humor

Your Money’s No Good Here!

 


It’s good to compare notes with your family.  My brother just told me my dad helped his brother-in-law counterfeit quarters back in the 1930s.  Daddy’s oldest sister, Aunt Jenny, married Uncle Chester, a bona fide reprobate, a rabble-rousing drunk who enlisted Daddy to help with his quarter counterfeiting business.  I don’t know if Daddy would have even qualified for reform school if he’d gotten caught, since he was just a hungry little kid trying to win a place at Aunt Jenny’s table for a few days. Mama and his younger sisters were about to starve since his own father was sick in bed at his mother’s house.  Grandma wanted nothing to do with her daughter-in-law and the grandkids, though she was willing to care for her son.  The boys were pretty much working for room and board anywhere they could.

At any rate, Uncle Chester made pretty good quarters, a time-consuming job requiring a steadier hand than his, since he was rarely sober.  According the Daddy, Uncle Chester made impressions of both side of quarters using Plaster of Paris casts lined with onion-skin paper.  The steady hands were needed to line the molds up and glue them together, leaving a tiny pour-hole at the top, where they could pour in Uncle Chester’s special melted alloy.  Once the ragged quarters set, a little artistry work was required to finish them off.  Voila!  Quarters!

Babbittquarter

Uncle Chester had no trouble passing his bogus quarters at the grocery store, the mercantile, and the hardware store. The problem came at the bar.  Though he was normally stingy and careful, one night he got a snootful and wanted to buy a round for everybody in the house.  Indiscreetly, he brought out a bag of quarters to pay his tab.  They didn’t ring true when he poured them on the counter.  The proprietor objected, Uncle Chester tore into him, and Uncle Chester ended up in Leavenworth.

That really wasn’t so bad.  His cell-mate taught him to make twenty-dollar bills.  Before long, Uncle Chester was out, but wasn’t able to pass his twenties because he couldn’t get the color just right.  After a number of frustrating attempts, he poured up some quarters and headed back to the bar.  When he poured his clinky quarters out on the bar, just as Uncle Chester anticipated, the bar-tender objected.  “Are you telling me my money’s no good?”  A fight and arrest ensued.  Uncle Chester went back to Leavenworth for a refresher, polished his craft, and never had any more counterfeiting troubles.

All’s well that ends well.

Southern Fried Crazy

 

We do love our crazy folks down South.  Oh, we may not want them right up in the house with us, not that it doesn’t happen from time to time, but certainly we need them to brighten up our holidays and remind us of how dull life would be without them.

My perennially pregnant Cousin Carol waddled into the family reunion this year with her nine kids and current live-in. He’d look like Willie Nelson if she cleaned him up a little.  Excepting her penchant for living in sin, Cousin Carol is fanatically religious, devoting herself to the food kitchens, fellowship nights serving evening meals, and community closets of all the local churches, though not their morning services.  “It’s hard to git nine young’uns dressed that early.” Some nosey relative asked her how many more kids she was going to have and she answered, “As many as God gives me.” I think the boyfriends had more to do giving her those babies than God did!  You can bet your sweet fanny she won’t have any more if she had to pay for them. At the conclusion of the reunion, she loaded up as much food as she could manage in her decrepit station wagon, reasoning if she didn’t, “it would just go to waste.”

For those of you who haven’t been to a family gathering in the South, this is every cook’s turn to shine.  They bring their most celestial dishes.  If Aunt Sue chases you down with her fresh coconut cake, you’re going to try it or else!  Don’t bother pleading allergies.  Aunt Bonnie makes the best fried chicken.  You have to have some of Uncle Joe’s barbecue, but watch out for Cousin Mattie Mae’s Three-Bean-Salad with the wigglies. You don’t have to take any of that. She has Alzheimer’s and won’t know the difference.  It may very well be the same batch she brought last year.

R G Holdaway Family with Johnny Bell early 1930's

Early photo of my mother’s family about 1930

Uncle Chester couldn’t make it this year.  He got sent back up for counterfeiting, but he did set the boys up in bootlegging before he got caught.  They’re doing real good.  Aunt Jennie is really proud of them.  Her girl Joyce is teaching at the high school and just married the Baptist preacher.  Aunt Jennie is so tickled all her kids are making a good living and doing well.

I never get tired of bragging about my tightwad Cousin Kat who set up her tombstone in her bedroom because she “didn’t want to spend all that money and then not get any enjoyment out of it.”  There was my cousin Evil Larry, who ran around with his pants unzipped “all the better to pee on us” when he could catch us.  I never did learn to like him, though.  I adored my cousin Sue, but she was a compulsive liar from the time she could talk; delightful, non-malicious creations that kept me guessing.  She was great fun, but would have climbed on top of the house to tell a tale when she could have stood on the ground and told the truth.

1st row Kathleen Holdaway, Ellie Blizzard,Johnny Bell2nd John a0002I don’t think I could pick a favorite.  I love them all, even the ones I hid from.  They gave me wonderful stories, ensuring that my rich life never has a boring moment.  All I have to do is think back and recall.

The photo above features Mother’s aunt in the back row. Her hair never grayed. Next to her is her orphaned niece, Katie Katie’s son. She raised Katie from birth. Katie was widowed when Baby Johnny was only eight weeks old, so he never knew another home. Mother’s brother stood behind Johnny next to their sister, Ann. The small blonde child in the front row is Mother. She was too shy to have her picture made until she was convinced to let the doll be photographed.

Most important of all was the cat, Old Greenie  She was 26 years old and had just given birth to her last litter of kittens.  Not long after this picture was made Old Greenie ate her kittens, starting at the feet.  My Grandpa was horrified and knocked her in the head.  See, my family even had crazy animals.

Useful Old Sayings

“If your brain was  strychnine, it wouldn’t stagger a piss ant.”

“If you don’t want to get s___ on you, don’t mess with a turd.”

“Wipe off some of that lipstick.  Your mouth looks like a chicken’s ass in poke berry season.”

“He’d climb on top of the house to tell a lie when he could stand on the ground and tell the truth.”

“She’d gripe if you stood on the porch and pee’d in the yard, or stood in the yard and pee’d on the porch.

“He’s so cheap he wouldn’t give a nickel to see Jesus ridin’ a bicycle.”

“I’m so poor I can’t afford to pay attention.”
“I couldn’t buy a hummingbird on a string for a nickel.”

“He doesn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of.”

“….so mean his mama had to tie a porch chop around his neck to get the puppy to play with him.”

“It would be easier to push syrup up a hill with a stick.”

 

When You Gotta Go…

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This is was not their picnic, but you get the idea.  No bathroom in sight.

Mother has always been pretty ditzy.  We will only suspect her mind is going if she ever becomes organized.  In the early days of their marriage, she and Daddy went on  a picnic with Aunt Mary and Uncle Willie, long before the days of nice parks with conveniences like pavilions, picnic tables and rest facilities.  They just drove down a country road till they found a quiet spot under a big shade tree and spread their quilt on the ground for a nice picnic.  Not surprisingly, after lunch, the men decided to stroll to a small grove of trees to “look around.”

Apparently, there was a lot to see, because they took their time.  Meanwhile, back at the picnic site under the lone shade tree, all that coffee and lemonade was starting to percolate through Aunt Mary.  In desperation, she realized she couldn’t wait for her chance to stroll to the trees and “look around.”  There was nothing to hide behind, so she had to rough it.

“I’m gonna have to go,” she told Mother.  “We haven’t seen a car the whole time we’ve been out here.  I’ll squat on this side of the car where the men can’t see me. You keep a watch out for traffic so I can stand up real quick if I need to.”

Anxious to be helpful, Mother assured Aunt Mary she would.  After all, by now, she had to go, too.

Aunt Mary reminded Mother, “Now watch for a car.”  She set about her business, hidden from the view of the men.

It must have been a great relief, because once she maneuvered herself into the awkward squatting position, she stayed there a while, in no hurry to get up.  Aunt Mary was a woman of generous proportions.  Meanwhile, Mother stared off to the West, forgetting traffic went both ways.

As Aunt Mary sighed with relief, a car buzzed by from the East, honking and waving. “There goes one!”  Mother offered helpfully.

Six of ’em Got Me!

imageDuring World War II, the Army had soldiers doing maneuvers in the woods near Aunt Mary and Uncle Willie’s house in Sibley.  Aunt Mary had been raving about the sex-crazed GIs running wild in the woods thereabouts, probably more to keep her girls in line than anything else.  She wouldn’t even let them go to the toilet or hang clothes on the line by themselves.  They always had to do everything three at a time.  It must have been lovely crowding three girls in a two hole toilet on a hot day.  God knows, one of them couldn’t have stood outside alone and unprotected.

At any rate, due to Aunt Mary’s unrelenting vigilance, her three terrified girls had remained chaste and unmolested by the lusty soldiers.  One hot August afternoon, Aunt Mary broke her own rule and slipped out to the toilet alone for a little personal time.  Just as she settled her generous bottom on the wooden seat, she disturbed some nose-blind red wasps building a home over the stinking quagmire of human refuse below.  The offended wasps couldn’t resist the tempting target she presented and launched a viscious attack on her tender nether portions.

Aunt Mary burst out of the toilet, shrieking in pain and shock, peeing herself while trying to run with her drawers around her ankles.  Bursting through the screen door to the back porch rubbing her wounds, with tears running down her face, she shrieked at her terrified girls, “There were six of ’em.  They got me when I went to the toilet!”

Assuming she’d been accosted by the fearsome soldiers she’d warned against so often, all thee girls ran down the road, screaming for the neighbors to come to their rescue.  Even though poor Aunt Mary was in no condition for company, very soon she had plenty!

 

 

It’s My Party

WC
Uncle Jerry drank a little. In fact, Uncle Jerry never drew a sober breath from the time he cashed his paycheck at the liquor store on Friday after work until he got back to the shop on Mondays with a killer hangover. One time he told Bud, “I get paid today and I gotta get drunk. I had the flu all week and feel so bad I cain’t hardly drag. I shore dread it.”
Bud, who’d never been initiated into drinking at the time asked, “Uncle Jerry, if you feel so bad, why do you HAVE to get drunk? Can’t you take a weekend off?”
“Oh no!” Uncle Jerry told him. “I always stay drunk on the weekends.”
He must have been concerned about his reputation. He was Aunt Myrtle’s second husband. At the time I knew them, they’d been married over forty years. If Aunt Myrtle stuck by Uncle Jerry, I can’t imagine what her first husband must have put her through.
Mother went over to visit Aunt Myrtle one Thursday morning, not realizing Uncle Jerry was on vacation. They went out to the garden first to admire Aunt Myrtle’s tomatoes and the green beans that were starting to put out, picking a few for Mother. When they made their way into the kitchen, they encountered Uncle Jerry down on his hands and knees in front of the icebox (not refrigerator). He’d pulled the drawer out and was eating onions and turnips raw with the garden dirt still clinging to them. Considering it was Uncle Jerry, neither one said anything.
He looked up at them and remarked. “This is my icebox and I’ll eat anything I G__ D____ please.” They got their coffee and took it out to drink in the shade.
“Don’t let Jerry worry you none. I forgot to tell you Jerry was on vacation when I told you to come over to get tomatoes,” noted Aunt Myrtle.
“Oh, that’s okay. It is his icebox after all,” Mother replied.

I Couldn’t Hear if it went in Park.

A few days ago, a lady who shall remain forever nameless, came to call and pulled her little old lady white car where she could take out Bud’s Jeep and the camping trailer, if she couldn’t make up her mind which was best. I suspect she got a phone call as she pulled up to park, since she dawdled in her car for a a while before getting out. Buzzy went wild, desperate to get out and welcome her, but finally forgot as she took her time. I went back to what I was doing, knowing she’d eventually be at one of the doors. Since Bud was in the shop, I thought she might go out to speak to him first.

After about ten minutes, I heard an impact and a scrunch. “Oh no!” Running out, I saw she’d rolled into the camper, but by now had backed up.

“Oh my gosh, when I pulled in, I thought I’d put the car is n park, but I guess I hadn’t. I know it’s because I am having trouble with my ears and couldn’t hear if it clicked in park!”

As we looked for damage, I didn’t mention I never listened to see if my car went into park.
The only obvious damage, was a tiny dent she didn’t mention.

“If they’re’ any damage, I’ll pay for it. She repeated this twice, just st because she was rattled.”

“I don’t see a thing,” I assured her.

Bud came sprinting up just then. “What happened? Did somebody run into my camper?”

Before Mother (uh oh, I wasn’t going to tell) could launch the into her long explanation and excuses, I jumped in, praying Bud would just look and hush. Mother’s obsessive-compulsive explanation followed by endless apologies and self-recriminations are hard to bear. We seriously downplay problems to save ourselves.

He has suffered through this before. He’s a smart guy. “I don’t see a thing.” He declined coffee and went back to his shop.

While I fixed coffee, Mother cranked up, “Bhah,blah,blah, sure thought it was in park. Blah, blah, blah, now if anything’ wrong, I insist on paying. Blah, blah, blah, natter, natter, natter.” More reassurance given, but not nearly enough to satisfy her.

Finally, I had to redirect her. “Mother, there is no damage and nobody’s mad. Now, we have to change the subject.”

She finally let me off the hook. When Mother messes something up, she is not satisfied till the injured party convinces her the accident was the best thing that ever happened to them.

After she left, Bud and I went out to inspect. The damage was minor. I thanked him for keeping his cool.

“Yeah, well. I was about to get me a piece of cardboard and make a sign so I could wave it at cars going down the street. “Come bust my camper in the ass!”

What a guy!

surprise

I might be wacko follow up

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Initial post:
Just got a text from my daughter.

Her: Just got another box of stuff from you. Can the kids open them now?

(I had ordered them some things the week before and asked her to not to open it till this box got there. Stuff for Isaac was in first box and didn’t want to cause upset.)

Me: sure. Let me know what they got n how it wkd out.. I forgot what I sent.

Her: Oh lord.

Me: well, did I send good stuff?

She never got back to me. Now, I am dying to know what I sent. I wish she wouldn’t complain about my texts.

Follow up:

For my grandson, I had sent oil crayons and sketch pad, swim trunks and shirt,self-inflating Whoopee cushion which made me grandma of the year. I also sent underwear which my daughter insists marked him for life. I should think you’d be marked for life if you never had underwear.

The baby got a swimsuit, a toy phone, a Hello Kitty fork and spoon, and a great big box to play in. She loved the box and went after her brother’s Whoopee Cushion.

Young Boy Recuperating from Surgery Eaten by Beagle (Kind of) Wouldn’t this make a great headline?

Many years ago, my young son picked his toenails till he got them infected. He also had an adoring beagle who made his every step, especially when John was snacking and likely to drop crumbs. I don’t think John ever had to pick anything up. In most cases, that’s good, but not necessarily since Spotty spent a good bit of her time dancing on his sore toes. Eventually, John required toenail removal. Surgery went fine, and in the way of small boys, John proudly saved the excised tissue to show his dad, once he got in. Spotty never left his side. John convalesced on the sofa with his poor foot on a pillow all afternoon, admiring his sore toe, his toe remnant, and calling out for games and snacks. As you might expect, long before his dad got home, he dropped his trophy. Ever faithful, Spotty snapped it up before it hit the floor. Both recovered, though John was heartbroken. To the best of my knowledge, that’s the last body part Spotty ever snacked on.toe 2<img