memoir

Have a Boy or Know One?

 

Midvale 2A king size waterbed holds enough water to fill a 2000 sq. ft. house 4 inches deep.

 

If you spray hair spray on dust bunnies and run over them with roller blades, they can ignite.

 

A 3-year old Boy’s voice is louder than 200 adults in a crowded restaurant.

 

If you hook a dog leash over a ceiling fan, the motor is not strong enough to rotate a 42 pound Boy wearing Batman underwear and a Superman cape. It is strong enough, however, if tied to a paint can, to spread paint on all four walls of a 20 x 20 ft. room.

 

You should not throw baseballs up when the ceiling fan is on. When using a ceiling fan as a bat, you have to throw the ball up a few times before you get a hit. A ceiling fan can hit a baseball a long way.

 

The glass in windows (even double-paned) doesn’t stop a baseball hit by a ceiling fan.

 

When you hear the toilet flush and the words “uh oh”, it’s already too late.

 

Brake fluid mixed with Clorox makes smoke, and lots of it.

 

A six-year old Boy can start a fire with a flint rock even though a 36-year old man says they can only do it in the movies.

 

Certain Lego’s will pass through the digestive tract of a 4-year old Boy.

 

Play dough and microwave should not be used in the same sentence.

 

Playdoh makes very convincing fake poop when stuffed in the back of a small boy’s underwear.

 

Super glue is forever.

 

No matter how much Jell-O you put in a swimming pool you still can’t walk on water.

 

Pool filters do not like Jell-O.

A large container of baby powder can change a house forever when small boys jump on it repeatedly to see it poof out.

 

Garbage bags do not make good parachutes.

 

Marbles in gas tanks make lots of noise when driving.

 

You probably DO NOT want to know what that odor is.

 

Always look in the oven before you turn it on; plastic toys do not like ovens.

 

The fire department in Austin, TX has a 5-minute response time.

 

The spin cycle on the washing machine does not make earthworms dizzy.

 

It will, however, make cats dizzy.

 

Cats throw up twice their body weight when dizzy.

 

80% of Men who read this will try mixing the Clorox and brake fluid.

Younger siblings happily eat goat poop pellets if older brothers call it M & Ms.

 

 

Those who pass this on to almost all of their friends, with or without boys do it because:

  1. For those with no children – this is totally hysterical!
  2. For those who already have children past this age, this is easy to believe.
  3. For those who have children this age, this is real life.
  4. For those who have children nearing this age, this is warning is too little, too late.
  5. For those who have not yet had children, your child will never, ever do these things’
  6. For grandparents of the children of boys, this is the payoff, as long as it doesn’t happen at your house.

 

 

You Poor Baby Part 2

vintage baby

Upon finding her washing machine packed to the rim with freshly laundered diapers mixed with freshly-laundered gobs of poop, Mother roused Carol from where she snored on the sofa, oblivious to her miserable, bawling baby. “Carol, come here. Let me show you how to use this washer! You can’t just throw filthy diapers in it without rinsing this stuff out.” Mother got a tub, made Carol scoop the poopy diapers out and clean the washer, then sent Carol out to rinse the dirty diapers under the faucet before bringing them back to the washer. “Be sure you dump that dirty water from the tub behind the chicken house, not in the back yard. You may as well get the rest of this mess soaking.” She pointed to the pile of poopy diapers that had not yet had a ride in her abused washer. Carol looked furiously at Phyllis and me as she stormed off to do this demeaning task, clearly much better delegated to underlings like us.

We did have to tend her poor, miserable baby while she slaved over the diaper rinsing, but that was better than rinsing out poopy diapers ranging from rock-hard lumps to runny diarrhea, depending on the vintage. The stench was horrendous, as evidenced by Carol’s retching. I have no doubt Carol was sick when she came back in. She took to her bed(our sofa) to recover. Clearly accustomed to help with her baby, she was reluctant to leave her repose to wash bottles and prepare formula, preferring to call out for one of of kids to “bring me a bottle!” when he cried. The first time, Mother let the hungry little guy have a bottle, despite the fact it was an expensive, hypoallergenic formula prescribed for her own tiny baby. She quickly pointed the case of milk she’d bought for Carol’s baby, the kind Carol requested. “Oh this will be fine,” Carol said. “He likes it!”

“Carol, you need to fix your own bottles! I bought you what you asked for. This stuff is forty cents a can!” Mother explained.

Carol was clearly offended. She dawdled a bit after he finished his bottle, put him down, and shut herself in the bathroom for a good crying session. Eventually, she came out and made a collect call to her mother, insisting she come, NOW! Mama couldn’t come, NOW! More crying on the phone. We were stuck together till the weekend. Carol had no problems leaving his bottles lying about to sour after baby was satisfied. Should he cry out when a sour bottle sat handy, she had no qualms about trying to get him to take it.

The next three days lasted an eternity. At my parent’s insistence, Carol did end up giving her baby good care while they waited for Mama, but she turned him over to Mama as soon as she arrived. His bottom had healed, he’d plumped up, and even played a bit with good care. Poor little guy didn’t get much of a pass. He was soon back home to be joined by a brother and sister in rapid succession.

Alas, Carol’s marriage fell apart, but before long she found another man and launched into her addiction to having babies she had no interest or ability to care for, eventually delivering eleven sad children. At a family reunion once, I heard someone ask how long she was going to keep having babies. She replied, “As long as God wants me to.” It was heartbreaking to see her children suffer from her neglect and ignorance.

You Poor Baby

vintage baby
I had no idea Cousin Carol was four years older than my sister Phyllis till she announced her marriage. It sounded like a joke. Less than two weeks ago she’d spent the night with Phyllis. Sixteen was ridiculously young to get married, but back as late as the sixties, many parents felt it was expedient to allow their teenagers to marry. Her sister, Sue, and I were the same age. We were constantly at each other’s house for the night. Their brother, Troy, was the age of my brother, so on weekends, holidays, and in summer, there was always a jumble of kids spread between the two houses. Carol was extremely spoiled for some reason, though I could never imagine why her mother favored her. With her fair skin, black, curly hair and startling blue eyes she would have been very appealing had she not whined, wheedled, and cried till she got her way. At our house, she just pouted and whined. Of course, us younger kids went out of our way to keep her blubbering, since you didn’t usually see that in a girl that age, expecially rewarding since she wore gobs of makeup and we liked to see it run.

Back to the romance, Carol had been going to the picture show with her older sister Yvonne who was slipping around with Donald Duck.(not a joke) Yvonne brought a sweetie along for Carol and they really hit it off. The sister’s romance with Donald Duck fizzled, but within weeks Carol was to be a bride. The whole thing puzzled me. How could she go from being a kid with Phyllis to getting married in almost no time? Soon there was to be another miracle! Carol announced her first pregnancy. From that moment forward, I don’t think I ever saw her not pregnant, claiming to be pregant, or with a newborn. Before she retired from her thirty-year delivery service, Carol had eleven kids and claimed to have had God only knows how many pregnancies. Her first marriage, lasted only long enough to produce three children. She kept hoping to reconcile, so she had about a three year vacation from babying. She was terminally lazy and a rotten mother to boot, so she spent this time convalescing in her parent’s home in South Louisiana, where they’d moved not long after her marriage. She inveigled Aunt Julie’s cooperation in making use of my Cousin Sue as a captive babysitter. If someone else didn’t change the babies, they just sat squalling in sodden, filthy diapers. Her mom still gave over to her crying, whining, and wheedling, much to Sue’s sorrow. My aunt and Cousin Carol would dump the babies on Sue, taking off for hours, leaving instructions to have the house clean when they got back.

We had the misfortune have Cousin Carol land at our house a couple of times after brief attempts at reconciliation with her erstwhile husband. After a week or two of connubial bliss, he’d dump her and the dirty babies off, saying he’d be right back with milk for the babies. (Carol was a slow learner. It happened twice) That milk must have been on Mars since he never came back. Carol figured it out after an hour or two and started blubbering. The baby or babies helped with the crying, since they were hungry. Already furious at being stuck with unwelcome and unpleasant guests, Mother had to dig deep to find money for extra milk, knowing we were stuck with Carol and her squallers for a day or two till her folks could make the trip back up from South Louisiana to get her. Carol was lazy and worthless to start with. On her arrival, all the baby clothes and diapers were dirty. “Linda, change Bobby’s diaper and give him a bottle. You’ll have to put one of your Mama’s diapers on him. Mine are all dirty.” She wasn’t lying about that. She had dragged in a foul bag of diapers and left it on the front porch. I looked to Mother for rescue. Accustomed to being catered to, Carol was offended when Mother expected her to do her laundry and care for her own babies. “I’m sick! I feel an athsma attack coming on!”

“I’ve got two babies of my own and more than I can do. If you are going to stay here till your folks can pick you up, you’re going to have to take care of your own kids.” Carol pouted, but she got up to put a borrowed diaper on Bobby. Poor Bobby hadn’t seen many clean diapers lately. His poor, burned up bottom looked like raw meat. There was even pus running from one sore spot. “Oh no,” said Mother. “that poor baby. You’re going to have to keep him changed. He’s starting to get infected. Linda, go put my diapers on the line so Carol can get hers in the washer right now. This baby’s got to have clean diapers. Here, Carol, put some of this medicine on his bottom.” Grudgingly, Carol washed, medicated, and diapered poor Bobby’s sore bottom.

Unaccustomed to such ill-treatment, Carol angrily dragged the stinking bag of diapers from the front porch, all through the house, to the kitchen eventually reaching the enclosed back porch to Mother’s washer, leaving a malodorous wet-diaper ammonia stream. Furiously, she pulled a mess of heavy, filthy diapers from the mix, dumping them in the washer. Turning it on, she left the rest hanging out of the open bag to perfume to back porch. The stench was pulled into the kitchen by the attic fan till Mother told her she’d had to put the rest in the backyard to wait. Only when the washer stopped did Mother realize Carol hadn’t bothered to rinse the well-seasoned lumps of poop from those diapers. It was all waiting for Mother when she opened the lid. She was critical!

To be continued

The Honorable Bacon Boy and Puppy Love PGA

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American Eskimo dogs stole our hearts many years ago when George showed up at our house and adopted us. No matter that we already had a Dalmatian and weren’t in the market for another dog. Unfortunately, George left us far too soon. It wasn’t long before another puppy baby puddled up our floors. I gave Bubba a fuzzy white plush toy to comfort him leaving his mom and siblings. He dragged it till it was nothing but dirty body parts. Just before it bit the dust, the UPS man showed up at the door with this plush toy we ordered from Beggin’ Strips. Bubba, like all dogs, believed that UPS man showed up only to steal our stuff, so was frenzied as always. He was overjoyed when we opened the box and he pulled Bacon Boy from the box. It was just as he’d expected, the UPS guy almost got away with the good stuff.
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Sissy, a female Eskie joined us when Bubba as about six. Though she had her own fuzzy white crib toy! she coveted Bubba’s treasure, but was rarely fortunate enough to snag it for more than a minute. I think her finest moments were when Bubba was outdoors, asleep or best of all, had to journey to the vet leaving her to savor an unmolested moment with Bacon Boy. Had Bubba only suspected the raw emotions she shared with Bacon Boy, there would have been Hell to pay.

Sadly, after Bubba went to his reward, Sissy grieved, but comforted herself with her darling Bacon Boy. Sometimes she got so cozy with him, we had to hide him when we had guests. Before too long, we got Buzzy to be her companion. Like the others, he got his own baby, but quickly realized what a prize Sissy had in Bacon Boy, and occasionally got to play with him. Those moments were few and far between.
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The saga continues today with Buzzy’s devotion as Sissy’s sad demise. He can’t sleep without Bacon Boy. As often as he is able, he slips Bacon Boy out to the yard, but we hustle him in as soon as possible after a game of keep away. Bacon Boy is showing his age. He’s lost the bacon strip he was holding on his arrival. I fear his is deaf because of his missing ears, mute and without a sense of smell since his nose and mouth are worn off and blind since his eyes are white with cataracts. I’m sure he has gastric distress as a result of numerous surgeries to replace his tattered innards. His fur is dirty and battered beyond what any washing can handle. I wish human elders were cherished the way Buzzy’s Bacon Boy is. Dogs can teach us something about unconditional love.

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Try to Hit This Shovel

BubbaBubba and Boudreau were digging a ditch. It was hot. They were sweaty and miserable when they looked up and saw  Boss Man sitting under a tree, drinking a cold beer with his arm around a girl. It made them furious.

“This just ain’t right!” Bubba said. “I’m gonna have it out with him.”

He jumped out of the ditch and stomped over to the boss demanding, “Hey, this ain’t right. How come we’re workin’ like dogs down in the ditch an’ your sittin’ up here in the shade with a girl drinkin’ a beer and makin’ the big bucks?”

“Coz I’m smarter than you. Here, I’ll prove it. Give me your shovel.” Boss Man stood up in front of the tree and held the shovel in front of his face. “Now, try to hit this shovel as hard as you can.”

Bubba balled up his fist and swung hard as he could.  Just before he connected, Boss Man jumped back and Bubba hit the tree, full-force, busting up his hand.

“Now, that’s why I’m the boss!”  Boss Man laughed.

Bubba stumbled back down in the ditch, nursing a broken hand.

“What did he say?” Boudreau asked.

“Lemme show you,”  Boudreau replied.  “Gimme your shovel.”  He looked around, realizing there was no tree down in the ditch, so just held the shovel in front of his face.  “Try to hit this shovel.”

 

Her Facts Didn’t Run

Our school was tiny, so tiny that even with two grades sharing a room and teacher, there were still usually less than fifteen students in the two grades. The good news was, if you didn’t learn everything you should have in second grade math, you got another crack at it in third grade while the new second grade covered the same material. Though each class used different books, the lessons sounded much the same.

With the large families of the fifties and sixties, it was inevitable that teachers taught entire families over the years. This wasn’t a problem for the good student. I followed Phyllis, perfection incarnate. She studied the rule book at night for extra credit. Billy was lucky enough to come right behind me, a scatterbrain known for daydreaming and chattering in class. The only thing he had to contend with was “I hope you sit still and pay attention better than your sister.” I don’t think it worried him much. At the end of the line came Connie and Marilyn, only a year apart in age. They shared classrooms most of the time.

Marcia and Darcy, the twins, were the jewels in the crown of Miz McZumley’s teaching career, the classroom darlings. Unlike most harried, fertile mothers of our classmates, their unfortunate mother had only two children. She hovered over them, made all their identical outfits and sent crust less sandwiches, carrot sticks and home baked cookies in their lunches. They probably owned more clothes than the rest of the ragtag class put together. Worst of all, they were bashful, well-behaved children who always got to school with their homework, signed permission slips and lunch money. It was hard to find fault with them aside from pure envy. Despite being held up as examples of “all things bright and beautiful,” they were still nice kids.

Miz McZumley was adamant about two things; learning your addition and subtraction “facts” and going to the bathroom during recess. On one particularly difficult day, she had been drilling the class on their facts rigorously the period just before lunch. Frustrated with the lack of progress, she barked at the class to put their “fact sheets” away under their desks. A boy foolishly asked to go to the bathroom. She slammed her book down and roared, “NO!! You’ll be going out to lunch in fifteen minutes. I’ll spank the next one who asks to go to the bathroom.”

All over the classroom, nervous bladders spasmed. As luck would have it, one of the shyest kids in class had the fullest bladder. Poor Marcia’s bladder panicked and a golden stream trickled down, pooling on the books and papers on the shelf under her desk and the floor. Kids tittered until Miz McZumley noticed the problem. In a moment of kindness she sent the class outdoors, letting some of the girls stay to help Marcia gather her books and papers to lie on the window sill to “air out.” That evening Connie and Marilyn couldn’t wait to report Marcia’s disaster, but were relieved that, in spite of being wet, “her facts didn’t run.”

Hell No, I Just Got Here

Robby Bobby’s school career didn’t really start well. Sharing the same first grade class as his older brother Frank who was giving first grade a second try, he didn’t really get the big picture. He left his seat and headed for the playground when class got dull. Since Frank knew his way around, he grabbed Robby Bobby, dragging him back to his desk. Robby Bobby piled into him and the fight was on. The teacher untangled them, sending them both back to their seats. Shortly thereafter, Miss Burns surveyed the class, going down the line. “Do you know your alphabet? Can you count to ten?” When she quizzed Robby Bobby, he was clearly disgusted. “Robby Bobby, do you know your numbers and letters?”

“Hell no!! I just got here!” he spouted, earning a paddling on the first day of school. News of the paddling beat Robby Bobby home. At that time, a paddling at school was usually followed up by a “whooping” at home to reinforce the point, adding injury to insult. Robby Bobby dreaded seeing his daddy come home. His mama made sure he knew what was coming. Mr. Peters didn’t say a word about school, leading Robby Bobby to hope Daddy hadn’t heard, but he kept quiet at supper. After supper, his daddy took him by the hand leading him to the woodshed, the whooping place. As they walked toward it in the dark, Robby Bobby trembled in fear of what was coming. Daddy asked in his low voice, ”What’s the matter with you, boy?”

“I’m skeert.”

“Ain’t no need to be skeert, boy. I’m right here with you.” Somehow, Robby Bobby didn’t feel much better.

Robby Bobby never really took to school. Following the family tradition, he was held back a couple of times. He roamed the playground, looking for a lone kid to bully. He’d sock them a couple of times, shove them in the mud, or snatch their pants down, whichever seemed best. Joe Brown was one the smaller boys in our class, but had the advantage of having a couple of mean older brothers. He looked like a perfect target. When Robby Bobby caught Joe apart from the rest of the kids one Tuesday morning, Joe’s time had come. Robby Bobby sneaked up, snatched Joe’s cap, and punched him smartly in the kidneys. Joe didn’t know how the game was played. Instead of running off bawling, he turned and beat the phooey out of Robby Bobby. Mr. White, the principal strolled by just in time to see the whole thing. Fighting was wrong. He dragged both boys back to the classroom so we could all get the benefit of the lecture. He droned on and on before getting to the good part…….the paddling. Joe got two lackluster swats for fighting. There was no way around that. Then Joe had to answer the question, ”What did you learn today about fighting?”

Joe shuffled around and gave the stock answer. “No fighting in school, no excuses.” Joe headed for his seat so Robby Bobby could take his turn.

Mr. White gave Robby Bobby five hard swats that echoed nicely off his bony behind, pleasing the self-righteous class since most of us had suffered at his hands. We all knew Robby Bobby was in the wrong. He also had to answer the question, “What did you learn today about fighting?”

Robby Bobby looked thoughtfully from Joe Brown to Mr. White and back before replying, “Don’t pick on Joe Brown. He’s a mean little son of a bitch.”

Chicken Gizzard and Cheddar Cheese Sandwich

When I was but a child-bride, I yearned to please my handsome husband, so I dreamed of concocting hearty breakfasts, luscious lunches, and delightful dinners. This wasn’t to be. We had wisely married while still in college so were in possession of two things money couldn’t buy, abject poverty and true love. We were just scraping by. After about two weeks, about all we had left in the refrigerator was a half-loaf of bread, mustard, a couple of lonely, frozen chicken gizzards, and an old, dry sliver of cheddar cheese. I fried those chicken gizzards up nice and hard, sliced them as thin as possible, added the slivered cheddar cheese and sat down with My Darling to enjoy the amazing delicacy. It was the worst thing I ever tried to eat. The piquant taste of overdone gizzard slathered with mustard was not a good companion taste for the dried out cheddar cheese. I was never tempted to try that combo again.

Best Left to the Experts

Phyllis Blonde
I am sure the hairdressers among you, as well as victims of bad haircuts, can relate to this sad story. This is my sister Phyllis, over at Anchors and Butterflies. Note the beautiful blonde hair. Wouldn’t you just love to have hair like that? Well, many years ago, in a land far away, she was home from college for the weekend, complaining that she needed a haircut, bad. A person could be forgiven for thinking that she meant a bad haircut I was just the one for the job. I got right to work.

Like all jobs skillfully executed, hair cutting looks easy enough. I’d watched it plenty of times and knew just what to do. I wrapped her wet head in a towel and dragged a comb through her hair, despite her fussiness about a mole and her ears. I kind of parted and pinned and got started.

I did pretty well at first, then took a wild whack on one side, getting it really short. When I tried to make the other side match, it looked awful. It was a mess of gashes and ridges. Her scalp shone through in spots. It looked like I’d used rick-rack to cut a pattern. I felt horrible, but started laughing. For some reason, I still thought I could save it, but the laughing gave me away. She jerked the towel away, speeding to the bathroom to look. When I didn’t hear anything, I dared hope she liked it.

“Wah! Boo Hoo Hoo! I’m gonna kill you!” She came flying out of that bathroom gripping her hand mirror and hairbrush headed In my direction.. She chased me around the house three times before Mother got her stopped. Fortunately, I had a good start or I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale.

Mother tried to calm her with some worthless reassurances like, “It doesn’t look that bad.” and her old favorite, “It’ll grow back.” Personally, I’d as soon have my teeth bashed in as be reassured, “It’ll grow back.”

Phyllis left later that day puffy-eyed, wearing a scarf. Mother had scraped up ten dollars for her to get her hair repaired, reassuring her all would be well. Phyllis skipped her classes the next morning, hunting up a “good” hairdresser. He told her he had seen worse haircuts — but couldn’t remember when.

I would like to have included an after picture, but there wasn’t one.