Thursday, June 12

Hypocrites go to hell in a handbag - filled w plenty o' $$$$, of course

Hypocrites, greed and wanna-be Christians,  

Pre-preface

Inspired by Indiana's GOP candidate for representative, John Johnson, who said those living in poverty should 'wither and die', I've come up with ideas on how to resolve the  problem with 'Moochers' taking government handouts.

My idea should quiet critics who think abruptly telling a poor person to starve or freeze to death is a little too callous. This plan gives them a purpose. Hopefully, Mr. Johnson will not get sued by Newt Gingrich who originally came up with allowing Medicare, Social Security and the likes to 'wither and die'.

Maybe he got permission from Newt-although I heard Newt was not available (either honeymooning with wife # 12 or speaking at that American Values conference)+ Johnson added, "No one who wants votes is willing to call a spade a spade."... 

"I saw the opportunity to say something. I think a lot of the poor have no way out, and there's no motivation to improve your position."  True statements.

Comedy Central public domain photo.
Preface to the preface
While some far left liberal protestant ministers (or Popes) professed the actions of Johnson and other wanna-be Christians  to be anti-Christian, they were wrong. In the new up-dated version of CC Bible, rewritten by highly qualified expert wanna-be Christians  and verified by Fox News, the archaic advice of Jesus is adapted to fit the new Gospel of the wanna-be Christian Conservative Portfolio (CCP).


Buy it today at a bargain price and you can be part of the American Dream! - A white wealthy male w several indentured servant submissive Evangelical Fundamentalist wives; male partners (conveniently disguised as chefs and hair stylists); own as many guns as you need to stand your ground, keep poor people and minorities out of your sight, AND you can own a part of the Zoo.

Plus, we'll throw in the popular digital book,  How to Reach Heaven by Hoarding More Dollars by one of those televangelists. Was it Oldsteam or Oyster? Can't remember. Pretty sure he wrote the prequel, How to Make Sure Your Kid Does Not Turn Gay, (with a chapter on the tradition of death by stoning). 


If you haven't received your new Gospel yet, simply make these minor changes in the Bible:
  • in the book of Matthew change that camel thing by crossing out 'rich' and changing it to 'poor' 
  • Same book, change, "No one can serve two masters. You cannot serve God and money," to  "You will serve your master. You cannot eat if you do not serve your Master and his money".
On second thought just wait for your new Gospel to be delivered by a former entitlement taker. In any case, on your way out, everyone should genuflect before the mural of Mike Pence, Paul Ryan, and Cartman. Never forget John and Newt's famous let the poor 'wither and die' speech, Cartman's infamous words, "Screw the poor," and Paul Ryan's piece of work
designing our economic plan  to make the 'wither and die' campaign a big success.  Our Human Zoo exhibit is no longer just a dream! Check it out!  
When you enter, slide $100 in the slot by Cartman's ear for a chance to own an animal in the Petting Zoo.
                                  **************************************

Helping "Christian" Conservatives Eliminate Entitlements from Moochers

Gather around royal boys and girls - after you place your $500 class fee on my desk. Before your first visit to the ruins of our Human Zoo Amusement Park, I will tell you the story of  how our people- less than five percent of the entire population, saved the entire economy, lowered the debt, and resolved the Moocher entitlement issue all in two hours and 14 minutes. I'll describe what visitors could see and do before the creatures withered and died. 

On a summer day way back in the year 2014 before we destroyed the evil democracy,  exiled that Black man from Kenya, and denied global warming- back when Hispanics, Blacks, Chinese, the poor, the old people, the disabled and such were allowed to roam free draining our resources by mooching food, insisting they were entitled to heat, medicine, free water, and free air.

On that historical day our heroes planted the diamond-encrusted seeds of our version of evolution-along with several ground traps to catch small humans. Right there on The Hill our official fact checkers,  The Crotch Brothers, signed big checks. Rupert Murdock got drunk, then  it was official. The new gospel of the CCP became the new law. All hail the rich and powerful.

At first some of the small humans didn't like training. They
plotted to steal our food until Bill O'Reilly used his loud
Papa grizzly bear voice to tell them pride and dignity was
more important and lasted longer than food.
The first phase of The Plan was not perfect.  First we attempted to enforce the campaign 'Get a Job or Wither and Die' law passed by the Billionaire's Club during an afternoon orgy. We flew in special guests like Putin, Arnold, and Chuck to boot the lazy mental and physically disabled Moochers straight out of their fancy wheelchairs and into McDonalds to flip burgers and wash dishes.

A funny clown and his sidekick from Texas,  Carnival Cruz and Scary Hairy Perry, impersonated the voices of Goofy and Scooby  to lure all the two and three year olds into a warehouse where they were trained to sweep and mop floors.

At first the small humans did not understand. But, Carnival's smartness kicked in-"Yes, Pavlov's theory!' Then Sarah Palin showed up to soothe the little ones by singing one of her songs from her nursery rhyme collection, "You betcha, Virginia, There's No Entitlements," and the well known country tune, "I've Got Guns in Strange Places" as she winked and crossed her hands over her tweeter.
  
They all chuckled over their Shirley Temples until Arnold said, "Ya, the small ones, they be good sweepers if they hungry enough. Ya? Then they had an lol moment. By the time their party ended, Arnold figured out a better way to organize workers.
"Ya, hey you ever vatch the movie about the Hungry Games?"

The rest is history.


On her 2nd birthday, Stacy got to feed the animals in petting zoo.
These two girls were glad to get an
outside job on the construction crew.

He and others experienced in mind control like Rupert Murdock, any TV evangelist with at least $40 in the bank, and one talented snake charmer did a good job indoctrinating the poor and disabled. The children were the most excited. 
One of our most popular attractions, the Petting Zoo, was filled with wild little ones who were not trained  yet.  When visitors purchased a $20 handful of food from the machine, the little pets got fed. So fun to watch. Sometimes a visitor would toss the food up in the air-watch out! So many little pets pushing, shoving, kicking, and biting just trying to taste one of the morsels.

In addition to the top-notch entertainment, the petting zoo was educational.  Instead of malarky like evolution, the Human Zoo demonstrated one of the few true scientific theories- survival of the fittest. As expected, the shy or sick pets were the first to wither and die. But, after all, that was the goal of the games.

We had to get rid of all those entitlements.
                                                                       



This is that special moment 
when small ones finally figure
out training and get a food reward. These two ended up
as the best barbers and stylists in the Zoo.
The smallest one ended up doing artwork for many
billionaires. It was even allowed out of its pen to work on
special commissions AND it got food every day.  Of course,
it was a white human so it was acceptable.
   
Named Poopy and Droopy, these twins often
worked two or three days without sleeping.
Even though they weren't white, they got extra
treats when they humored the Richie Riches.
They raced in for the fabulous new hair style
the boys are sporting in the picture.


Some rich folks just loved to come to the Human Zoo to see the all the different types. A fat blubbery guy named Rush liked to throw a piece of meat into a pen. Those creatures got so vicious you'd think he'd thrown in a piece of gold or his autograph
.
This guy's head was big-huge, like a Fathead. Just an observation. Anyway, one day when he taunted the same human four times by pretending to throw the meat, he laughed so hard he
almost choked. That's when he got careless, forgetting the rules about not putting any digits or limbs over the fence.
When he showed his piece of meat the fifth time, he dangled it close to the human's mouth. That's when it happened. Not only did the human grab Rush's meat with his teeth (ouch, that had to hurt),  it managed to take his whole hand in his mouth and kept sucking his fingers.

After that,  instead of having the human punished, Rush checked it out of the zoo to paint a house for him.  But, people say he never took the human back to the zoo.  He kept him as a personal servant.

Of course, that is before the new therapy law passed to make gay people straight.  Oh, wait. Wasn't that guy married?  Oh, well. His wife was probably glad to have the help.

His friend Glenn frequented that same pen at the zoo after that. He was kinda a bully, though.  You'd think he'd get bored with teasing, poking, and mimicking the humans on a regular basis but he was so thrilled entitlements were gone, he loved to celebrate. I guess he got  pleasure from poking them-at least, that's what they say about him downtown. He loved to poke.

 Yes, but my pride and dignity is solid. 
Anyway, as you know, this story has a disappointing ending. The Human Zoo and all life in the outer regions withered and died. The Richies forgot to save the best stock to breed more humans.

So, one of their most important achievements -  their wish for the poor and disabled to wither and die, worked. They withered and died. Finally, the  high fallutin' upper crust was rid of entitlements.
After visiting with big name celebrities like Hulk Hogan, Paula Abdul, Russell Simmons, Jeff Foxworthy, and Kermit the Frog,  the new Richie Rulers made big plans to expand as shown on the map below. They planned fun trips like a dinner train linked from region to region to watch humans in their original habitat.

Sadly, it didn't happen before campaign wither and die withered and died. But, no worries. All money invested was returned.

Fascinating stuff.

Good times.

The stuff in Paul Ryan's dreams.

Que sara, sara. 

Thanks. Obama.
All rights reserved 2014. Complementary photos from
dreamers, royaltyfreeimages.net.













Wednesday, February 12

Bringin' back a classic

Adventures with PJ

My solo travels have taken me to 
Lexington, KY, Las Vegas, San 
Antonio, TX, Atlanta, Minneapolis,
and many other lovely places.
Sometimes you gotta admit defeat. That time hasn’t come for this old lady! I will not give up my car keys without a fight . . . or a binding court document.

Summer proved to be a series of perilous adventures as I set out to prove my competency to travel independently. ('Mom, maybe you shouldn’t drive so far by yourself.  Or Mom, maybe it’s not safe to be on your own in a big city. Or You are getting pretty old to go there by yourself'). Thanks for the support guys.

After all, I am a good driver. In my driveway. As long as I don’t have to back up very far.

Plus, I have a cane and I know how to use it . . . as a weapon (well, I've heard about it).

Somehow my presence often turns simple tasks into high drama and/or minor ‘accidents’.

Like the case of walking from the car to house,
aka as example # 1: Free Falling

  • Opened front door, musta forgot to step up, fell forward face down on hardwood floor, managed to crawl to base of stairway, tried to pull self up. Many times, (all while giggling uncontrollably), attempting—without success, not to urinate. Remember daughter trying to help asking, 'Mom, are you okay?'
  • The more I laughed the more puzzled/frustrated/concerned/impatient she became. Then the scolding. 'Mom, you need to pay more attention. Someday you’re going to get hurt and no one will be around to help you and you won't think it's so funny!' Really? Well, guess what people? I didn’t ask for help. I can find clean unders all by myself.
  • *No one was actually hurt during this event unless you count family’s embarrassment at the site of wet spots on floor. But hey, clothing and rugs can be laundered.
I can’t help it if I find soiling oneself to be funny. It’s right up there with watching people fall on the ice . . . or my son with ankle in cast slipping and falling at grocery store when crutch hit wet spot. Too funny. I still giggle just thinking of it . . .

Crutch flies into the fresh vegetables section, worker dashes over to help, son curses under his breath managing a, 'No problem, I’m okay, thanks for your help' to the employee as he stands up, takes back crutch and hops right by me as he shoots me a dirty look to get a cart.
How rude. He coulda waited for me to compose myself. That kind of belly laugh with tears streaming down face takes a minute of recovery time.


Or the biking incident known as example #2: No Brakes and Breaking Bones
  • I recall that lazy Sunday afternoon in August . . . Hauling out our new bikes, practicing in the alley before heading to the street, turning the corner and down a hill, gaining speed, gaining more speed, going way too fast, trying to apply brakes on pedal, hearing husband shout, 'the brakes are on handlebars, PJ use the brakes, use the brakes' . . . For some reason I didn’t/couldn’t/wouldn’t. I just remember heading for the cement curb and hoping for the best as I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to see what was gonna happen. That was before the dreaded trip to emergency room when I sounded kinda like a newly weened puppy whimpering and howling all the way there.
  • After the event of flying over the handlebars, splatting on the sidewalk, bumping my head, looking up to see husband reaching down while laughing . . . my usual calm sensitive self unraveled just a bit.
  • Maybe it was my thoughtful daughter-in-law’s comment upon hearing the news, 'OMG I wish we had it on tape. You flew over handlebars? We coulda won $10,000!' Or other supportive remarks like, 'Now I know what to get you for Christmas—training wheels! or What were YOU doing trying to ride a bike? or Way to make a fool of yourself in front of new neighbors!' or seeing my daughter shake her head while commenting, 'I’d tell you to stick to your stationary exercise bike but you’ll probably figure out a way to tip that over.' Thanks for the props everyone.
  • Or just maybe my pitiful tears related to a broken collarbone! I can’t always deliver spectacular stunts without a few injuries/broken bones.
  • After a week in a sling (dr: 'These things usually heal on their own, take these pills and you’ll be fine'), teasing from fam ('C’mon suck it up, Geez I didn’t know you were such a baby, or There’s no crying in bicycle riding') I gimped back to the clinic. Hmmm. Still broken apart.
  • Next I went under the knife, with insertion of platinum screw in shoulder, then sent from recovery to room for overnight hospital stay. I sorta recall the nurse saying, . . .'expect some painlots of poking and prodding, hard to get bone back together again.' First, I giggled thinking of Humpty Dumpty. Then I remember staring at the long hand, waiting for it to get to the 12 so I could press my trusty morphine pump. Next came sleeping and itching, and itching some more. Yet, all of it paled compared to the REAL drama about to unfold that fateful night.
  • I opened my eyes in time to get flashed by new roommate’s tattoed butt as the nurse helped her stumble into bathroom. Next, I overheard loud phone conversation with boyfriend ('I’m so strung out, you need to get tested, they put a tube in there, my vagina . . . dripping'). Lovely. Besides discovering roomie/homeless/stripper/delinquent teenager possessed nasty STD AND my pain meds she discovered on my tray, the blaring sounds of Saturday morning cartoons jolted me awake at 5AM. That was it. Time for confrontation!
  • ME: 'Could you please turn down the TV? I just had surgery and I am trying to sleep'.
  • ROOMIE: Nothing. Then TV got louder.
  • ME: thinking to self  'I should pull back curtain and kick her ass', I repeated: 'Hi there, excuse me. Don’t you think the TV is a little loud'?
  • ROOMIE: (my stinging words caused action as she flung back curtain) 'Hey stupid old hag. If I thought it was too loud I woulda turned it down! Duh'. Curtain closed again.
  • Okay then . . . well, the big hand on the clock went past the 12. Squeeze.
  • I probably scared her away cuz when I woke up the bed was empty. The nurse entered room.
  • ME: 'So, is it safe to use the same toilet seat considering roomie has STD'?
  • NURSE: 'I can’t share confidential information about another patient’s diagnosis'.
  • ME: 'Um. Well, did you know she asked me if I would give her my script for pain pills'?
  • NURSE: Sits on edge of bed like we’re old buds, leans over. 'Doesn’t surprise me. She’s been in here before. No insurance. No money. Problems with drugs and alcohol. Works across the river as a stripper, probably a hooker. Long, long list of partners'.
  • Great. So much for confidential info vs. the urge to gossip.
Anyway, sure I’ve experienced a few setbacks. Most people are not perfect. All of us slow down a bit as we age. Okay, maybe not as slow as hitting the ball all the way to the left field fence and still getting thrown out at first slow but then I was never known for my speed on the bases.

Sure, a few embarrassing moments happened to me. Maybe every teacher doesn’t leave the restroom with her skirt tucked in to the back of her panty hose revealing a bulgy backside to the world (twice at two different schools) but it does happen.

Maybe every single mom doesn’t empty contents of large purse at checkout in search of checkbook to discover a dirty fork stabbed into a half-eaten moldy dill pickle.

Maybe every mother doesn’t have the ninja thinking skills to implement a quick kick to the object when her two-year-old’s hard ball of warm poop drops to the cold tiled floor in the center aisle of the packed clinic. But, it pretty much worked. Rolled under a chair.
I planned to rescue the lonely poo to flush it after we saw the doctor only to find it missing. Hey, that was back in the day of droopy cloth diapers way before the fancy disposables.
Everybody poops. Ask Forest Gump. It happens.

As usual, I ramble. Back to the summer of two aught aught and eleven. But now it is three in the morning. Must close eyes and tell those tales another time.




Sunday, December 1

To blog or not to blog?

Don't call it a comeback

A few years ago I made an effort to do a blog. I'd estimate the effort lasted a few months. Lucky for all of you, it seems to be making a comeback of sorts. Slow. But, starting to move a bit. Quite fitting due to one of my many nicknames appointed by my daughter. Turtle. That's the nickname, not my daughter.
In other words, the place is a bit of a mess. If you enter be prepared to find totally unrelated posts on extremely different topics. Think of it as the Potpourri category on Jeopardy! Someday I could start blogs on education, entertainment, sports, politics and/or personal stuff to make it easier for some readers not to wander into unexpected offensive territory. I could. Not sure if I ever will. But, it is a thought.
The word 'attempt' is a little strong considering my lack of attention, motivation and/or disappearance of mojo. Yet, smart person that I am, I see many blatant problems with said blog. In other words yes, I know it is all over the place. Yes, I know I need to focus on a niche. Yes, I know I should post on a regular basis. Hence, the use of the word 'attempt'. Someday (when  making memories w/ my granddaughter or spending precious time visiting my daughter becomes less important) I will split content into separate blogs. Someday. Maybe. Depends on priorities.
Writing club friends and blog gurus warn of losing readers by not posting enough content in a timely matter. Guess what? I care more about my loved ones than the opinion of another writer. This is just one more time when a reminder of my philosophy seems appropriate.  (WARNING. Sarcasm. Defiance. Message to gossipers and trouble makers.) Be yourself. Make your own decisions. Those close to you support you and love you. The rest of them? F'em if they can't take a joke. 
Crude. Could be softer. But, that's not me. You get the idea. Life is too short to care about what others think. To try to change for another person or regret too much of the past. Gotta savor the present.
When I started the blog it seemed more of a need than a want. Leaving a career in teaching to become a free-lance writer required such efforts. Social media, publishing sites, writing groups, professional memberships and writing workshops would surely prove I made the right choice. More than three years later, I am still trying to convince myself.
Photos of fam including daughters Amy (top left), Andy (bottom left)
son Shawn (bottom right, granddaughter Anna, husband Mark.

Face painting. It is fun to be a dinosaur!
Leaving the restrictive environment of the workplace certainly afforded me the time to create special memories with my granddaughter, Anna. As Gaga PJ, I've become a VIP in her world. When Anna started talking she struggled to say grandma. It eventually came out sounding like 'gaga'. Then my title officially evolved into Gaga PJ. BTW if Lady Gaga ever tries to sue, she is the one in violation. It was MY name first!
Leaving the classroom also allowed me to stay with my daughter at Hope Lodge during chemo and radiation treatment at Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN.  She's the first to say all things happen for a reason. She's right. When I place the correctness of blogs or the conventions of writing into perspective, maybe organizing a blog doesn't make the upper level of my priorities. It's all about perspective.

It wasn't until after I posted this picture on multiple
sites that I noticed the bar. Is it wrong to have a
backdrop of alcohol for a five-year-old's art "studio"?












                                            

Wednesday, December 26

Holding on to photographs and fairy tales


Grandma Marge shows off her modern coffee percolator while Deb (left)
and I hold the dolls we got for Christmas.

When it’s time for the holidays, a tinge of sadness creeps into my joy of family time.  I think back to glimpses of Christmas at Grandma and Grandpa’s big farmhouse in the grove.
Although I can only remember little bits and pieces of those days, I have a clear picture of the surroundings. Separated by round solid wood pillars and handsome woodwork, the living room and dining room held large family dinners, Saturday night family radio shows and-eventually, family television time on a small black and white TV. The Ed Sullivan Show with its Geritol commercials and harmony from the Lennon Sisters was a Sunday night tradition. Even after nearly 55 years have passed, I still feel the warmth of that home where I spent my first seven years.
I remember many adventures with my best friend, Deb. She was just 14 months older than me.
One Christmas Sunday morning Deb and I tore open our single present. Gushing over our new dolls, we crawled up on the arms of Grandpa Bill’s easy chair. Tugging on his arm to show him my dolly, he chuckled and said, "What good is a silly doll? It's not real you know."
But, he pulled me in close to read us the Sunday funny pages. With Deb and me sitting on either side, he'd read Blondie to us before sharing some of his own tall tales. We heard about barn dances and shivarees and shucking corn by hand. He painted a picture of the way things used to be. At the same time he let us in to a place in his heart most people never got to see.
Sissies, Songs, and  Smokeless Tobacco
Just like Grandpa Roy and my dad,  my great grandfather Grandpa Bill gave us a hard time. He liked to tease us.  He was quite a character. Ornery as hell to some. I never thought of him as an authority figure. More like an old fart who loved us, laughed with us and let us break the rules. From sneaking candy to getting  out of doing chores, he was always on our side. So was Grandpa Roy. But, that was different. Most of the time he had to come clean with Grandma.  It's not that she was strict. Not at all.  She seemed to be burdened more with the past.



We often heard Grandpa Bill singing in the barn where he spent much of his time. Looking back I think the barn connected him to younger days when he pitched hay, scooped up dung to clean animal stalls and labored from dawn until dusk on farm chores. It was also a place to escape - mostly from Grandma Marge. They seemed to resent each other at times.  When Grandpa Bill lived with them, there was some friction but they both held the family above all else. Toward the end, when Grandpa Bill's health got worse. They converted the cubbyhole (storage for boots, gloves, coats) into a bathroom and the dining room became his bedroom until Grandma and Grandpa couldn't serve all his needs. To the very end, Grandpa Roy had his own private path to Grandpa Bill's heart. They talked tough, they bickered; they weren't the hugging/kissing kinds of guys, but the mutual love and respect was so obvious.
When Deb and I were little, sometimes in the afternoon we watched him whittle wood. When he didn't think we were around, he'd sing parts of his favorite songs. His favorite?  The old man died with a cob up his ass . . .  something about how he died because he wiped too fast. While Deb and I giggled to think of that image and hear those 'naughty' words, we knew exactly what he meant. Grandpa Bill still frequented the old outhouse down by the old chicken coop. Back then common materials for wiping included corncobs stacked in the corner or the pages of an old Montgomery Ward catalog. We often heard him sing from the comfort of his one-hole 'can'.

Sometimes Grandpa Bill made up his own words or sang parts of church hymns. He sang a few other off-color songs like Jimmy Crack Corn and I Don’t Care—NOW I realize it was a reference to the days of slavery due to lyrics like, the master has gone away. Back then I thought it was just a silly song. Just like Ring Around the Rosey, the lyrics used in the middle of SD in the late 50s smacked of offensive racial remarks. Now it seems kinda hard to believe but it was just the way everyone talked and acted. It is often more obvious in the South but racism (Blacks and Native Americans) had deep roots in the Midwest as well.  Like most prejudice, it as mostly based on stereotypes and hearsay and not the truth. When you tend to stay in your own little pocket in the world, you have no real word experience to see the truth.  Both grandfathers used derogatory terms but neither had a hateful bone in their bodies. It was just the way things were.


Whenever I think of Grandpa Bill I see a wiry white-haired man wearing striped bib overalls and worn out lace-up work boots. Most of my memories show Grandpa Bill as good-hearted with flashes of stubbornness. Most of his bad side came out in his last months when my mom took care of him before he went to a care facility. An ornery streak surfaced. He’d holler for his pee can or his snus cup but half the time he spit his chew on the floor. I remember the disgusting brown tobacco juice dripping down his chin and the smell of urine stains he'd slopped over the container on to the sheet.
Grandpa Bill visiting the pink farm
when he lived in the nursing home.
Although it wasn't his wish, his level of care required a nursing home where he spent the end of his life. I can still see his hunched over shoulders and the white handkerchief always stuffed in his pocket. His body just shriveled up like an oyster. Hiked halfway up his torso, his pants draped from his fragile body leaving less than a foot of his shirt. Adding to the foul smells, brownish wet stains from his chew usually saturated part of his thin western shirt. A second handkerchief often covered his lap to aide in battling dripping tobacco juice.  Sometimes he enjoyed leaving the facility and visiting the farm. But, other times he just sat and stared. Grunting replies more than talking, it was like he awaited death.

The day he died he kept yelling about closing the pasture gate before the horses got out. Flailing his arms as his head turned from side to side he seemed to be herding the horses back into the pasture. Then he'd calm down and change scenes. I could make out some words he said to his mother. I heard him whisper to his dying wife. During his last minutes, he seemed to go back to a time when his body and mind reflected his inner strength.  Maybe he went back to Ruth and Agnes' deaths to let them know he was coming.  Who knows. But he seemed to know what was important. He had his dignity back. For a few minutes anyway.

Considering the wild look in his eyes, the grey color of his sunken in cheeks and his frail broken body, I felt  peace when he died. I was relieved  his suffering ended. It just seemed obvious he was ready to go.  I think I was more bothered by Grandpa Roy's tears than Grandpa Bill’s passing. It was the first time I saw Grandpa Roy cry.  Just a few tears sliding down the rugged cheeks.  No sobs.  But, this was the man I thought was invincible.  Obviously, Grandpa Bill played a special role in his life. Now his father was dead. I think Grandpa Roy was just down to empty when the last of his first family passed.
Dad traveled to Lexington, KY for Andy's senior 
day for UK Wildcats softball team. 

The Day I ALMOST Felt Sorry for a Snake
Grandpa Bill surfaces in many of my childhood memories.  I will never forget the image forged in my mind the day he killed a long fat bull snake. Deb and I lounged between neatly weeded rows eating baby carrots when we tore out of the garden to check on the commotion coming from the barn.
Feeling a little uneasy, my eyes bugged out in fear. Swinging a big bull snake against metal and wood, Grandpa Bill kept whacking it over and over again against the metal bars of the pasture gate. He held the end of the long snake like a whip and kept whapping it until the snake’s mushy head just dangled like a popped balloon.  I obsessed with hating snakes anyway, but witnessing Grandpa’s flash of anger scared me. Not so much the killing of the snake but the vicious tone of his cursing and yelling at the pathetic creature during the massacre grabbed my attention. It seemed so out of character. 
When he noticed us staring at him, he stopped the whipping, dropped what was left of the snake and looked as sheepish as a little kid in trouble.  “That damn thing’ll never bite no one now!” he tried to make himself smile. We found out later the hidden bull snake lashed out at him as he threw down bales from the haymow to feed the horses. The evil snake got disturbed. Although it wasn’t poisonous, it must have scared the crap out of Grandpa Bill! It struck his arm as he knocked it to the wooden slats, stomping and kicking at it.
After it dropped out of the haymow door onto the ground, Grandpa slammed out of the barn, picked up the demon and went to work beating its brains out—if snakes have any brains. Who knows? They don’t have legs.  I hate, hate any kind of snake but somehow I almost felt sorry for this guy who gave his life defending a stupid bale of hay. 
Grandpa Roy holds on to our Shetland pony, 
Bud, as I grab on tight to Deb.

The First of Many Shetland Pony Deception Tricks
Deb and I were great pals but she was a little older and maybe a little smarter. Definitely sneakier. Either that, or she liked to take advantage of me!  Maybe a little of both.  Like the time she guided Bud, our Shetland pony under a tree, shoved a low branch out of her path ducking as it swept back slapping me off the back of  the pony and onto the hard ground.
I still remember the dull throb of my butt as I stood on my stool by the stove 'helping' Grandma Marge cook. In my defense, Grandma scolded Deb not to pull a stunt like that again. But, Grandpa Roy chuckled about it, “You’ll get it figured out, Pattio.”  I supposed I did get smarter at some point but Deb set me up a time or two.




Turtles, Treats, Truth and Other Distractions
I took the fall one time when we decided to go against Grandma Marge’s instructions.  Getting ready for our monthly trip to town for groceries, she told us to change into our good clothes, not to get dirty and wait for her on the porch.  Usually we got to spend a quarter each to go to the movies and get popcorn and a Coke, so going to town was a big deal. 
On that especially hot Saturday Deb coaxed me from the house into the livestock tank to 'swim' with her. Disgusting by most standards, the tank was our own little pool of paradise.  Our pet turtle joined us that Saturday. I remember darting my eyes to stare at his slippery shell when I glimpsed Grandma marching out with hands on hips.  In a slow stern voice she reminded us of her directions. Then she did something I’d never ever experienced with Grandma Marge or Grandpa Roy. She turned her back and walked away! She headed to town without us. It didn’t matter what we said or how much we whined, we stayed home with Grandpa Roy that day. 

I remember when this picture was taken at our old one-room school house during the
fall bizarre. Hanging curtains separated the booths of  different craft items, baked
goods, quilts and all kinds of home-made or farm-grown items.
I was almost as tall as Deb (left). The dresses featured white skirts with red/white
striped square and tops were dark blue with blue belts tied in back. Grandma ordered
these "store-bought" dresses from Montgomery Ward catalog. She made some of our
clothes but most of our "Sunday" outfits were store-bought or made by a seamstress.
Even a teeny, tiny bit of tough love shocked us.  For Grandma and Grandpa, discipline meant getting sent upstairs to our room a few times but nothing too harsh.  Deb’s lot wasn’t as smooth as mine but nothing to make the headlines.  I didn’t understand it back then. I just knew I had it easier than she did. Grandma and Grandpa expected more of her but I always suspected age wasn’t the only reason.
At that time I thought of them as my parents calling them Mom and Dad, just like Deb.  Later, when I found out our biological relationship it all made sense.  They didn’t treat me the same because I wasn’t their daughter.  But, to a kid in second grade I felt desperate to stay in the place where I grew up with the adults I trusted.  I wished for the same treatment as my sister/aunt.  Even if it meant punishment.  It was not to be.  But, that’s another story.
Back to the day of the infamous turtle swim when Grandma made a stand and took charge. Yes, we got into trouble but it turned out to be a memorable day. Grandpa entertained, told jokes and took us with him to the pasture to fix fence.  We took turns trying to punch the post holes deeper.  Like trying to win the prize at a carnival game, we jumped on the puncher, pushed down and struggled to turn the thing.  Deb told me she was stronger than me. So, then I tattled telling Grandpa what she said. Grandpa scolded Deb for teasing me.  Well, not really a scolding. More like a quit making her whine comment, reminding her she was older so she should know better.
One of Grandpa Roy's favorite pictures of 
us taken in the grove. Deb was often my
caretaker and watched out for me.  She was the
leader while I (left) was the listener. I pretty
much believed whatever she said.

True. She was older. Fourteen months older.  She got to go to school and I was too young yet.  We must have been maybe five and six at the time.   Grandpa knew I looked up to Deb; most of the time we were best friends. But this was one of those frustrating days. Looking back, I suppose her anger was more about her poor choice of getting in the tank and less about picking on me. She told me she was sorry.  As soon as Grandpa turned around to work on the fence, Deb stuck out her tongue and put her thumbs in her ears waving her fingers at me. So much for being sorry.
A Woman’s Place before We Knew Better
One Thanksgiving when I was probably five or six, I helped set the kid’s table while Grandma Marge cut up potatoes to boil.  I remember tugging on her apron asking if I could set at the grownup’s table.  I can still see her happy eyes as she laughed and shook her head. 
Our extended family was so large there wasn’t enough room to seat everyone.  The traditional seating order included separate tables for kids.  The kid’s tables were often card tables, coffee tables or TV trays but kids got to eat in the first shift.  The men all gathered around the table for the first shift while the women served them.   When all the kids and the men finished their feasts, it was the women’s turn to sit and eat. They served themselves. Then they did the dishes, cleaning up the entire mess. Most likely eating during the last shift meant cold food with most of the popular side dishes gone. Grandma joked saying eating last was best because you didn’t have to hurry so someone else could eat. Pretty sure none of the men rushed through the meal so the women could have their turn.  When I asked Grandma about it she said that it was just the way it was and always had been. 

Many of those backwards traditions disappeared along with the beloved tradition of our large families gathering as one.  Aunts, uncles, cousins—the whole clan always got together for Christmas.  These days, despite more convenient transportation and faster ways to communicate, my granddaughter wouldn’t even recognize her cousins or great aunts and uncles, let alone enjoy a meaningful relationship with any of them. A sad reflection of our shifting priorities. Somehow the focus on family faded along with so many of our traditions.
Joined by two of grandma's three sisters, Velma Sievers
(front) and Evelyn (Tude) Phillips (back right), Grandma
Marge and Grandpa Roy celebrate their wedding anniversary
at an open house reception in Wessington.
Recognizing the Role of My Grandparents
I guess I never thought about it back then, but most folks—including my family, did the traditional gender role thing granting males superiority.  I don’t remember Grandma Marge and Grandpa Roy ever acting that way; if anything Grandma was the one who wore the bossy pants.  That’s why Deb and I got in on some of Grandpa Roy’s secrets—things like not telling Grandma about the whiskey bottle hiding in the stock tank or under the pickup seat or how he always broke the rules spoiling us with an extra nickel for candy when we went to town of Saturdays.  Maybe he was flawed in some ways, but to me he was the epitome of a truly good-hearted person.  A classy trustworthy man, he knew how to treat people. 
Obviously, he had a few minor issues. We all do.  But, for me Grandpa Roy was like the perfect authority figure.

No one could love kids more, have a better sense of humor or be as patient as Grandpa Roy.  He and Grandma Marge provided the foundation of my philosophy in life. Modeling tolerance, fairness, compassion, loyalty and respect, my grandparents were about as perfect as grandparents could be.  I’ve never met anyone as special as Grandma Marge and Grandpa Roy and I doubt I ever will.  I always appreciated them but for many years I did not realize the extent of their influence on me and my siblings.  My only regret is not telling them often enough how much I loved and appreciated them.

As I got older, Grandpa Roy’s stories about his past got more serious. He talked about how his 'Ma' got really sick from the consumption. She sufferedHe'd never seen his dad (Grandpa Bill) so desperate.  fo find her help.  older sister, Ruth, got sick, coughing up blood.  She died of TB about a year after his mother died of the same disease.  In an effort to save them, Grandpa Bill moved the family to Colorado where the air was supposed to be better for those suffering with tuberculosis.  There was a famous sanitarium there known for their work with the disease. But, it didn’t help.  When he was in his early teens, both his mom and his sister were buried back in South Dakota. While he and Grandpa Bill helplessly watched the two people closest to them die from  an ugly disease, it's hard to imagine what they experienced or how they felt. It must have been hell for both of them. That’s when I understood why Grandpa Bill lived with us. He and his only son went through unbelievable hardships together. I think their grief melded a special kind of life-time bond.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Pink House Christmas Memories

Mom waits for Grandma Marge to
open her present. 
Grandma and Grandpa's old pink house perched at the top of a hill with a driveway wrapping around the weathered house.  Looking like a solid fence line, lilac bushes framed in two sides of the yard. Between the barn and house, a narrow bridge covered the crick.  If you could stop in time or thread the toboggan through the middle, the slope down to the bridge was perfect for sledding.

Depending on the weather, too much rain or snow made the bridge impassable. That hardly ever stopped our extended family from piling into the pink house for Christmas Eve. Trudging through snow, riding on the old John Deere tractor or plowing a new route-nothing seemed too drastic to make it  to Grandpa Roy and Grandma Marge's farm for Christmas.

A few of the old traditions still survive.  Sadly, as kids grew up and families moved away many family traditions disappeared.

On most of those Christmas Eve's their 4 children and their families, adults and kids filled up that house but it never seemed crowded.  Room to sit didn't matter.  What mattered was we were together.  Babies laughing and crying, toddlers tossing old toys out of the  toy box and older kids playing jacks or Pick Up Sticks on the floor blocking traffic-all the sounds swirled around conversation and jokes. 
My parents, Donna and Bud
Heasley.

Before oyster stew, adults gathered in the kitchen for Tom and Jerry's-a type of batter served warm with alcohol. Can't remember if it was brandy, rum or whiskey mixed with hot water, cinnamon and nutmeg but I definitely remember the warm spicy smell.  Later, I discovered the smell was way better than the taste.

Homemade fudge, caramel, divinity, popcorn balls and sugar cookies filled the top of the buffet. Every year Aunt Sally cookies. It was the kind of spread you'd see in a  bakery window. 

All the kids got gifts on Christmas Eve and the adults usually did a gift exchange.  Nothing like the stacks of presents under the tree these days, gifts were sparse with my kids usually opening one or two.  But, they squealed and grinned just as much or more back then compared to their reactions later when I could afford a few more toys. 




Grandpa Roy and Grandma Marge strike a pose in front of the 
infamous fireplace where Grandpa burned paper and gift wrap.
Photographs of that fireplace always makes me think of happy Christmases. 
During family Christmas Eves at the farm we always threw all the wrapping paper on the floor.  Grandpa Roy shoved big wads of all the gift wrap into the fireplace.  A few adults weren't too keen on the idea. Extra smoke and smells filled the air after a few tubs of paper.  Grandma Marge nagged a little, "Roy!  Those sparks could snap out and burn. Be careful." Or, "Roy! Roy! You know better than that!"

One Christmas Eve he proved Grandma was right to be suspicious.  After stuffing in bag after bag of paper Grandpa Roy squinted his eyes trying to look through the screen. "I don't think this damn thing is workin' right." 
About the same time Dad wiped his eyes noticing all the smoke drifting into the kitchen.  Grandpa got chewed out that night.  He forgot to open the flue on the fireplace.  Instead of floating up through the chimney, the smoke filled the rooms downstairs.  Some kids thought it was great.  They held their arms out trying to find people in the fog.  The whole fiasco turned out to be harmless.  After that night, I doubt Grandpa Roy ever forgot to open the flue.





Saturday, August 13

From butter cows to just plain butter, time for Iowa State Fair! (subtitled Blog on a Stick)

Iowa state fair goers are always up for new tasty treats served on a stick. This year the fair introduces the mother of all calorie-laden, hot-grease-drenched, edible items yet to be impaled.


It is (drumroll here) Deep Fried BUTTER . . .  on a stick! You read it correctly. Not sure of the food group but honey battered butter gets a second soaking of grease when it hits the hot oil of the deep fryer resulting in . . . viola! Deep fried butter on a stick!


On the 100th anniversary of the fair’s infamous Butter Cow sculpture on display in the Agriculture Building, the newest on-a-stick invention seems a fitting tribute.

It is the fodder of television comedians across the country. Of course, it gives our rival states even more ammunition for stupid jokes.

It definitely brings new meaning to the T-shirt slogan, "I went to the Iowa State Fair and all I got was . . . diabetes!

It had to be something colossal to outdo last year's chocolate covered bacon . . . on a stick. Deep fried butter on a stick joins newbies peanut butter and jelly on a stick and chocolate covered fried ice cream on a stick. For those who are keeping score, patrons can purchase over 80 on-a-stick foods at the Iowa State Fair.

Count on swarms of politicians

No matter what has happened throughout a given year, in addition to the anticipated foods on a stick, fair goers can count on one other constant. Politicians. They are everywhere. Presidential candidates flip burgers, sing karaoke, scoop some poop, eat stuff on a stick- do whatever they can do to convince voters they're just common folk like anyone else. 

For those crazy enough to actually still WANT to listen to politicians, come on out to the fair.  Caution. Opposing views can end up in screaming matches with threats of shoving foods on a stick in places respectable foods would never go!

As far as politicians go, several United States Presidents have graced the fairgrounds. Current President Trump was at the fair with a helicopter giving kids free rides. President Barrack Obama enjoyed a beer at the fair. With his secret service men, the beer tent was overflowing. Back in the day Herbert Hoover and Dwight Eisenhower attended in 1954. Future President, Ronald Reagan, beat Hoover and Eisenhower to the fair. Broadcasting for WHO radio as the sports director, President Ronald Reagan worked the fair during the 1930s.

The Band Perry performs on an awards show.
Entertainment


For those who don’t want to pop the big bucks for grandstand headliners, check out headline acts on one of the free stages! Superstars, The Band Perry, played free stages at the fair. Featuring 3 siblings, The Band Perry was named 2011’s best new artists by ACM (Academy of Country Music). After playing free stages they returned,to play the grandstand.

The same venue hosted the Oakridge Boys, and Vanilla Ice.  Anderson Erickson Dairy, Budweiser,  are other free stages. From country to rock to hip-hop, the free stages offer a variety of music.  Popular accapella group Pentatonix graduated from free stages to the grandstand.

Over the years the fair has featured the top acts in the country.  A few include: Elvis Presley, Garth Brooks, Johnny Cash, Sonny and Cher, Wayne Newton, and Janet Jackson. Alabama has the record for the numbers


For those longing to dole out more dollars, Grandstand acts include: The Incredible Machine Tour featuring Sugarland with Sara Bareilles, Ronnie Dunn with Steel Magnolia, Train and Maroon 5, Doobie Brothers with Kansas, Deff Leopard with special guests Heart and Evan Watson, Reba with Jerrod Niemann, Janet Jackson, Casting Crowns with Sanctus Real and Jason Aldean with guests Thompson Square and Chris Young.

If you prefer mobile entertainment there is always Bandaloni the One Man Band! He performs several times each day.

Records related to fair entertainment show the biggest crowds attending the Sonny and Cher concert in 1972, Johnny Cash in 1970 and the Beach Boys in 1975 with attendance ranging from 25,300-26,200 fans.

Other interesting Iowa State Fair tidbits?

• Attendance in 2002 topped a million for the first time with 1,008,174 visitors while 2008 holds the record at 1,109,150.

• The hottest day recorded at the fair was August 16, 1983 when the temp climbed 108 degrees Farenheit.

• The first fair in Iowa in 1854 had a budget of $323.

• The fairgrounds cover over 445 acres of land.

Notoriously hot temperatures are expected for those 10 days in August. When I force myself to partake, I like to cheat and ride around on a cozy granny scooter and scare a few visitors. First stop? the air-conditioned Varied Industries Building to pick up free stuff and register for more free stuff. Second? Find favorite food on a stick (AKA a corndog) followed by a beer tent visit.  
Repeat step two as needed. Cruise over to a wine tasting tent. Check out a free free stages. And, avoid deep-fried butter.
Fried macaroni and cheese prior to adding the stick.
 











Wednesday, August 3

Adventures of a drama queen wannabe

Sometimes you gotta admit defeat. That time hasn’t come for this old lady! I will not give up my car keys without a fight . . . or a binding court document.

Summer proved to be a series of perilous adventures as I set out to prove my competency to travel independently. ('Mom, maybe you shouldn’t drive so far by yourself, or Mom, maybe it’s not safe to be on your own in a big city or You are getting pretty old to go there by yourself'). Thanks for the support guys.

After all, I am a good driver. In my driveway. As long as I don’t have to back up very far.

Plus, I have a cane and I know how to use it . . . as a weapon (well, I've heard about it).

Somehow my presence often turns simple tasks into high drama and/or minor ‘accidents’.

Like the case of walking from the car to my house, aka as example # 1: Free Falling

  • Opened front door, musta forgot to step up, fell forward face down on hardwood floor, managed to crawl to base of stairway, tried to pull self up many times, (all while giggling uncontrollably), attempting—without success, not to urinate. Remember daughter trying to help asking, 'Mom, are you okay?'
  • The more I laughed the more puzzled/frustrated/concerned/impatient she became. Then the scolding. 'Mom, you need to pay more attention. Someday you’re going to get hurt and no one will be around to help you and you won't think it's so funny!' Really? Well, guess what people? I didn’t ask for help. I can find clean unders all by myself.
  • *No one was actually hurt during this event unless you count family’s embarrassment at the site of wet spots on floor. But hey, clothing and rugs can be laundered.
I can’t help it if I find soiling oneself to be funny. It’s right up there with watching people fall on the ice . . . or my son with ankle in cast slipping and falling at grocery store when crutch hit wet spot. Too funny. I still giggle just thinking of it . . .

Crutch flies into fresh vegetables, worker dashes over to help, son curses under his breath managing a, 'No problem, I’m okay, thanks for your help' to the employee as he stands up, takes back crutch and hops right by me as he shoots me a dirty look.
How rude. He coulda waited for me to compose myself. That kind of belly laugh with tears streaming down face takes a minute of recovery time.



Or the biking incident known as example #2: No Brakes & Breaking Bones

  • I recall that lazy Sunday afternoon in August . . . Hauling out our new bikes, practicing in the alley before heading to the street, turning the corner and down a hill, gaining speed, gaining more speed, going way too fast, trying to apply brakes on pedal, hearing husband shout, 'the brakes are on handlebars, PJ use the brakes, use the brakes' . . . For some reason I didn’t/couldn’t/wouldn’t. I just remember heading for the cement curb and hoping for the best as I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to see what was gonna happen. That was before the dreaded trip to emergency room when I sounded kinda like a newly wiened puppy whimpering and howling all the way there.
  • After the event of flying over the handlebars, splatting on the sidewalk, bumping my head, looking up to see husband reaching down while laughing . . . my usual calm sensitive self unraveled just a bit.
  • Maybe it was my thoughtful daughter-in-law’s comment upon hearing the news, 'OMG I wish we had it on tape. You flew over handlebars? We coulda won $10,000!' Or other supportive remarks like, 'Now I know what to get you for Christmas—training wheels! or What were YOU doing trying to ride a bike? or Way to make a fool of yourself in front of new neighbors!' or seeing my daughter shake her head while commenting, 'I’d tell you to stick to your stationary exercise bike but you’ll probably figure out a way to tip that over.' Thanks for the props everyone.
  • Or just maybe my pitiful tears were related to a broken collarbone! I can’t always deliver spectacular stunts without a few injuries/broken bones.
  • After a week in a sling (dr: 'These things usually heal on their own, take these pills and you’ll be fine'), teasing from fam ('C’mon suck it up, Geez I didn’t know you were such a baby, or There’s no crying in bicycle riding') I gimped back to the clinic. Hmmm. Still broken apart.
  • Next I went under the knife, with insertion of platinum screw in shoulder, then sent from recovery to room for overnight hospital stay. I sorta recall the nurse saying, . . .'expect some pain, lots of poking and prodding, hard to get bone back together again.' First, I giggled thinking of Humpty Dumpty. Then I remember staring at the long hand, waiting for it to get to the 12 so I could press my trusty morphine pump. Next came sleeping and itching, and itching some more. Yet, all of it paled compared to the REAL drama about to unfold that fateful night.
  • I opened my eyes in time to get flashed by new roommate’s tattoed butt as the nurse helped her stumble into bathroom. Next, I overheard loud phone conversation with boyfriend ('I’m so strung out, you need to get tested, they put a tube in there, my vagina . . . dripping'). Lovely. Besides discovering roomie/homeless/stripper/delinquent teenager possessed nasty STD AND my pain meds she discovered on my tray, the blaring sounds of Saturday morning cartoons jolted me awake at 5AM. That was it. Time for confrontation!
  • ME: 'Could you please turn down the TV? I just had surgery and I am trying to sleep'.
  • ROOMIE: Nothing. Then TV got louder.
  • ME: thinking to self  'I should pull back curtain and kick her ass', I repeated: 'Hi there, excuse me. Don’t you think the TV is a little loud'?
  • ROOMIE: (my stinging words caused action as she flung back curtain) 'Hey stupid old hag. If I thought it was too loud I woulda turned it down! Duh'. Curtain closed again.
  • Okay then . . . well, the big hand on the clock went past the 12. Squeeze.
  • I probably scared her away cuz when I woke up the bed was empty. The nurse entered room.
  • ME: 'So, is it safe to use the same toilet seat considering roomie has STD'?
  • NURSE: 'I can’t share confidential information about another patient’s diagnosis'.
  • ME: 'Um. Well, did you know she asked me if I would give her my script for pain pills'?
  • NURSE: Sits on edge of bed like we’re old buds, leans over. 'Doesn’t surprise me. She’s been in here before. No insurance. No money. Problems with drugs and alcohol. Works across the river as a stripper, probably a hooker. Long, long list of partners'.
  • Great. So much for confidential info vs. the urge to gossip.
Anyway, sure I’ve experienced a few setbacks. Most people are not perfect. All of us slow down a bit as we age. Okay, maybe not as slow as hitting the ball all the way to the left field fence and still getting thrown out at first slow but then I was never known for my speed on the bases.

Sure, a few embarrassing moments happened to me. Maybe every teacher doesn’t leave the restroom with her skirt tucked in to the back of her panty hose revealing a bulgy backside to the world (twice at two different schools) but it does happen.

Maybe every single mom doesn’t empty contents of large purse at checkout in search of checkbook to discover a dirty fork stabbed into a half-eaten moldy dill pickle.

Maybe every mother doesn’t have the ninja thinking skills to implement a quick kick to the object when her two-year-old’s hard ball of warm poop drops to the cold tiled floor in the center aisle of the packed clinic. But, it pretty much worked. Rolled under a chair.
I planned to rescue the lonely poo to flush it after we saw the doctor only to find it missing. Hey, that was back in the day of droopy cloth diapers way before the fancy disposables.
Everybody poops. Ask Forest Gump. It happens.

As usual, I ramble. Back to the summer of two aught aught and eleven. But now it is three in the morning. Must close eyes and tell those tales another time.