a minute and the nurse said. “I’ll give you 4’ 9 3/4 .”

1.  She asked a nice young police officer to “jack her off.” 

2. She once crashed a formal wedding in cut off blue jeans.

3. She was once locked in a museum garden and had to be rescued by the fire department.

4. She was locked in Windsor Castle. More on that later.

5. She rolled up a car window up on a camel’s lip.  These things happen.

6. She made change in the offering plate at church and came out twenty dollars ahead

7. She lost her bra at church one Sunday.  She never could explain that!

8. When two intruders broke in her house, she made one of them help her into her robe and refused to give them more than eleven dollars. Go figure.

9. She threatened a rapist.

10. She won’t say “Bull.”  That sounds crude.  She substitutes “male cow.” God knows she tried to raise me right!  

Carrying on #1:

Mother parked her car at the mall, got her sweater and purse and went in to shop and enjoy a leisurely lunch with friends. More than two hours later, she came out and discovered her car wouldn’t start. She’d left her lights on! She didn’t want to call her kids for help, so she flagged down a young police officer, planning to buffalo him with her sweet old grandmother act. “ Officer, my battery’s down. Can you please jack me off?” Luckily, she was neither arrested nor jacked off.

To be continued