Foolery

Plymouth Rock On

Got a letter from my brother Mantel Man today. I don't think it will need any explanation. Hope he won't mind the theft. You don't mind, do you Mantel Man? (He doesn't mind.)

 


(Original photo stolen from mrbinfv on Flickr)

After driving the Camaro around for two years using only the rear stereo speakers, I finally got the cracked front ones replaced in time for my road trip north. It didn't cost much -- at least not monetarily.

The manager handed me the car keys and told me, "Wait a week or so before you really rock it."  Hmm... a breaking-in period for stereo speakers? No problem -- I don't play my music very loudly anyway. I walked out to the car, got in, and turned the key.

I regained consciousness lying face-down about 30 feet from the car. All the windows were broken, the paint had peeled off, and the car itself seemed to have melted and re-formed as some sort of Plymouth (most of which have broken windows and no paint anyway). Well, the new speakers definitely worked.  However, if they needed breaking in, it appeared that the installer had been accomplishing just that, before shutting down the car without turning the volume down.  Either he forgot, or he had a twisted sense of humor.

 


(Original Photo stolen from samwilkinson on Flickr)

That's not the worst part:  when I turned on the ignition, the radio happened to be playing something by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.  SOMEBODY out there has a twisted sense of humor.

 


(Original photo stolen from these guys)

Microwave Live-to-Tell Stories: Peg's Egg

Here is one of my favorite on-line friends, Bob Cleveland, sharing a story he told me the other day in an instant message conversation. Pretty sure this story rabbit-trailed from all the egg talk that's gone on around here at Foolery lately. We talk about the goofiest things, but I'm guessing all y'all can relate to this microwave story.

 


(Photo stolen from these guys)

We got our first microwave in perhaps 1977. I recall it was a G.E.

One of the kids, who were teens at the time, suggested we ought to zap an egg in it. Not having heard anything contrary, at that time, we did. We put it in for half a minute, I think, and nothing happened.

So Peg took it out to see if it was hot ... just warm on the outside, when it sounded like someone had fired a .22 in the room. We had egg ALL OVER the kitchen walls, some on the ceiling. But most of it ended up on Peg, with a LOT of white and yolk in her hair.

We all laughed about that, but I'm sorry I didn't glop on some mayonnaise. She'd have gotten a nice natural oil treatment and the kids and I'd have had a nice sandwich spread.

Live and learn.  

We stick to zapping CD's now.

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I hate to ask about zapping CDs . . . Anyone else out there have horrible microwave experience? Enough time passed that you can laugh about it now? Leave it in the comments, or post it on your own site and leave a link for us here. Or, do as Bob did and e-mail it to me at foolery (at) clearwire (dot) com, and I'll post it on Foolery this week. Thanks again, Bob!

You Can Read This Or Have Nookie BUT NOT BOTH

This letter from my brother Mantel Man was in my inbox this morning. Mantel Man can make me laugh before 7:00 a.m., loud enough to wake up the whole family, which he did, and I did, and they did . . . and now I'm gonna let him make you laugh. Because I think you will. Just don't go furniture shopping with the man.

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Okay, so I’m looking for a couple of second-hand furniture items on the Craig’s List web site, where people can upload their own ads and sell items for free.  I didn’t check the “services” section, but if there was an ad there for spelling and grammar instruction, I doubt it had any takers.

I had no idea there was so much entertainment in reading the headlines for these ads!  Most were silly due to misspellings, but a few were from mere word choice – such as “Black Stools.”  ‘Nuff said?  These would go great with the “Spanish wrought iron cabinet with designer bowel.”

Some items seemed to be advertised in the wrong section, such as “White Flowered Drawers.”  Who would want to buy such things used, anyway?

How about this:  “Slight Damage - $125.”  This one clearly belongs under “services.”  I wonder how much they would want for serious damage.

Not to be outdone by the Spanish cabinet, someone offered a “Brown Micro-fibre Swede Sofa.”  Another abomination from Ikea, no doubt.

(Original photo stolen from these probable non-Swedes)

Some of these sellers are more cultured than I thought: “Brass Handel Door Knobs.”  I’ve been looking for a set of those for years!  I wonder if he’d part with his Wing-Bach Chair, too.  Might as well collect the complete set.

(Photo stolen from these people of culture)

“Tables, Tables, and More Tables . . . or Desks.”  Well, which is it?  Make up your mind!  Perhaps this was the same seller who offered “Occassional Tables” – which “occasionally” turn into desks, apparently. 

The trouble with wrought iron is that it’s hard to spell if you don’t know what you’re saying.  I saw “Rod Iron” and the intriguing-sounding “Rot Iron,” but my favorite item was “’Faux’ Wrong Iron / Glass Table.”  Can you believe it?  He handled faux but he spelled “wrought” . . . wrong.

Let’s skip over “Lather Wrap Bar Stools” and “Descent and Pretty Comfortable” and get to the biggie:

Dinning.

You would not believe how many “dinning tables” I saw advertised.  I didn’t even know “din” was a verb.  Do these tables have something to do with loud noise?  If I wanted that, I’d get the cabinet with designer bowel.

Finally, the subject of sex was bound to make an appearance.  One seller, frustrated at apparently having wasted time waiting for buyers who stood her up, didn’t even advertise an item but instead wrote an ad entitled, “What’s with the NO SHOWS?  (I could’ve been having nookie.)”  She mentioned sex-starved parents and laid a curse on the flaky respondents to her ad:  “I hope your doorbell rings whenever you’re having nookie and your mother calls when you’re taking a nap.”

Talk about sex-starved!  She clearly was not the same person who offered to sell my favorite item of all:  a “Bonk Bed.”

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

Hope things are making more sense where you are,

Mantel Man

Auto-Dog

Dear Internuts,

Another conversation with my brother Mantel Man; another story dredged up from the depths of his experience-rich life. I told him this morning that I wanted him to write this story up for me, and so, within hours, he did -- complete with photos, charts and arrows and a machine that goes BING! Sort of.

PLUS, he provided me with possible titles -- he's nothing if not thorough. The choices:

NEGATIVE NEEDLES, or

DOG DAY AFTERNOON, or

OF DOGS AND ICE CREAM, or

THOSE MAGNIFICENT MEN AND THEIR INTERCHANGEABLE MACHINES, or

“502 INTRUDER BALL, 4.2, NEGATIVE NEEDLES, CHOCOLATE PLEASE”

I suspect that half of those were meant to mess with my head. So of course, I had to choose my own title; not sharing Mantel Man's Navy background and fixated as I am upon scatological references, I have chosen to call his story

AUTO-DOG

by Mantel Man

(Photo stolen from this site)

This story isn’t exactly suitable for the dinner table, but it came from a conversation with my sister [that'd be Laurie], so don’t be surprised.

Ever heard the term “coiler”?

Me neither – until Laurie had occasion to allude to the general shape of a dog’s daily constitutional [that'd be dookie, for the coarse folks, like Laurie]. Oh well – we grew up on a farm and aren’t squeamish about such things.

Neither were the other pilots I used to fly with in the Navy. Aboard an aircraft carrier, soft-serve ice cream was known as “auto-dog.” Don’t worry, the unappetizing name had no ill effect on the flavor. When it’s 110 degrees and 100% humid in the Persian Gulf, you’ll eat almost anything cold.

[Laurie's note: Even THIS?!]

(Photo stolen from this site)

Like a lot of equipment on the venerable [that means "stinkin' old"] USS Independence, the auto-dog machine in the forward wardroom often broke down. Being a low-priority item, it usually sat for a long period each time before being repaired. Auto-dog was therefore a rare treat, especially after a long flight during a scorching day or a sweltering evening, capped by the most difficult maneuver a pilot can make: a carrier landing.

(Photo stolen from this site)

[The following paragraph made Laurie's brain contract and her sphincter tingle. Please read it because it's fascinating, in a tingly-sphincter sort of way, but understand that all you really need to know for the story to make sense is ACLS = Really Important Machine That Goes BING! And Is Supposed To Work At All Times. Carry on.]

One shipboard system that was a high priority, and therefore usually worked, was ACLS. The Automated Carrier Landing System* connected the auto-pilot of an aircraft on final approach to a very precise radar on the ship via electronic data link. The system was nicknamed “Needles,” after the crossed vertical and horizontal needles on a gauge in front of the pilot. In a Mode 1 instrument approach, the ACLS could actually fly the jet hands-off all the way to touchdown in case of terrible weather, but a much more common use was the Mode 2, in which the pilot used the system for guidance but flew manually. The approach controller would direct a pilot to “Say needles” after connecting the data link. The pilot would respond “On and on,” or “fly up and right,” or whatever his needles indicated he needed to do to be exactly on glide path and glide slope. If the approach controller saw the same on his own equipment, he would say, “Concur, continue Mode 2.” If the system was inoperative – either in the aircraft or on the ship – the pilot would reply, “Negative needles” and have to work harder to make a decent landing.

During my first cruise, we made an amusing observation: on the rare occasion
when the auto-dog machine was working, the ACLS usually wasn’t. Just a coincidence, perhaps? We joked that somehow these two dissimilar pieces of gear must share a lot of components, and that our technicians had to rob parts from one to get the other up and running. Landing on the ship was hazardous and difficult at best, and not having the ACLS made it even more of a challenge – but at least it meant we could usually look forward to a nice cold coiler at the dinner table.

(Photo stolen from this site)

*More ACLS info at this site [machine that goes BING! sold separately]

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What do you all think -- is auto-dog anything like auto-pilot? I get them completely mixed up.

Thanks, Mantel Man, and I'm sorry if any of you Internuts were eating. Especially if it was squid ink soft-serve.

Isn't It Ironic?

My friend Suz at Alive in Wonderland made me laugh today, which is no surprise since she makes me laugh quite often. This is what she wrote on Twitter:

"I've given up irony for lent. It's been difficult and spending time with my parents hasn't helped."

I started thinking about irony.  Like when I ran into an ex-boyfriend in the Honolulu airport. Like when the only American people on the island of Bora Bora that my family met . . . were from Hayfork, California?  Which is a mountain town above my valley. They were astounded that we had heard of Hayfork; we were thrilled that they had heard of Orland.

Ironic.

That reminded me that I have a story from my friend Bob Cleveland, about irony. I thought you might enjoy this.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Arguably one of the weirdest and funniest things that EVER happened to me was in 1997, in Bauska, Latvia.

We were there as a singing group, ministering at meetings in Latvia, and Pskov, Russia. On a free afternoon, we were walking around downtown Bauska and the others in the group (of 12) wanted to go into a store and "shop." So I sat down outside on this little wooden bench, next to an 18-year-old girl named Yunona Baleiva. She had insisted on carrying the big box of dark chocolate bars I'd bought to bring home.

She spoke no English and I spoke no Latvian or Russian. Not one word.

So after maybe 3 or 4 minutes, I said (recalling a tad of German that I had studied in 1954 (yes...FORTY THREE YEARS BEFORE)..."du bis wundershoen."  Which means "you are pretty (or beautiful)."

She immediately brightened up and said "ahhh...SPRECHEN sie DEUTCH??" (do you speak German)

I laughed and said "ein bisschen"...a little.

We were off to the races...she asked me some simple questions like do I have a wife, kids, grandkids, etc.   We "talked" for maybe 5 minutes and then the group came back out and that was that.

1954 sophomore 2 semester German, dredged up and used in 1997. I cannot tell you how much I've laughed about that since. And the funny thing is we've visited with friends in Otterfing, Germany, twice and I didn't know NEARLY enough German to talk German with somebody who lives there...

I thought you might enjoy the irony of the situation.

So I'm asking you, what can you tell me about irony?  Maybe something that has happened to you that you found very ironic . . . leave it in a comment, or write a post and leave the link here in a comment so we can all come read it and go "oooooooooooooooh."  I'm counting on you to have better irony stories than running into an old boyfriend (to whom I wasn't speaking) in an airport 3000 miles from home.

Huge thanks to Bob Cleveland for his irony story and his friendship.

HELLO-O-O-O CLEVELAND!

Posted some photos tonight over at my other blog, Reasonably Educated Bumpkins, in case you're feeling frisky.

Meanwhile.

One (among many) of my favorite people roaming the halls of Foolery is Bob Cleveland.  Bob is deep, insightful, caring, spiritual, warm, and witty.  But mostly?  Bob is a heckuva lot of fun.  So when last week Bob and I were e-mailing back and forth about fake news stories or something, it triggered a funny memory for him.  I asked Bob if he cared to share the Cleveland magic with us here at Foolery, and I wasn't the least bit surprised when, not only did he say YES, but also he had it written in a matter of hours.

It's I who am the tardy one, not Bob.

Here is Bob's story, which I know you're going to enjoy.

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

My Uncle Wilbur, husband to my mom’s next older sister, was the foreman of the composing room at the Indianapolis News. He had the ability to produce a sheet of news print that said most anything we wanted.

 

When I was a junior in high school, my brother’s picture was in an ad on the back cover of a national magazine. He was in his lifeguard gear ... he was the pool manager at a local swim club … and he was talking to a local girl.

 

The News picked up the story of the local kid on the cover of the magazine, and ran a little story about it. Complete with picture. The caption said something like “Art Cleveland tells a funny story to (whatever the girl’s name was)." Uncle Wilbur had the wording changed to “Art Cleveland tells a dirty story to….” and printed up the page for us. He knew we didn’t get the paper, so he told Art here’s a copy for you.

 

My brother was thunderstruck. It took him about a week to find a genuine copy. All those days of keeping a straight face, down the drain.

 

When my wife and I were married and had our own home in Carmel, Indiana, we belonged to a pinochle club with seven other couples. Dale, one of the guys, told us one evening that he’d bought a wooded lot a mile away and was going to build a house. He also mentioned there was a black walnut tree on the property that was very valuable and would pay for a chunk of the house. About a month later, he said he was disappointed; it turned out to be an oak tree.

 

I couldn’t resist. I had Uncle Wilbur print up a page of routine articles, headed The Pittsburgh Press (my folks lived there). I wrote an article about the incident, featured all sort of outrageous stuff like a team from Purdue had come down to appraise the tree and had observed that there were normally walnuts, not acorns, around a walnut tree.

 

Then I glued it to a piece of paper (it was only printed on one side) and wrote in a big red marker “Bob ... is this anyone you know?” and stuffed it into the next letter we got from the folks.

 

I uncorked that jewel at the next pinochle party, and it got passed around and howled about all evening.

 

I never did tell Dale what I’d done.

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Laurie's note:  internet news is probably easier to fake, but it just wouldn't have the same zing! to it.  Thanks for a great story, Bob.

Dear Apple . . .

(Logo stolen from iindigo)

My friend Gubby sent me this list last night.  Give it up for Gubby, whatever THAT means, and send Steve Jobs all your best wishes for a full recovery.


Five Reasons Why I Should Be the Interim Apple CEO:
by Gubby


5.  I look good in a black mock-turtle neck.


(Photo stolen from these guys)


4.  I need the Apple employee discount to buy my next iMac.


(Photo stolen from this guy)


3.  I have a greying beard and wear small round wire glasses.


(Photo stolen from these guys)


2.  I was once fired by my grandma from a job.

Download Crickets_28aug07


and the number 1 reason why I should be the interim Apple CEO...
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1.  Never in my life have I been described as gaunt.



(Original photo stolen from Apple)


Get well soon Steve!!

The Worst Day Fishing, Or, Stick With Mrs. Paul's

My brother Mantel Man doesn't send e-mails, he creates miniature works of art and drops them into my inbox.  I swear, if he burps it must sound like an aria.  So here is the e-mail he sent out to family yesterday, describing his Saturday fishing trip with a friend.  I know him, and this e-mail took him no more than 20 minutes, I'm sure of it.  Maybe 10.

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Mantel Man netting a trout during a luckier fishing trip (on Woods Canyon Lake last year)

Y'know that old saying, "The worst day fishing is better than the best day working"?  I tested that theory last weekend on a local lake with a fishing buddy.  I'll call him "Gene" -- because that's his real name, and if I have to endure humiliation, then so does he.

Gene fly fishing on the Black River a few weeks ago

Gene's particular hang-up that day was just that: a hang-up.  His casts, aimed near snags sticking out of the water, were usually quite accurate, but several times they got caught on the branches above the surface and never on the bass underneath.  Fortunately, we could always paddle our canoe over and free his line.  Incidentally, we now feel fully prepared for the approaching task of Christmas tree-decorating.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

My own problem was worse: not catching things, but losing things.  I was using a fairly heavy lure to reach a greater depth, attached to lightweight 3 lb. test line.  On one cast, the line suddenly snapped with a loud noise, and I instantly knew I had lost the lure.

That's not all I lost.  The snap was accompanied by a loud pop, and the upper half of my two-piece fishing rod dropped into the deep water.  Never before in my life had such a thing happened.  The line must have wrapped around the tip just as I cast, wrenching it from the lower half.  Gene turned around and said, "What the -- " as I reached, too late, for the sinking piece of fiberglass.

That rod had been in the family for years, belonging to my brother before he admitted he didn't have the patience to be a fisherman and gave it to me around twenty years ago.  If he hadn't, the rod surely would have ended up at the bottom of a lake anyway, only not by accident.  It wasn't fancy, but I hated to lose it -- not because I'm sentimental about material things, but because I'm a cheapskate.  I'm also an optimist: my other rod (an even older one) was left in my Jeep because I didn't think I'd need it that day.  Fortunately, Gene was a pessimist, and he pulled out his spare for me to use.  Yeah, he's a little too trusting as well.

Ever heard of "jerk bait"?  Some single women apply that moniker to themselves, but it's actually a floating lure that dives under the surface when the line is tugged.  I didn't lose any lures while casting with Gene's rod and reel due to the 8 lb. test line he had strung on.  His rig worked fine, but it was like fishing with piano wire, so eventually I replaced his reel with the one from my own half-a-pole.

On about my fifth cast with this combination, I heard a small snap and watched my lure sail across the cove, unencumbered by its erstwhile tether.  "My turn, Gene."  We paddled over and retrieved it, and I managed not to lose it again -- mainly because I soon replaced it with another jerk bait.  I treat lures like B-17 bomber crews: once your 25 combat missions are up, you've been put at risk quite enough, and it's time to send you Stateside.

By mid-afternoon, the gathering clouds looked like they were assembling for less-than-peaceable purposes, and Gene and I paddled back toward where we had launched the canoe.  As raindrops began stirring the surface of the lake, I cast again and instantly felt that something had gone awry.  I watched the lure fly away like a B-17.  Without a noise, it had somehow parted from its line and was now floating invisibly on the roiled surface at least 200 feet away.  We searched for a while, but when it's pouring down rain, you can quickly lose your enthusiasm for even the most highly decorated, combat-seasoned lure.

The same canoe on Blue Ridge Reservoir last year, as Mantel Man sat under a big overhanging rock waiting out a squall

The clouds had a silver lining, however.  Since neither of us smelled remotely of fish, Gene's wife Diane allowed both of us into their house for a fabulous dinner.  I had gotten nary a nibble on the lake, but I had more than a few good bites at the table.  And I didn't lose any forks, in case you were wondering.

This weekend I'm going shopping for piano wire.

Mantel Man at Blue Ridge, smelling of fish and having to cook his own food

No One Was Scalped in the Creation of This Post

After reading (and essentially reposting) Auds' wonderful story about vacuuming up her own hair Tuesday, and after telling four people the story to share the joy, I have a similar tale to share. This comes from my real-life friend Ms. Boz (Not Her Real Name, Nor Is She Any Relation To Boz Skaggs). To give you a good mental picture, I have provided some photos. Also, Ms. Boz is very tall and willowy with long wavy hair.

When I was a freshman in college, I found myself in one of those "can't believe this is really happening" instances. I had waist-length "hippy" hair in those days like many other young women. One day another girl and I were running copies on one of those mimeograph machines.  In those days those machines were used to duplicate, rather than the modern copiers we have today.

Just kidding, Boz. Well, sort of kidding. (Original photo stolen from these guys)

Anyway, as the machine was running, I bent down for some reason and realized that the ends of my hair on one whole side of my head started wrapping themselves around one of the drums. As the drum kept running, more and more of my hair was disappearing inside of it. I was so horrified that I couldn't talk, but finally managed to scream "TURN IT OFF" as my head became plastered against the side of the machine. My friend shut off the machine just as it began to tug on my scalp.

There was a class going on next door with a glass wall separating the two rooms. Thirty faces appeared behind that glass and amongst all of the horrified comments of the students, I could hear one voice loud and clear, "HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU GIRLS TO TIE YOUR HAIR BACK?" The teacher in that class was yelling and bawling me out. Not one bit of sympathy. Here I was bent over with my cheek plastered against the mimeograph machine listening to that crap. Then she started yelling, "JUST CUT IT. DOES ANYONE HAVE ANY SCISSORS?" I started yelling back, "YOU'RE NOT CUTTING MY HAIR" and demanded that they call campus security. When I think about it today, that was pretty comical, in the position I was in. They ended up calling some repair and maintenance guys to come and take the machine apart.

I ended up with half of my hair in a big tangled greasy mess, but I got to keep my hair.

Again, just kidding, Boz. You have beautiful hair. (Original photo stolen from these guys)

Then I had to listen to the teacher's "I told you so" comments for the rest of the semester.  It actually could have ended really badly and the machine could have scalped me.

Which is why to this day, everyone uses photocopiers. The end.

Just messing with you, Ms. Boz. Thank you for this hair-raising story. Yeah, I know; I'm a HARE BRAIN.

How DO you suppose Meatloaf got his hair out of HIS mimeograph machine?

Band-Aids for Bonzo

My brother Mantel Man has written another guest post. In my defense of the green socks, let me say that a) I was 17 at the time, and b) I have much gaudier footwear than those socks, and c) who has socks older than Miss America?

I had some strange friends in high school.  Our small group tended to be quirkier, more intellectual, and less inhibited than most of our fellow students.  We weren’t richer, though, so one year, for my birthday, one of the girls in the group made me a gift.  She took a dozen or so ¾” Band-Aid brand adhesive bandages and, uh, decorated them for me. 

Nowadays you can get bandages in bright colors or with drawings or designs on them.  You can even get Dora the Explorer Band-Aids, if it isn’t enough for your child to spend half an hour hearing the television character shout things like “Say, ‘LACERATION’!!!”  However, the birthday in question was a quarter-century ago, long before Dora was a twinkle in some sadistic cartoonist’s eye, and if you wanted designer bandages, you had to design them yourself.  And that’s what my friend did.  On the back of each bandage she had glued a magazine photo or cartoon drawing of . . . Ronald Reagan.  Her note expressed the hope that I would enjoy my “Ronnie Band-Aids.”

Well, what did you get for YOUR sixteenth birthday?  At least I remember MY gift.  And still have it – most of it, anyway.  I also still have another memorable gift: a pair of fluorescent green socks that my sister Foolery had given me for my fifteenth birthday.  She wanted to encourage her somewhat shy younger brother to be less inhibited.  I wreaked my revenge by wearing them to school frequently and telling my horrified classmates exactly who had given them to me.  However, I never wore the bandages and the socks on the same day.  When I had a Ronnie Band-Aid on, I just felt too serious and dignified.

Today I’m more confident and less inhibited than I might have been without these gifts.  Recently, for example, I took a lady on a first date to an outdoor cocktail lounge and managed to spill an entire glass of Oregon pinot noir on my pants.  I know what you’re thinking: “They make pinot noir in Oregon?”  Anyway, my reaction put my companion at ease and helped get me a second date: instead of being mortified by the spill, I laughed it off, stood up, and showed everyone my cotton-clad hiney, which was now the color of Dora Band-Aids.*

(Photo stolen from these guys)

I like to think it’s what Ronald Reagan would have done.

*Foolery here: I thought your hiney was ALWAYS that color.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

You People Seem to Trust Me More Than My Own Family Does

(Photo stolen from TulipFleurs on Flickr)

Well, I completely forgot that my guest post at Mommy Pie went up today.  Mommy Pie is on vacation in Hawaii -- I KNOW -- and asked me to write something (Mommy Pie is a trusting soul) to entertain the throngs of her readers (she has THRONGS) who show up because they forgot she is gone.

So I did.

But I forgot to tell YOU GUYS about it, so none of YOU GUYS went over there to read it.  This is why I'm not a doctor.  Well, that and the whole blood and guts and required brain power thing.

In any case, please stop by Mommy Pie's place for a read.  After you read my post*, go back through some of her posts, especially 'Til Death Do I Part, which is one of my Mommy Pie favorites. 

*If it helps, there's even nudity.  Which might explain why I was accidentally viewing porn photos last week.

This Is Not A Test . . .

EDIT:  I wrote this up as a draft last Tuesday for posting while I was on vacation, but permission did not come though from Mantel De Man for days.

Got this e-mail from my brother Mantel Man today. How did he know that I'm scraping bottom for material?  Oh, that's right -- he READS my crap.  So I pleaded with him to allow me to post this while I'm gone, and he hemmed and hawwed and finally said yes.  At least that's how I'm hoping it goes since I'm posting it anyway.

 

(Photo by Mantel Man. Laurie's note: Is it just me, or is that saguaro cactus flying the bird at Mother Nature? I don't think I'd do that . . . )

 

Around Phoenix, the Emergency Broadcast System isn't just some gimmick to let those dweeb-geeks at the FCC feel important by interrupting my favorite Rolling Stones song.  It actually gets used.  Like today.  And last week.

First, don't worry -- not everything in Phoenix makes sense.  I took some clothes to my favorite cleaners and learned that, while having a shirt laundered and pressed costs $1.99, just having it pressed costs $5.00.  Their service is good, though: when the lady sees me walk in to pick up my cleaning, she fires up the clothing-go-round and finds my stuff without having to ask my name or see my ticket.  She probably just thinks, "Oh good, here comes that guy who believes we charge more for pressing than for washing and pressing!"  Maybe THAT was some kind of test . . .

After that errand, I worked out at the gym and enjoyed the view shown in the attached photo when I left.  The broadcast warning was for flash floods in the southeast Valley of the Mostly Sun.  As I write, the towns of Gilbert and Chandler are getting water-boarded by the cloud in the photo.

Last week, while my home in north Phoenix got a twenty-minute downpour, the main freeway in the east valley had to be closed because it rained so hard that the underground pumps couldn't keep up with the runoff and big lakes formed across the lanes.  As far as I know, nobody's car ended up like the ones on those billboards in Las Vegas warning people not to try and cross flooded areas of the street.  (Picture some hapless person perched on his car's roof, stirring the water with a finger as it flows by.)

 

(Billboard photos stolen from these guys. Go look at 'em; they're funny)

Hope you're all safe and dry -- and not too warm.  Looks like my home won't get any rain tonight.  But if this HAD been an actual emergency, I'm sure the dweeb-geeks would've told me.

 

Apparently I Have Annoyed Thee

The facts, as I know them (even when they are in direct opposition to each other):

 

• Gubby is my friend.
• Gubby is a very high-tech person.
• Gubby is in charge of keeping my feet firmly planted in the 19th 20th 21st century.
• Gubby is a New Media Douchbag, and he wants all of his friends to be New Media Douchebags, too.
• Gubby is my friend.
• Gubby helps me out ALL the time with my NMD failings (which are constant) and my Fear Of The New.
• Gubby sends me articles to read which will grow my brain and make me a better person.  Or, at least, a bigger D-bag.
• I almost never read the articles Gubby sends me.
• When I DO read an article Gubby sends me, I try to respond to him right away, even if I have no fracking idea what it means.
• Gubby writes snarky e-mails.  Like this one, right here.  All red comments added by ME, because I'm snarky like that.  All pictures were added by ME, because I AM A KLEPTO WITH PURTY GOOD PHOTO-STEALING SKILLS.

 

Laurie,

How predictable.

You didn't understand the article, and more importantly, you assumed it [the New Media Douchebag technology du jour] would be more expensive and reflexively stated you can't get it due to its huge expense.

 

(Graphic stolen from www.dopeslaptexas.com/)

 

This reflexive action will forever now be known as the "Laurie Duck and Cover Response."



(Graphic stolen from these guys)

It is my theory that the "Laurie Duck and Cover Response" is caused by a recessive gene that reveals itself in the victim not being able to comprehend the economic law of technology, in which technology gets more powerful and cheaper over time.  [Laurie shall call this The Katie Couric Principle.]  This condition is exacerbated by excessive haircuts.

        

It is my recommendation that more research be conducted so this plague on society can be corrected in the future with genetic engineering.

 

(Graphic stolen from these guys)

 

(:-)

[this emoticon is Gubby's own invention and represents me with a wok on my head.  Yeah, someday maybe I'll tell you that story . . . nahhh . . .]

Kindest personal regards,

Gubby

P.S.  If you are still talking to me, give me a call tonight. We can get you set up on iChat.

 

And I was, and I did, and we did.  Thanks, Gubby.  I'll be posting your iCamera (or whatever it's called) self-photos later, complete with a target painted on your JiffyPop hat.

 

p.s.  I now have iChat.  The douchebaggery continues.

 

(Logo stolen from these guys)

Memorial Day, Part 2 -- The USS Houston

My brother Mantel Man wrote this in about twelve seconds -- probably before I was even AWAKE this morning -- and it's too good to pass up, so I am creating a second Memorial Day post.  Because I can.  Because it's good, and good for us, too.  Here's the erudite and articulate Mantel Man:

After reading [your Memorial Day] post, I dug out a book about the battle, The Ghost That Died at Sunda Strait by Walter G. Winslow, a survivor of the sinking and of 3 1/2 years as a Japanese P.O.W. afterward.  The book is compiled from interviews with survivors, ships' logs, and other official records from both sides.

What a desperate battle it was.  The Houston was part of a small flotilla of Allied ships, known somewhat euphemistically as "the Asiatic Fleet," trying to hold the line against an absolute onslaught by Japanese forces moving to take the last of the Netherlands East Indies in the early months of the War.  The Battle of Sunda Strait was one of those epic, old-school slugfests in which the opposing fleets sail by each other in two lines and blast each other with artillery broadsides as fast as they can reload.  One by one, crippled ships will limp out of line, typically on fire from stem to stern, and then roll over and sink, with terrible loss of life.  This is what our Uncle Don faced -- though as a Machinist's Mate in the Houston's engine room, he knew he would have little chance to escape if his ship sank.

(Photo of FDR reviewing the fleet with Adm. Claude Block aboard US Houston, 7/14/38, stolen from this site)

According to Winslow's book, on Memorial Day 1942 the citizens of Houston, Texas held a memorial to the gallant ship and her crew, and President Franklin Roosevelt -- who had ridden aboard Houston many times and considered her a favorite -- sent this message to the city, which I have excerpted below:

"On this Memorial Day all America joins with you who are gathered in proud tribute to a great ship and a gallant company of American officers and men.  That fighting ship and those fighting Americans shall live forever in our hearts....

The officers and men of the USS Houston were privileged to prove, once again, that free Americans consider no price too high to pay in defense of their freedom.  The officers and men of the USS Houston drove a hard bargain.  They sold their liberty and their lives most dearly.

The officers and men of the USS Houston have placed all of us in their debt by winning a part of the victory which is our common goal.  Reverently, and with all humility, we acknowledge this debt.  To those officers and men, wherever they may be, we give our solemn pledge that the debt will be paid in full."

(USS Houston off San Diego, California, in October 1935, with President Roosevelt on board)

I have included a photo of Houston taken in 1935 as she sailed from San Diego.  She was actually a very beautiful ship.  Grandma [Uncle Don's older sister] told me that President Roosevelt loved to ride the ship, and whenever he wanted to try some fishing from one of the cruiser's small motor launches, Uncle Don was often chosen to drive -- which made Don quite nervous.

(Photo of FDR fishing on USS Houston off San Diego, 7/14/38, stolen from this site)

Grandma also said that when Don visited them at Christmas 1941, he had a very strong premonition that he would not survive to see them again.

Here is a link to a page with a map of Sunda Strait, in case your readers wonder where it is.

Mantel Man, Professor E-pluribus Unum
Department of Naval History
University of I Read Too Many Obscure Books

What's In A Name? Or, "LaGrone, Dammit!"

It's hard enough growing up being called LaGrone without having a bunch of bozos intentionally mess with your name.  And as rotten as my brothers and I are to each other with nicknames, Mantel Man got the worst end of the deal because of the names he picked up in the Navy.  I thought maybe you'd enjoy reading, on a lazy Sunday, some of my brother Mantel Man's more colorful nicknames -- the printable ones -- and how they came about.  So I asked him to explain them, and just like that he did.  I asked him for twenty bucks and just like that he ignored me (these tactics don't always work).

The plane photo and the cartoons are his, and I think you'll be able to tell who supplied the other visuals, snort.

WHAT’S IN A NICKNAME?

Since everyone in this blog site is represented by some clever “handle,” I have been asked to describe the nicknames I had during my years in military service.  As brilliant a nickname as it is, “Lieutenant Butthead” was used only by my siblings, “Foolery” and “Bocci” – and they now use nicknames because they live in hiding, for obvious reasons.

Naval Aviators, by contrast, take nicknames to new heights of cleverness – or new depths of tastelessness, depending on which end of the naming game you happen to be on.  It was always a source of amusement to my family – and even, on occasion, to me.

PENSACOLA, FLORIDA


[EVIL BLOG MISTRESS'S NOTE: NONE OF THESE ARE MANTEL MAN, BUT IT WOULD BE FUNNY, RIGHT?]

Okay, maybe the bit of modeling I did when I was in flight school wasn’t a great idea.  The gig was for a local sportswear store, and when the photos of me in a warm-up suit and snazzy sunglasses appeared in one of those color inserts that clog the Sunday paper, a fellow student’s wife spotted it and said, “Hey, isn’t this one of your classmates?”  Her husband reportedly grinned like the Grinch getting a wonderful, awful idea and replied, “Why, yes it is...”

There’s a tradition in Naval Aviation that calls for any compromising photo of one of its fliers to be lovingly displayed in the squadron’s ready room, taped to the top half of a piece of lined paper, with the lower half reserved for comments.  My photo’s comments required a second sheet and half of a third.  Most of the remarks were related to preferences of a personal nature, and some showed a lot more creativity than I thought my classmates possessed.

In the end (ahem), the two that stuck, right up until we got our wings and departed to various new stations, were “GQ” and “AA” – the former being one of the more kindhearted, and the latter standing for my favorite of the personal-preference names: Anal Avenger.  At least they used my favorite.  [SNARKY BLOG MISTRESS'S NOTE:  THOSE NAVY TYPES HAVE A LOT OF DAMN GALL POKING FUN AT ANYONE'S TASTES AND PREFERENCES OF ANY KIND, SINCE THEY WEAR WHITE AFTER LABOR DAY AND ALL!]

FLEET REPLACEMENT SQUADRON, WHIDBEY ISLAND, WASHINGTON

While waiting to start my bombardier training, I was assigned several temporary jobs, including that of “coffee mess officer” for one of the classes ahead of mine on its detachment to the airfield at El Centro, California.  Every class spent a couple of weeks at this isolated field near the Mexican border to practice their visual bombing at nearby ranges, and a coffee mess officer was brought along to keep the ready room stocked with frozen burritos, doughnuts, coffee, and other healthy snacks.  My nickname there was “Food Dude,” and I’m not sure any of the guys even knew my real name.


(Original photo stolen from this guy)

One morning the box I brought in from the local bakery consisted entirely of glazed doughnuts, and later that day I received a handwritten note from the squadron’s commanding officer, who happened to be down for a few days.   The note read, “Dear Food Dude: Unless tomorrow’s doughnuts are covered with SPRINKLES (none of that glazed sh*t), I will do very mean things to you.  Signed, your loving, caring C.O.”   How about that – my own class hadn’t even started yet, and the skipper knew who I was.  What a lucky guy!

The classic sailor’s advice to a new guy is this: never, ever do things that call attention to oneself.  (Such behavior usually brings trouble or extra work.)  Throughout my career I tended to ignore such advice.  Soon after I started my training flights, I noticed my named misspelled “Lagmore.”

Lagmore?  Well, at least it wasn’t “Food Dude”...

Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately), there was a red ink pen on the duty officer’s desk.  I carefully lined out the misspelled name and next to it wrote, “LaGrone, dammit!”  Soon thereafter EVERYBODY knew who I was.  I had completed Flight School and now wore the wings of gold proudly on my chest, but around here I was still a student, and such cheeky behavior by someone who had yet to see the business end of an aircraft carrier caused a bit of a sensation.  The misnomer stuck with me for the remainder of my time in the fleet-replacement squadron and was written on the briefing board before most of my subsequent training flights next to the name of my instructor pilot for each flight, as in “Smoothie / Lagmore” (for an instructor who had relinquished his hair very early in life).  Whereas some fliers’ nicknames were the result of an unfortunate physical characteristic, mine was a badge of honor – to me, anyway.

PERSIAN GULF:  JOURNAL EXCERPT, ABU DHABI [an excerpt from my brother's journal; as such, it is written in present tense but happened in the 1990s]

This port visit gave me a second “call sign” that now seems to be competing with the one I got a month ago.  I brought a lightweight, loose-fitting pair of cotton pants that look rather “beachy,” and some of the guys found them rather clownish.  A few are now calling me “Sideshow,” after the Sideshow Bob character from the Simpsons cartoon show.

Before my first flight, my squadron mates needed a call sign to put on the briefing board and simply chose “Bobby,” for lack of anything better.  One of them, knowing I was from California, asked if I wanted it with an ‘i’ or a ‘y’.  “Are you kidding?” I answered.  “Big ‘b’, little ‘o’ with a smiley face inside, little ‘b’, big ‘b’, and ‘i’ with a heart for a dot.”  Now they have memorized it and spell it that way.  I can’t wait to see it painted on a jet.



MINE WARFARE TRAINING CENTER, CORPUS CHRISTI

My nickname at MWTC was assigned to me by a mailing-list computer, of all things.  I received a piece of mail with my name misspelled and part of the school’s name moved up and tacked onto my name.  Amused, I showed it to my friends, and the nickname stuck:

R. L. Grone Mine.

I enjoyed the traveling I did, teaching classes at bases all over the country.  However, it carried one cost:  People at training commands are always digging up old documents that need to be filed somewhere or disposed of, and my frequently vacant cubicle became the dumping ground for every homeless piece of paper in the place.  Eventually a fellow instructor with way too much time on his hands altered a “Dilbert” cartoon to make fun of my situation.  Most guys had nameplates at the doorways to their cubicles; I had a cartoon to identify my territory.




Now that I’m an ordinary civilian, I have to settle for “Mantel Man.”  Actually, that isn’t an accurate nickname any more; the photo collection at the family ranch is mostly of blond-haired rugrats, none of them mine.  If I ever have one of my own, watch out: we’ll be Mantel Man and Picture Boy.

The REAL O.C. Stands For Orlandian Cows?

Dear Foolery readers,

I got another e-mail from my mother-in-law yesterday.  She was answering my recent post on my other blog, Reasonably Educated Bumpkins.  DON'T LEAVE, but you might want to check out that post, just to have an idea of what the HAY she's talking about here.  DON'T LEAVE, okay?

The pictorials are mine, just because that's how I think.  Take it away, Mom!

                


Hold on to your crowns, Orlandians.  Your title as "Bovine-Related Entertainment Capital of California" is severely at risk.


(Photo stolen from this site)

San Clemente -- yes, that's correct, San Clemente . . .


(Photo stolen from these guys)

. . . "The Spanish Village By The Sea," as the Chamber of Commerce likes to call it -- San Clemente in Orange County in Southern California, is hosting an event with COWS (probably imported from Northern California).


(Photo of Happy California Cows stolen from these guys)

This coming Saturday, the day before Super Bowl Sunday, is "Pooper Bowl Saturday."
 
This is actually a fund-raiser, a charity event for one of the schools.  (This causes me to ruminate, pun intended, and wonder if the "donations" are tax-deductible for the rancher -- the cows? -- or the donors . . . and how do you explain this on your tax forms?)

 

The cows will play something like Tic Tac Toe or Cow Pie Bingo in a confined space and see what numbers they land on.


(Photo stolen from tusptangar on Flickr) 

First it was "The Real Orange County Housewives"



and now

I love living where we have access to all these cultural events.  Trend watchers say that they can track trends that start in Southern California and work their way across country.  Can we look forward to this on Lookout Mountain, Tennessee, giving new meaning to its name?  And what about on the Boston Commons or on the Green in New York?  We will have to keep an eye on this one.
 
Oh, and you can meet the cows before the event.  It doesn't get much better than this.


(Photo stolen from ~Kell~ the Nikon Girl on Flickr) 

              

So, if you'd like to check out more of My Mother-In-Law -- wait, that sounded all wrong.  Ahem.  If you'd like to read more from a charming, witty and fun-loving mother-in-law -- and wouldn't we all, really? -- well, you can't.  YET.  But I'm working on her to start her own blog, because frankly, she's funny.  Maybe all y'all can help me convince her?  I'll let you know.

It’s What’s For Dinner

I’ve asked my brother Mantel Man to write about an incident that draws a lot of laughter around the family home (especially on Steak Night).  This is not a bloody story, but if you’re squeamish, you may consider having your therapist read it first.  Here's what he wrote and sent me this weekend -- thanks, Mantel Man!

*     *     *     *     *

Laurie started it.

She began referring to the annual retelling of the story at family gatherings, usually around Thanksgiving or Christmas and usually around the dinner table.  Actually, the incident occurred at Christmastime, but wasn’t first related as a story until two months later at the home of Laurie’s in-laws when both families gathered there for her wedding to Chas.  Until then, it was merely an incident, one that had me shaking my head and chuckling as I walked back to the house after it ended.  Everyone found the incident quite amusing -- everyone, that is, except the calf.

Dad sells his bull calves so he won’t have 1500 pound monsters roaming his pastures and looking for someone to trample when they grow up, but he used to keep one occasionally to raise as a steer for beef.  The difference between an ornery, hard, sinewy bull and a tender, docile steer is the result of a minor surgical procedure performed sometime before the bovine equivalent of puberty.  Performing the castration -- there, I said it -- when the calf is very small results in considerably less trauma, bleeding, and risk of infection.  Oh, and it’s safer for the calf, too.

One chilly December morning Dad had isolated a young calf in the barn where the cows were fed their hay, and after lunch he instructed me to go and ensure the critter hadn’t escaped while Dad gathered the necessary tools for the job.  The animal was still in the pen, and he knew something was up.  He was just a little guy, about 80 pounds, and when Dad arrived I climbed into the pen and got hold of him.

Having wrestled the bawling animal to the ground and rolled him onto his back, I told Dad I was ready.  He kneeled to help hold the calf, reached into his coat pocket, and handed me . . . one of Mom’s brand new steak knives.

Our father is a practical man.  That means that he is 100 percent about function, and zero percent about form or aesthetics.  The purloined implement was actually quite useful for the job: besides being the right size, it had a serrated edge that could be used to scrape through the calf’s scrotum and spermatic cords, rather than slicing cleanly through them.  The rough cuts thus created would allow the clotting blood to seal the wound very quickly and speed healing.  It was even appropriate, in a weird way, given that the knife was meant for cutting through beef.  The only drawback was that the knife was indistinguishable from the others in the set, so whenever the table was set for dinner thereafter, no one could tell which one was the knife.

The castration was completed without mishap, unless you see it from the calf’s perspective, of course.  The real irony of the incident is that an uncastrated bull has no reason for his orneriness, being well fed, fully equipped, and surrounded by females.  A steer, on the other hand, has every reason to want to trample someone, but, well, he just doesn’t feel like it.  He does, however, have a cool little scar, and chicks dig scars on guys.  Well, on most guys.

*     *     *     *     *

Okay, a couple of you are running back through your memories to determine if you’ve ever had steak at Mom and Dad’s house, am I right?

The Two-Year Rule for Golden Friends

I had a driveway moment last night as I pulled up to the house.  A driveway moment is what National Public Radio devotees have named those moments when a listener is compelled to keep the engine running after stopping one's car, just to continue listening to a fascinating NPR story.  I do this all the time, actually.

But last night's driveway moment was particularly poignant, addressing as it did the nature of old friendships (as opposed to new friendships).  My old friend Cheryl and her family are on the verge of moving away next week.  While it's a wonderful opportunity for them which I support enthusiastically, it's still sad to think that now my three best friends (including Gubby in Idaho and Kathy in Redding) will be accessible only through electronics, and rarely face-to-face.

Cheryl has been my best friend since first grade, way back in the Nixon administration.  We have helped each other pack and unpack from moving -- one of the true measures of a friendship.  In fact, Cheryl once helped me move my clothes and shoes, with her huge old 'merican car, during the time she was undergoing chemotherapy treatments.  THAT'S a friend.  Cheryl argues with me without rancor, compliments me with sincerity, and says "I love you" often, and means it.

Gubby and I have been great friends since we were underclassmen in high school.  I tease him about his cranky outlook on life, his love of Tom Petty, and his constant need of a haircut.  He teases me about, well, everything.  He has eaten my cooking without complaint or facial registry of pain, and he has provided more computer and technological expertise and assistance than I have a right to.  He was also quick to clear up a rumor he started about me in college, but that's another story, wink wink.

Kathy and her husband were Chas's friends before Chas and I met.  Kathy is one of those rare people who give support and encouragement no matter how rotten I might feel, and who always makes me feel better.  She writes every thankyou note and Christmas card by hand, and actually mails them.  Spending an afternoon with Kathy is a rare treat now, with 60 miles and four children between us.  If Chas and I were ever to split up I'd ask for Kathy in the settlement.

Here is the piece I heard on NPR's All Things Considered last night (August 22, 2006 http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5691893).  If you have RealPlayer installed on your computer I encourage you to download this story and listen to it, as the author, Carol Wasserman, read it with far more verve than I could conjure up in my transcription.  With apologies to Carol Wasserman for not calling to ask first, and with a dedication to my three tremendous friends Cheryl, Gubby and Kathy, here is

The Two-Year Rule for Golden Friends

by Carol Wasserman

ANNCR. V.O. intro: In the town where commentator Carol Wasserman lives, there’s someone who is trying to redefine his status. He’s new to the area, but he’d still like to have the title of "old friend."

John and I like to sit on the floor together in the meeting room of the library opening boxes. Once a month there’s a used book sale. A bunch of us with nothing better to do comes in early and sorts through the donations. Before John started volunteering we all behaved, like purposeful adults. Because of him we turned into a bunch of out-of-control eighth graders, who make too much noise, and keep yelling "UNDERPANTS!" for no good reason.

John says that what we are doing is "building community." He has many lofty, unprovable opinions – about Jesus, and liberation, and justice for the poor. He’s also crazy, even for a college professor, which is why I like him. He’s just moved into the first house he’s ever owned, alone for the first time since leaving the priesthood. But, it takes a while to feel secure around all of us who’ve known each other since day care. He worries about this a lot.

One day, while we were sorting through a carton of trade paperbacks, he said, "What I want is to be able to show up at someone’s house unannounced, at eleven o’clock at night, for cocoa, in my bunny slippers. I told him, "It takes two years to make old friends. Two years, that’s it – WAY less than tenure!"

He started keeping track of the time he’d logged in around town: how long he’d known the guys at the post office, how long he’d been working the spaghetti suppers at the beach association, how many successive weeks he’d lost his lunch money playing high stakes pinochle with the people next door. Waiting, impatient, to run out the clock. Two years.

In the interim, I found myself in need of a favor. A squirmy, embarrassing, big ol’ favor. I needed someone to drive me 40 hard miles into Boston for an unpleasant screening test that becomes routine at 50. I needed someone to get me there, then wait around for a couple of hours, and schlep me home, in the middle of the day when decent, normal people are busy at work. So just before the last book sale, while John and I were on the floor separating fact from fiction, I screwed my courage to the sticking point, and said, "John, I’m having . . . a colonoscopy. Would you drive me? Or is that just too creepy and weird?"

"It will my pleasure to escort you," he said, which must have been the truth, judging from the number of people in town who knew almost immediately that we’d be busy on Thursday, and why.

When it was over, I wobbled out to the waiting room. There was John, grinning like a fool. I started to cry at the sight of him. Such a lovely man! Through a blur of gratitude and Demerol I said, "The two-year rule does NOT apply to ANYONE who drives the person to their colonoscopy."

"I know, I know!" he said, hugging me. "Look what I got you!" He handed me an out-of-season Easter bunny wrapped in pink foil. There was John, one of my oldest friends, who had bought us a chocolate bunny for the long ride home.

Carol Wasserman lives in Wareham, Massachusetts.

Tits on a Bull

Once again, Mantel Man has come up with a zinger.  Here he goes:

Somebody help me out with this: I grew up on a dairy farm, and I'm sure I know a few things about bovine anatomy.  Last weekend I took my "little brother" (from the Big Brothers/Little Brothers mentoring program) to see the animated movie "Barnyard."  The two main characters were bulls, but they were portrayed with UDDERS instead of . . . anything else.  Worse, the animals spent most of their time up on their hind legs, and the udders stuck out as if acquired from a cheap plastic surgeon!  Why is it okay to show female private parts, but not male?  This is a kids' movie, not one of those late-night cable TV films!

This might not be such a big deal except that a few of the kids that watch this movie might grow up to be cow milkers, see, and if they can't tell the difference between . . . well, you see where I'm going with this.

Point is, I don't want to give up drinking milk -- or even thinking about milk -- for the rest of my life.
Although having another problem for which to blame Hollywood might bring some satisfaction . . .

A Farewell With Arms

My great Aunt Pat died last week.  She would have been 93 in two more weeks, but she was worn out and ill and really didn't want to stick around.  Mom and I visited her in mid-July, at the rest home she had been in since about Memorial Day.  Before that she had lived alone, in her home of over 50 years.  Other than the health problems, the pains associated with cancer survival and just plain old age, she had a good life and a relatively peaceful death.  I will miss her.

 

My brother Mantel Man writes a lot, and writes very well.  He sent me an e-mail this morning, which included the following story.  Stay with me here; you'll see all the connections once you reach the end.  But it tugged a few of my heartstrings and also made me laugh, and if you have ever watched loved ones grow old and pass away, I hope there's something here for you, too.

 

From Mantel Man:

My sister already provided a nice sentimental ode to the old house after we helped the parentals move across the road into their new digs, but here's a vignette about one small aspect of the sorting and disposing of many items from the days of old.  Dad acquired a .22 rifle from my brother Bocci, who had stored the gun for years in his closet at the ranch and had no use for it at his home in Las Vegas, where the burglars are all hopped up on meth and wouldn't even be fazed by such a small bullet.  The timing was good, since Dad needed a new varmint gun anyway, having recently discovered that the riflings on his own ancient .22 were worn out and the gun was no
longer safe to use.

We aren't sure how old this rifle was, but Dad taught me how to shoot with it when I was only four years old.  He had received it second-hand sometime before from his Uncle Bart.  (Bart's real name was Lance Bartell, but no one ever called him Lance.  When a man has a .22 rifle, you call him whatever he wants to be called -- unless you're on meth, which none of my family ever were, thank you.)

When I took the old weapon into the police station for disposal, I recalled that Bart's widow, my great aunt Pat, had died only a few days earlier at around age 93 -- the same age attained by her older sister, my grandmother Gert.  These two, along with their younger sister Helen (who is alive and well), constituted The Pierce Women, three marvelous ladies who lived through the Depression, two world wars, and some very serious illnesses, and outlived their husbands by a minimum of 13 years.  These were some tough gals.  No one called Grandma Gert by her full name, Gertrude, and she
didn't even have a gun.

Anyway, it seemed somehow fitting that this old rifle -- perhaps as old as Aunt Pat, I noted wryly -- should depart at around the same time she did, both of them having outlived Bart by so many years.  As for its more recent owner, well, Dad's gonna outlive us all.

 

Thanks to Mantel Man for this unexpected pairing of venerable ladies and firearms.  It wouldn't have occurred to me, but then, that's why no one's paying me for my observations.  At least I think that's why.