humor

Dog Discipline

What could these two pictures possibly have in common?  Buzzy is adorable, but he does have a little flaw.   He feels compelled to scratch soft fabrics.  My new bathroom rug is quickly balding.  I have to groom it every time he gets in there.  He gives carefull attention to several other rugs, but this one must be substandard.  I do tell him,”No!”  He is pretty forgiving, just gives me a hurt look and walks away.  I’ve thought of flapping him with a hand towel, but that seems a little extreme for a ten-year-old gentleman who’s never endured a flap.  I guess I need to buy a better rug or keep the door closed.

World’s Worst Grandma

I had the pleasure of taking a two-year-old grocery shopping one cold, dreary day.  The only bright spot was the lone automobile/shopping cart we found on the parking lot.  I wiped it dry and loaded her up.  As we progressed through the store, she found many strange and wonderful things thoughtfully displayed within her reach.  Sadly, I had to deny her hearts-delight: steak knives, fireplace matches, cat toys, and a twenty-seven dollar toy trumpet.It was a disaster when we stumbled into the toy aisle.  She scooped several toys into the cart.  To avoid tears,  I shamelessly deposited the culled items in an empty grocery cart as I steered her toward something that met three important criteria.  It would hold her interest till we got through the check-out line.  It wouldn’t get me in trouble with her parents.  Last of all, it wouldn’t bankrupt me.

Finally, we were done.  Over her protests, I got her zipped in her hooded jacket and wheeled her toward the parking lot, clasping her toy.  I would have enjoyed waiting for icy rain to stop, but I wanted to get her out of the store.  I struggled to steer the cumbersome buggy across the bumpy parking lot.  I breathed a sigh of relief as I opened the car door and buckled her in the car seat.  She was happily unwrapping her lollipop as a woman with a small boy parked next to us. Remembering how anxious my little one was to find the fancy cart, I asked the  woman.  “Ma’am, do you want this car buggy for your little boy?”

I might as well have stabbed my little guy in the heart.  She wailed tragically as the boy’s mother loaded him in “her” buggy.  I’ve had better days.

 

 

Miracle Healer

Daddy had a knee that troubled him from the time he’d left the Navy. It swelled and pained him in bad weather, likely osteoarthritis. He felt human bodies were like automobiles, if something wasn’t running just right, you fixed it. Unfortunately, as a few of us have noticed, wear and tear is normal with some things best left alone. Daddy visited numerous doctors, thinking knee surgery would fix him as good as new. He was disappointed when every one suggested conservative treatment, not surgery. Finally, he found a doctor at the Veterans Hospital who agreed to fix the knee, though he assured Daddy it wasn’t likely to make him better.

He lay in the hospital more than two months, casted from ankle to thigh. Getting up on crutches and ambulating was a nightmare. He was not a stoic man. This surgery business was not turning out to be a simple tune up like he’d envisioned.   Upon discharge, he was still casted and hobbling on crutches from bed to chair, not a good outcome.  He was still in a lot of pain, disappointed, depressed, and miserable. When Daddy was in pain, everybody was in pain. He spent his days stretched out in a recliner in the middle of the living room, watching TV, loud! From that point, he could supervise all goings on. He critiqued every move the family made. We were all most imperfect. He listened in on all phone conversations, insisting on knowing who it was. What did they want? It was not a good time to be a Swain.

Eventually, he got his cast off. The staff attempted to help him bend his leg. It was excruciating, of course. He was instructed to exercise every day and increase the movement daily, the extent of his therapy. He didn’t deal with the pain well, so he was left with a stiff leg.

All the family vehicles had standard transmissions. Daddy couldn’t work the clutch, so he couldn’t drive. He was so critical, no one would drive him if they could get out of it. It was common for farm kids to drive early then, long before they got a license. Connie and Marilyn were eager to drive, so eventually, they were driving him about the countryside. If they went to town, Mother was stuck driving him, much to her disgust. Mother was barely five feet and Daddy six foot three inches. He slid the seat as far back as possible and stretched out on the front seat. When Mother tried to slide the seat forward, it jammed. When she put some muscle behind it and gave another try, the stuck seat broke loose and flew forward, bending his knee and simultaneously banging it into the dash. He screamed, shoved the seat back, and jumped nimbly from the car. When he finished his dance of agony, he found his stiff knee healed, though I don’t believe he ever thanked Mother

Doris and the Greedy Guts

Kids in the sixties reveled in hurling epithets that seem positively sanctified by today’s standards: tattletale, crybaby, sissy, titty-baby, chicken, dumbo and greedy-gut. Calling out anyone of these could get you in plenty of trouble at home or on the playground.  As one of five children, I have been known to be a greedy-gut, along with my gluttonous siblings.  As I went over this list with Bud, he said he was always glad to be called greedy-gut, since that meant he’d gotten more of the good stuff.

My cousins were “finicky.”  Thei mama complained. “My kids won’t eat anything.”  I thought that sounded good.  Mother proudly answered, “I don’t have to worry about that.  My kids eat whatever I put in front of them.” It didn’t take a genius to see we did. It was humiliating.  I yearned to be picky, but my appetite always got the best of me.


We never had cookies, chips, sodas, or snacks of any type lying around our house.  Should a bag of cookies or chips  find its way in, we’d all pounce on it, eat all we could hold, wait till we felt better, then check back to see if any was left.  There rarely was.  For after-school snacks, we had biscuits with peanut butter if we were lucky, or pear or fig preserves if we weren’t.  I  was never tempted to indulge  in Mother’s homemade fig or pear preserves.  Daddy insisted she sugar them heavily and cook them down till they candied with syrup the consistency of tar.  I’d sooner have eaten tar.  If Mother was flush with cash on grocery day, she’d buy a big bag of apples or oranges, which we’d fall upon and finish off in a day or two.  Sometimes the stores ran specials on canned peaches or big purple plums, which served as dessert for dinner.


Dessert was for special times, usually a yellow cake, baked in a Bundt pan.  Mother taught each of her girls to bake a yellow cake when they turned five, a proud accomplishment for the girl.  None of us was great on detail, so not uncommonly, we’d start a cake before checking if all the ingredients were available.  Sometimes we’d do without if we’d gotten the cake started first. It wasn’t unusual to substitute shortening for butter, or bake without milk, vanilla or eggs.  Sometimes a cake with one substitution is tolerable, but two or three render it inedible.  I have been known to use plain flour and not add baking powder powder, soda, or salt.  A cake like that makes a pretty good pot lid.  

Our greed set the stage for Mother’s humiliation. Daddy was a hypochondriac. At least yearly, he’d come up with a malady requiring hospitalization. His ailments ranged from flu to stomach ailments to a stiff knee. When a new doctor opened a clinic nearby, he realized he had a sore back. Naturally, the new doctor admitted him for tests, something doctors were able to do in the days before insurance oversight. He shared a room with Mr. Ivan Garvey, an affable fellow.  During a visit, Mother met his wife, Doris, and inferred they’d become friendly.  Mrs. Garvey  invited her to come by for coffee.

Some days later, Mother took Doris up on her casual invitation, dropping by by just as Doris was taking peanut butter cookies out of the oven.  They smelled heavenly.  Not realizing the calamity she faced, Doris set the plate before us.  Over Mother’s horrified protests, we decimated those cookies.  Mother tried to slow us down, but Doris said, “Oh no!  Let them have them.  I like to see kids eat.”  Naturally, we believed she meant it and wanted her to be happy, polishing off the batch.  It must have been the happiest day of her life.

Humiliated, Mother got us out of there as soon as she decently could, lighting  into us the instant we cleared the Garvey drive.  “I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.  Y’all ate like hogs.  She didn’t want y’all to eat all the cookies….” Her rant lasted longer than the cookies.  We scattered as soon as we got home. We never went by Doris Garvey’s house for coffee again.  Too bad.

 

Wah! Wah! Wah!

Self-pity can be so satisfying. I indulged for a few hours today. ”It’s hot. I am sick of staying home.  I want life to go back to normal.  I have a backache.  I haven’t seen my grandchildren in months.”  The more I wallowed, the bigger it got.  I was all set to enjoy my misery.

Sadly, before I could wrench up a few tears, I got distracted.  A dear friend called, the kind who never changes.  We caught up on kids, husbands, and reminisced.  By the time she hung up, I’d lost my oomph.  She’d ruined it for me.  I couldn’t muster up a smidge of self-pity.  Don’t you hate that?

 

 

 

Deal of a Lifetime

You’ve seen my posts about my one-hundred twenty-two pound Mastiff mix, Croc.   Just so you know, Croc does have a few faults, but he is a good eater.  I tried mixing kibble with a can of dog food to encourage Buzzy, my little dog to eat.  It’s not unusual for Buzzy to go a couple of days and not touch food.  When he finally gets hungry, he will run by and grab two or three kibbles.  The mix only enticed Buzzy for a day or two, though it did enable Croc to gain ten pounds in a couple of weeks.

All that eating pays off like a slot machine.  Croc regularly cranks out four major poops a day.  Bud does all our accounts.  Based on his calculations, Croc’s poops cost about a dollar each.  That’s one fancy dog.  Hopefully, it was a good economic move to cut him back to just kibble.

All that food creates a malodorous symphony.  Needless to say, Croc is not constrained by modesty and sounds like the tuba section in a brass band. The concert doesn’t seem to disturb him, but he has been known to get up and move when the odor is powerful enough to make his eyes water.  He appears to hold a grudge toward us if the aroma moves him along.  It’s not unusual for him to glare at us accusingly if he’s especially offended.

Sleep Shifters

Buzzy was glad to retire.  When we first adopted him, Bud worked nights.  I worked days.  The poor little guy had to help Bud sleep from mid-afternoon till I got in from work.  He’d get up then and help me till my bedtime when his second sleep shift started.  Fortunately, we had Sissy, another American Eskimo Dog to share the sleep load.  Sadly, when Sissy died, Buzzy had to do it all till we adopted Squeaky, a rag doll cat.  Squeaky was an expert sleeper, but  wouldn’t necessarily follow dog sleeping rules, or any rules, for that matter.

His willfulness eventually led to his demise.  Squeaky was exclusively an indoor cat.  Despite his neutering, from time to time his hormones acted up leading him to attempt escape.  One night he shot out the back door, never to be seen again.  I suspect he made the acquaintance of one of the coyotes we sometimes heard yipping.

Croc with baby

Poor Buzzy was on his own again till he retired a few years when we did.  Not too long ago, we adopted Croc, a Mastiff mix. We now have two dog beds on our bedroom floor.  Buzzy usually starts out in bed with us, then moves to his doggy bed.  Croc yearns to get in our bed, but can’t jump.  It is common for one or both of the boys to get hot during the night and move to the hardwood floor for a while.  We have to leave a night light on to avoid stepping on dogs when we get up at night.  A Mastiff takes up a lot of floor space, especially when he drags his baby and  pillow with him.  I forgot to mention Croc’s amazing ability to fart and snore, so it’s impossible to forget he’s around.

Class Clown in the Class Picture

 

My brother Bill realized he was a comedian just as he had his school picture made.  All his friends loved it, but Mother had no sense of humor.  “I’m not buying those ridiculous pictures!” She fumed.

”Oh yes we are!”  Daddy put his foot down.  His family had never been able to buy school pictures, so he was rewriting his childhood.  He would not be shamed.

Daddy ruled the roost, so Mother seethed as she sent a check to school on the last possible day.   Billy wasn’t worried.  He’d already impressed his friends.  He had endured an impressive lecture and threat of grave repercussions should he pull that stunt again, but that was a condition he’d learned to live with, so it wasn’t a problem.  All his buddies wanted a picture.  He was flushed with pride.

It wasn’t long till the class picture came out.  His teacher opened her copy before she passed the envelopes out to the students.  She was livid, landing on him like an old wet hen.  He’d enjoyed so much success with his individual school pictures, that he’d repeated his trick in the class picture.  There he sat, sat prominently in the front row with his tongue out and crossed eyes. This picture would be in the yearbook!

The teacher was mad.  Mamas were mad.  I’m sure the photographer was mad since he wouldn’t  have sold many prints with a clown in the front row.  Needless to say, my parents didn’t buy one. I am sorry I couldn’t find one for this post, so I substituted my own first grade class picture.  I am the eighth girl in the second row, remarkable for the wild hair.

 

 

 

 

Sing at the table…..

“Sing at the table. Sing in the bed. The boogerman‘ll get you by the hair of the head.” When I was a small child, I was spending the night with my cousin Sue when an incredible thunderstorm passed through.  I welcomed storms, invigorated by the rumble of thunder, the splendor of lightning, and the smell of ozone. Recalling her childhood fear of storms, Mother had always downplayed the noise and drama of storms. We were supposed to be settling into sleep but I was wildly excited by the storm and enlisted my cousins to join me in bed jumping. Aunt Julie was terrified of storms and made no effort to hide her agitation at the combination of the fearsome storm and the banshee bed-jumpers. She did not share Mother’s tender philosophy. “You little devils shut up and lay down. All that racket is making the the lightning worse. It’s gonna strike you if you don’t settle down and shut up.” One of the little devils got up and jumped on the bed again before the threat left her lips. A mighty crash of thunder rattled the windows promising to come for the miscreant. Kids dived under covers and hid in closets. “See what I told you. If the lightning don’t fit you, the boogerman will!” I stayed put, even though Mother had often told me there was no boogerman. Aunt Julie looked scary enough on her own to do the trick. Since then, I’ve often wondered why Mother never availed herself of the Boogerman. It seems like she overlooked a valuable child-rearing resource.