humor

Bird Dog

I was greeted by the desperate fluttering of a bird trapped in my fireplace this morning.  Shutting the doors to adjacent rooms, I went for a flashlight and dish towel before opening the fireplace doors.  Fortunately, he was blinded and clung fearfully to the bricks when I shone the light on him.  I was so relieved he easily disengaged from the wall when I grasped him with the dish towel.  My heart soared as he winged his way to freedom like so many others I’ve released from my chimney trap.  I was reminded of another bird experience.

Annie, our Dalmatian dog once alerted me to a bird on the fireplace.  That time it didn’t go so smoothly, since I hadn’t yet learned to shine the light on the bird to confuse it.  The bird escaped into the living room.  It took me a few attempts before I caught and released it.  During the melee, Annie bonded with the poor, terrified bird.  She clearly enjoyed seeing its return to safety.  Lest you think a lot of kind thoughts about Annie, I need to let you know, that’s the only non-despicable she ever did.  She was sweet about the bird.

The next day, I went to visit my sister.  Marilyn had just gotten a bird.  That poor bird must have thought it had gone to Hell.  Marilyn’s cat  had his hissing face pressed into the cage with his front paws clutching the cage in a death grip.  The traumatized bird had backed as far away  as the cage would allow.  Marilyn was tired of pulling the cat off the bird’s cage, so when she offered me the bird, I took it.  The weather was fine, so the bird stayed on the patio for the rest of our visit with the disappointed cat’s nose pressed against the glass the whole time.

Annie assumed ownership of the bird, greeting it every time she walked by and napping by its cage.  The bird enjoyed her company chattering merrily when Annie greeted it. They were friends for several years until the bird’s death.  It was a heartwarming friendship.

 

Oilcan Harry and the Washing Machine

imageMother was stuck taking us everywhere she went, even to buy a new washing machine just days before her fourth baby was born. She never asked anyone to keep us since that would have insured she had to return the favor and keep someone else’s monsters in return, probably some of our killer cousins. She was always on guard against that. We followed her into to appliance store. It was maddeningly dull to me and my Brother Billy. We wanted to ride in the dryers and jump on the doors, but she put a stop to that pretty quickly, making us sit on our hands with our backs to each other where Phyllis could watch us. Eventually, she made her choice and went to sign the mortgage papers. I knew all about mortgages! I was an avid fan of Mighty Mouse! He’d saved Sweet Alice countless times when Oilcan Harry was about to do her in all on account of that danged mortgage, and here my own sweet mother was about to sign a mortgage. I set up a protest, as only a righteous eight year old can do!

“Mother, Mother, don’t sign it. We’ll lose the house! Please don’t sign a mortgage!”

She was infuriated, as only an overwrought pregnant woman can be, snarlingly at me hatefully through clenched teeth. “Go over there and sit down. If you say another word, I’ol tear you up right here in this store!”

I do believe she meant it. She got her washer and Oilcan Harry didn’t get the house.

My Dirty Laundry

Bud says I am stubborn.  It’s true.  Once an idea occurs to me, I can’t get rid of it! Since the kids are long gone, I decided to treat myself to some white fluffy towels a couple of years ago. No problem since I would be totally in control.  These towels would never languish on the floor, under the bed, or touch mascara or muddy shoes.  They’d never wash a car or wipe spaghetti sauce off the sofa.  Time passed.  They got dingy.  I didn’t like them anymore.  I started sneaking into Bud’s bathroom to get his luscious green ones, but  I couldn’t get the white ones off my mind.  Surely, I could fix them. They couldn’t be bleached, so I tried non-chlorine bleach.  That didn’t brighten them at all, so I decided to bleach them, anyway.  What did I have to lose?

So I bleached them. They went from dingy gray to a dull hen poo poo muffledy dun.  Those towels were disgusting, sort of like they had been wiping shoes, smearing mascara, washing the car, and wiping up dog vomit with.  I tolerated them for a while, then checked the internet for a solution.  I needed to boil them in a solution of dishwasher detergent, vinegar, borax and detergent.  Sounded like a lot of trouble, but I really wanted them white again. I mixed the concoction right up and put my towels on to boil.  I boiled them for about thirty minutes, frequently punching them down.  I believe this was the high-tech method used up until folks got washing machines.  The water turned an ugly brown.  It must be working!

 

                 

Eventually, I finished them up in the washer.  Meanwhile, I’d made a real mess of the kitchen.  The sink was full of pots, the stove a sloppy mess, and the floor tracked up.  It didn’t look like I’d done a deep cleaning just yesterday.  It only took an hour to get back to where it was.  My back still hurts.

            

In the picture on the right, you can see the result of all my hard work.  Aren’t those colors bizarre?  Some of the towels remained plain dingy gray.  Others took on an ugly, rusty hue.  The big surprise was, some turned a pale pink. I am partial to dingy gray, but that’s just me.  Does anybody out there need some ugly towels?  They’ll be perfect to  wash the car and wipe mud off the dog.

Wait!  I just saw two more things to try.  Laundry bluing is supposed to brighten dingy clothes up.  Sunshine bleaches!  Bud is going to have to put up a clothes line!

 

 

Miss Tillie Tittilates the Heathen

imageMiss Tillie, my Sunday School Teacher held my attention like no other before or since, giving the class candy, bubble gum, and tiny little paper umbrellas if we learned our Bible verses. Mother thought she ought not to bribe us to do our lessons. I thought Mother ought to mind her own business. Miss Tillie had already taught Sunday School for thirty years by the time I had her in 1956. She still wore lacy dresses left over from her daughter’s high school days when she didn’t opt for gabardine suits with oversize shoulder pads from the forties. She showed up once a month with robin’s egg blue hair that faded over the next three weeks to a pale lavender. We always complimented her when it was at its brightest and she’d shyly say, “Can you believe I don’t even have to color it?” I couldn’t. She still wore seamed stockings long after the other ladies wore seamless. I always looked forward to seeing a special one with a mended run she wore every third Sunday. I got to know Miss Tillie before I was old enough to know she was a little wacko, so I admired all her differences.

Miss Tillie was so sweet I wouldn’t have wanted to misbehave. The naughty words in the Bible caused her a big problem. She couldn’t bring herself to say the bad words like lie, sin, Hell, and ass, so she made modest substitutions such as fibbing, doing wrong, the bad place, and donkeys. The lesson of Samson versus the Philistines was a challenge for her. Starting out fine, she described Samson’s great strength and glorious hair, reminding us of his obedience to God. Things were going well until the battle reached its zenith. With her modesty, she couldn’t possibly say, “Samson slew ten-thousand Philistines with the jawbone of an ass,” so after a great deal of obvious preparation and practice, she concluded the lesson with a flourish, “and so Samson picked up the assbone of a donkey and slew ten-thousand Philistines.” That lesson is still burned in my brain.

Three of the Deadlies

Tragically, three pastors and their wives were killed in a crash on the way home from a conference.  They found themselves standing before Saint Peter.  Saint Peter addressed the first pastor as he looked in his book.

“Well, I see here you lived a pretty good life.  You worked hard for your church.  You were faithful, but there’s one thing I need to look into further.  Your love of money got in your way.  In fact, you loved money so much you even married a woman named Penny.  Just have a seat over there while I do a little more checking.”

The second pastor came forward.  Saint Peter addressed him.  “You were a faithful pastor.  You served well except for one flaw.  Your love of alcohol caused you some problems.  You loved alcohol so much, you even married a woman named Sherry.  Have a seat over there while I do some balancing.”

The third pastor turned to his wife.  “Come on Fanny.  There’s no use in us even getting in line.”

Sunday Jokes

Latest from the Church Pews News

Tonight’s sermon: ‘What is hell?’ Come early and listen to our choir practice.
This afternoon, there will be a meeting in the south and north ends of the church. Children will be baptized at both ends.
Tuesday, at 4pm, there will be an ice cream social.
All ladies giving milk come early.
Thursday, at 5pm, there will be a meeting of the Little Mothers Club. All ladies wishing to be Little Mothers please meet with the vicar in his office.

Five Funny Signs Spotted In Sunday RestaurantsSunday Jokes

At restaurant-gas stations throughout the nation:

Eat here and get gas.

At a Sante Fe gas station: We will sell gasoline to anyone in a glass container.

In a New Hampshire jewellery store: Ears pierced while you wait.

Free jokes courtesy of Will and Guy

 

Wedged in

Our American Eskimo Dog, Buzzy, is terrified of storms.  We had a couple of hours of noisy thunderstorms just now and Buzzy was trembling, hyperventilating, and crying.  I couldn’t comfort him.  When I got off the sofa for a minute, Buzzy dived for my spot.  He wedged in when I got back, refusing to move.  He was greatly comforted, blanketed in tightly between Mother and me.  He tolerated the rest of the storm quiet well, despite the thunder and lightning.  He finally went on to sleep.  As you can see, Mother was also terrified by the storm.

Buzzy was mentored in storm terror by Sissy, our dog who was two years older.  He wasn’t afraid as a small puppy, but Sissy showed him the ropes.  Sissy was well-trained by her predecessor, Bubba.  Bubba wasn’t afraid till he stayed with my sister while we were on vacation.  Lightning blasted her house and blew a lot of brick off.  The sound must have been horrendous!  He was terrified forever and made sure to pass it on.  Thanks, Buzzy.  Your legacy lives on.

All better.

The Sad Saga of Door to Door Sales

Daddy would buy anything sold door to door.  He probably would have bought a helicopter had a salesman shown up and offered one on a no-money-down, three-year-payment plan.  He bought waterless cookware.  It was supposed to cut cooking time, save money and increase Mother’s effiency. He was all for anything that made Mother more organized. I guess it never occurred to him a string of babies and unending farm and house work might be a factor.

When the vacuum salesman came around, Daddy didn’t feel he could afford the new model, so he bargained for the used model the salesman had taken in trade on his rounds that morning.  The purchase probably saved the guy a trip to the dump. The salesman jimmied with it enough to get it running that day, but it never started again.  I don’t believe that helped Mother’s organization or her attitude a bit.  The good news was, the salesman took five dollars cash, and Mother was to send payments afterwards.  The good news was, Mother never sent a payment, which meant the guy only beat them out of five bucks.

We also had the only house distinguished by lightning rods on the roof.  The theory was, the lightning would strike the rod, rather than the roof.  The charge was to follow  a metal cable downward, where it would be grounded.  The lightning rods might have been an the answer to a prayer had Daddy not bought a remote-controlled television antenna which  was probably twenty feet taller than the model that came with the TV from the next guy who knocked on the door.  He enjoyed trying to find the best reception for a month or two until the antenna was struck by lightening.  The charge ran down the wire, melted a hole in metal TV case and fried the vacuum tubes.  Sadly, it also blew out the works in the beautiful ship lamp that came with the TV and melted its lovely red cellophane windows.  I was kind of glad when the antenna motor blew out since Daddy spent a lot of time adjusting it, limiting our viewing pleasure. We were frequently sent outdoors a lot to let him know if it was moving while he adjusted.  I never could tell when it moved, so I just gave random answers.  I don’t know why it gave him so much trouble.

 

to be continued

Burn Baby, Burn

Sometimes Bud can be difficult.  One lovely day, we both headed outdoors.  I had my work.  He had his.  I busied myself, digging, shoveling sand, putting out flagstones. Meanwhile, he pottered about at some uninteresting task of his own, never even asking if I needed help. After putting the last touches  on my patio, I went for the water hose.  I felt smug at finding it stretched across the backyard, since he’s always after me about winding it back up, barely letting me finish what I’m doing. Nevertheless, I pulled it back around to my new flower bed.  Bud had even left the water on, just shut off by the adapter.  That wasn’t like him at all.  I’d have to mention it when I got through.

It wasn’t long before Bud tore around the corner yanking the hose, clearly in a panic. Rudely, he grabbed the hose and took off, not even asking whether I was finished. I followed and found him spraying a pile burning yard refuse that had almost gotten away from him. It turns out, he’d had the water hose nearby just in case and hadn’t noticed when me taking it when he’d turned away to pile on more brush. Fortunately, he got the blaze under control. Unfortunately, not before it consumed the nice sweeper he’d disconnected from his tractor and left near the pile. He’s much more careful with the new one he bought to replace it and thoughtfully tells me when he’s about to burn, now.

My project certainly turned out better than his.