Way back almost twenty years ago, I served a mission for my church in Spokane Washington. There was a serial killer at large at that point and my first glimpse upon leaving the airport was a giant billboard asking for any information one might have concerning the murders. They did not catch him while I was there. Also, a volcano had erupted on the other side of the mountain (i.e. other volcanoes in the chain) barely fifteen years before. "That was long before you got there," you might say. "There's nothing to worry about." Yeah, don't care. It was in my lifetime, thus not long enough ago, but I digress.
One of the areas I served in was Post Falls, ID. Yes, I know that's not Washington, but it's only half an hour away. It's a Mormon thing.
Anyway, I met a family there whom I still love to this day. They had a dog named Shasta. Up until my mission, Shasta was a brand of soda. While in Washington I met a Shasta (girl), a Shasta (dog) and learned about a Shasta (mountain). So much Shasta.
So Shasta, the dog, was pretty chill. She had been with Steve and Jodi before there was a Steve. Shasta was a constant source of comfort to Jodi during troubled times. Shortly after I went home, Shasta went to "the farm" and Jodi swore there would be no more dogs for the Nelson family.
I got married, had kids and came back to visit a couple of times. While I was adding children, the Nelsons changed their minds and added a black and white pup they called Oreo to their family. Oreo Cookie Nelson, so dubbed by their daughter Emily was one of the first dogs my children had ever really encountered. They were terrified, but Jodi told them it was Oreo's house, and after a day to adjust they calmed down. It's kind of Jodi's fault we've had the doggy debacle repeat in our home for so many years. It's a long, nonsensical story which, if I told you'd be inclined to tell me I'm wrong. Thus I'm not telling the story.
Years passed, as they are wont to do, and Oreo went to "the farm", too. They have since welcomed a new four legged friend, Adelaide Pantalones. The Nelsons aren't dog people, they are a dog people. There seems to be only two camps of people, those who hate dogs and those who love them, so it is interesting to find a happy medium in our all-or-nothing world. I really like that.
Lastly, and here is my point, their daughter Emily was six when I met them and but for a sprinkling of years there was always a dog at her side. Now that she's grown, she has continued the tradition. Her dog Jax has been a constant, comforting presence to Emily through some exceedingly troubled times as well. I am told he is an awesome dog.
It's almost like Shasta never went away.
Thursday, July 6, 2017
Saturday, July 1, 2017
The Rains In Spain...
Fall mostly on the day we finally get the chemicals balanced in the pool.
Once upon a time, the Davidson clan embarked on one of our yearly "build a fence for a friend" projects. Since the girls had already earned all the monies they needed for girl's camp, we decided some of the fence building proceeds would be used for Moe's cub scout camp. This left us with enough for one big, family sized toy or six small that-was-a lot-of-work-for-nothing toys.
Don't get me wrong, it was a chunk of change, but split six ways, not so much. Thus when Mr. D and I found ourselves of the same mind, it was settled. We decided to purchase an above ground pool. We found one at Costco that fit the bill, but here's the thing - the cost of having a pool is way more than just the cost of the pool. There are chemicals and various accouterments, plus water and electricity because the pool doesn't fill itself and the filter doesn't run on air. These were all things we considered and we decided we had sufficiently counted the cost.
We most definitely undershot the cost.
The first gut punch came when Mr.D insisted we level the ground where we planned to put the pool. As I've mentioned before, he's a "read the directions" kinda guy while I'm a "throw it together, it can't be that hard" kinda woman. But this was a big investment so I didn't make a lot of noise until he rented a ground scalper from Home Depot. My heart dropped to my feet, not so much because of the rental fee (though it was comparatively substantial), but because of what he did to my yard. My beautiful, green-grassed, minimal weed lawn.
After slicing a swath of greenery from my yard, Mr. D was pretty pleased, but I was beginning to think we'd made a mistake. However, it was too late to change my mind, so we put down the tarp and set up the pool. It was about this time we realized, the scalping was just a hair (ha!) too narrow so we ended up taking a shovel to the outside edges.
So where does displaced sod go, you ask? Because it doesn't just disappear. Well, our displaced sod rested on the side of the pool for a week until we decided we should use it to fill some bald (Ha! again!) patches in the yard, but just so you know, that mess is heavy.
Cost unaccounted for:
One sod cutter rental
One massive swath of grass removed
One afternoon of moving said grass
After finally getting the pool situated, we began to fill it with water. I was sure our water bill would double the next month, but it wasn't bad until the second gut punch landed. That's not completely accurate. Gut punch insinuates a quick jab. This has been a long, slow, noggin rub because even though the pool came with a filter, skimmer and hose, the filter has either had to work harder than the manufacturer ever intended or it's a pitiful filter. I can't decide which.
Maybe it's because, even though we placed the water hole of aggravation right next to the patio, the children still manage to haul in buckets of dirt every time they get in the water, and they are in an out of that thing like something people would go in an out of excessively. I can't think of anything right now.
Anyway, the first week of pool ownership found the water clear and beautiful, the chemicals were perfectly balanced, the children spent most of the day outside, and all was right with the world. Then it rained...and rained...and just to mix things up, rained some more and my crystal clear water was but a murky memory.
We added a little of this, and a little of that, then a little more of this because that knocked the other out of balance. It was madness. We shocked that thing so often it was verging on obscene. One should not go through an entire bottle of shock in three days, but it wasn't enough. So we added water, we back washed the filter, we made offerings to the pool gods, but nothing worked.
About that time I realized there was a veritable mudhole lingering at the bottom of the pool so my grey matter thinks, "maybe getting some of that crap out will make a difference." So I hooked up the vacuum attachment. Oh the humanity.
The vacuum will not suck unless every single air bubble is expunged. Every. Single. Bubble. So after half an hour of bleeding that thing like a medieval surgeon, I attempt the clean up the muck. That vacuum sucks, and not the way it was intended.
It seemed like it was working until I realized all it was doing was stirring everything up like Nightmare Kool-Aid, so I left it alone to settle. Actually I threw the hose into the pool and stomped away in disgust. The next day the water was clear, but the bottom was gross again, so I ran the vacuum...again. Again there was dirt Kool-Aid enough to hydrate the neighborhood, but no indication of actual dirt removal.
Cost Unaccounted for:
Extreme aggravation
Loss of two hours of life to futility
As a last ditch effort, I asked the man to purchase a pool vacuum that works independent of the filter. I would like to say it was a different experience. I'd like to say it was a miracle, and everything has come together in a magical swirl of wonder. I'd like to say those things but I can't...
Because it's raining.
Once upon a time, the Davidson clan embarked on one of our yearly "build a fence for a friend" projects. Since the girls had already earned all the monies they needed for girl's camp, we decided some of the fence building proceeds would be used for Moe's cub scout camp. This left us with enough for one big, family sized toy or six small that-was-a lot-of-work-for-nothing toys.
Don't get me wrong, it was a chunk of change, but split six ways, not so much. Thus when Mr. D and I found ourselves of the same mind, it was settled. We decided to purchase an above ground pool. We found one at Costco that fit the bill, but here's the thing - the cost of having a pool is way more than just the cost of the pool. There are chemicals and various accouterments, plus water and electricity because the pool doesn't fill itself and the filter doesn't run on air. These were all things we considered and we decided we had sufficiently counted the cost.
We most definitely undershot the cost.
The first gut punch came when Mr.D insisted we level the ground where we planned to put the pool. As I've mentioned before, he's a "read the directions" kinda guy while I'm a "throw it together, it can't be that hard" kinda woman. But this was a big investment so I didn't make a lot of noise until he rented a ground scalper from Home Depot. My heart dropped to my feet, not so much because of the rental fee (though it was comparatively substantial), but because of what he did to my yard. My beautiful, green-grassed, minimal weed lawn.
After slicing a swath of greenery from my yard, Mr. D was pretty pleased, but I was beginning to think we'd made a mistake. However, it was too late to change my mind, so we put down the tarp and set up the pool. It was about this time we realized, the scalping was just a hair (ha!) too narrow so we ended up taking a shovel to the outside edges.
So where does displaced sod go, you ask? Because it doesn't just disappear. Well, our displaced sod rested on the side of the pool for a week until we decided we should use it to fill some bald (Ha! again!) patches in the yard, but just so you know, that mess is heavy.
Cost unaccounted for:
One sod cutter rental
One massive swath of grass removed
One afternoon of moving said grass
After finally getting the pool situated, we began to fill it with water. I was sure our water bill would double the next month, but it wasn't bad until the second gut punch landed. That's not completely accurate. Gut punch insinuates a quick jab. This has been a long, slow, noggin rub because even though the pool came with a filter, skimmer and hose, the filter has either had to work harder than the manufacturer ever intended or it's a pitiful filter. I can't decide which.
Maybe it's because, even though we placed the water hole of aggravation right next to the patio, the children still manage to haul in buckets of dirt every time they get in the water, and they are in an out of that thing like something people would go in an out of excessively. I can't think of anything right now.
Anyway, the first week of pool ownership found the water clear and beautiful, the chemicals were perfectly balanced, the children spent most of the day outside, and all was right with the world. Then it rained...and rained...and just to mix things up, rained some more and my crystal clear water was but a murky memory.
We added a little of this, and a little of that, then a little more of this because that knocked the other out of balance. It was madness. We shocked that thing so often it was verging on obscene. One should not go through an entire bottle of shock in three days, but it wasn't enough. So we added water, we back washed the filter, we made offerings to the pool gods, but nothing worked.
About that time I realized there was a veritable mudhole lingering at the bottom of the pool so my grey matter thinks, "maybe getting some of that crap out will make a difference." So I hooked up the vacuum attachment. Oh the humanity.
The vacuum will not suck unless every single air bubble is expunged. Every. Single. Bubble. So after half an hour of bleeding that thing like a medieval surgeon, I attempt the clean up the muck. That vacuum sucks, and not the way it was intended.
It seemed like it was working until I realized all it was doing was stirring everything up like Nightmare Kool-Aid, so I left it alone to settle. Actually I threw the hose into the pool and stomped away in disgust. The next day the water was clear, but the bottom was gross again, so I ran the vacuum...again. Again there was dirt Kool-Aid enough to hydrate the neighborhood, but no indication of actual dirt removal.
Cost Unaccounted for:
Extreme aggravation
Loss of two hours of life to futility
As a last ditch effort, I asked the man to purchase a pool vacuum that works independent of the filter. I would like to say it was a different experience. I'd like to say it was a miracle, and everything has come together in a magical swirl of wonder. I'd like to say those things but I can't...
Because it's raining.
Friday, June 30, 2017
The Impossible Dream...
Renee Palmer wants to know how to fight with your teenager...and win.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
That is not a thing humanly possible because teen brains are under-developed which is why they think they know everything. Sadly, this is also true of some adults, but the adults can't claim the same affliction. These people are known as "annoying" and the only cure for them is to steadfastly ignore them (still talking about adults here).
I have a sister who is fourteen years younger than me, thus I was married with four children before she graduated high school. I told her many many times (much to her chagrin) that she wouldn't even be a human being, much less an adult, until she was at least twenty. She bristled every time it came up and she would come back with the fact that Texas considered her an adult when she turned 18. Then I would remind her that Texas didn't know her, because if he did he'd totally change his mind. Texas just wants more eligible voters, which is really all being eighteen means.
She's twenty six now, and has embraced my wisdom, and in weaker moments will even say so out loud.
To be fair there are teenagers who can be more level headed, but they are still teenagers and prone to basic stupidity on occasion. One can use subliminal messages when communicating with teen aged offspring. I haven't mastered that, but my mom was a pro. For example, let's say you are at a graduation party for a sibling when your mom says, "now, you're the only one who need a degree to be like your siblings." It is most effective when said with a great big, oblivious smile.
Reverse psychology can be an effective technique because the average teenager will always do the opposite of what you want. For example: Timmy is running with a large knife. Why? Because Timmy is sixteen and has limited understanding of cause and effect. You, as his parent, see the various and sundry end to his beginning and yell (with a sense of urgency), "Timmy don't run with that knife," which is a guaranteed trip to the E.R.
However, and this takes an immense amount of control on your part because it has to seem like you don't care, you purse your lips and declare, "if you cut your fool self, I'ma make you sew yourself up," he will most likely cease and desist. It's still a crap shoot.
Arguing with a teenager is exactly like arguing with a two year old. Yes, teenagers have a larger vocabulary and can slam a door like a pro, but they have about as much sense and grasp of logic as your run-of-the-mill toddler, so meaningful debate is just as pointless. You would get more satisfaction arguing with the wall because at least the wall doesn't talk back. The super beauty in wall-talking is that you don't have to hear phrases such as "on fleek," or "you're so basic," or my personal favorite, being "lit." What? Why? Just stop it.
When did I get old?
So here's what you have to ask yourself. Do you want to be right or do you want to have peace, because you'll never be right, even when you are. Teenagers will hold to their view like a grenade without a pin. It may seem like your teen is trying to spite you, but he is really just trying to assert the independence and individuality you are trying to teach them. They just aren't mature enough to express those thoughts intelligently. Cause they're dumb, see?
So it's kind of our fault. If we'd stop teaching them to think for themselves the struggle would be over, but then they'd never move out, so there's that.
I'm sorry, Renee. You will never be able to argue with your teenager and win, but you can take comfort in the knowledge that one day he will also argue with a contrary teenager. You may even be so lucky as to be the parent who gets an apology when he recognizes he was a butthead (over the phone because its two in the morning).
It's the circle of life.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
That is not a thing humanly possible because teen brains are under-developed which is why they think they know everything. Sadly, this is also true of some adults, but the adults can't claim the same affliction. These people are known as "annoying" and the only cure for them is to steadfastly ignore them (still talking about adults here).
I have a sister who is fourteen years younger than me, thus I was married with four children before she graduated high school. I told her many many times (much to her chagrin) that she wouldn't even be a human being, much less an adult, until she was at least twenty. She bristled every time it came up and she would come back with the fact that Texas considered her an adult when she turned 18. Then I would remind her that Texas didn't know her, because if he did he'd totally change his mind. Texas just wants more eligible voters, which is really all being eighteen means.
She's twenty six now, and has embraced my wisdom, and in weaker moments will even say so out loud.
To be fair there are teenagers who can be more level headed, but they are still teenagers and prone to basic stupidity on occasion. One can use subliminal messages when communicating with teen aged offspring. I haven't mastered that, but my mom was a pro. For example, let's say you are at a graduation party for a sibling when your mom says, "now, you're the only one who need a degree to be like your siblings." It is most effective when said with a great big, oblivious smile.
Reverse psychology can be an effective technique because the average teenager will always do the opposite of what you want. For example: Timmy is running with a large knife. Why? Because Timmy is sixteen and has limited understanding of cause and effect. You, as his parent, see the various and sundry end to his beginning and yell (with a sense of urgency), "Timmy don't run with that knife," which is a guaranteed trip to the E.R.
However, and this takes an immense amount of control on your part because it has to seem like you don't care, you purse your lips and declare, "if you cut your fool self, I'ma make you sew yourself up," he will most likely cease and desist. It's still a crap shoot.
Arguing with a teenager is exactly like arguing with a two year old. Yes, teenagers have a larger vocabulary and can slam a door like a pro, but they have about as much sense and grasp of logic as your run-of-the-mill toddler, so meaningful debate is just as pointless. You would get more satisfaction arguing with the wall because at least the wall doesn't talk back. The super beauty in wall-talking is that you don't have to hear phrases such as "on fleek," or "you're so basic," or my personal favorite, being "lit." What? Why? Just stop it.
When did I get old?
So here's what you have to ask yourself. Do you want to be right or do you want to have peace, because you'll never be right, even when you are. Teenagers will hold to their view like a grenade without a pin. It may seem like your teen is trying to spite you, but he is really just trying to assert the independence and individuality you are trying to teach them. They just aren't mature enough to express those thoughts intelligently. Cause they're dumb, see?
So it's kind of our fault. If we'd stop teaching them to think for themselves the struggle would be over, but then they'd never move out, so there's that.
I'm sorry, Renee. You will never be able to argue with your teenager and win, but you can take comfort in the knowledge that one day he will also argue with a contrary teenager. You may even be so lucky as to be the parent who gets an apology when he recognizes he was a butthead (over the phone because its two in the morning).
It's the circle of life.
Bless Their Heart...
Carrie Lacey asked a hard hitting question about politics
and trying to be friends with someone that has opposing views.
Deep breaths...
Well Carrie, politics is a touchy subject that when touched
upon often leads to more painful touching. So where to start? Firstly, there is
only one person in the entire world you (and any other person in the entire
world) can control. That person is you. Even if one has children, one cannot
control them. Oh, one can control the child's actions to some extent, but even
that control is an illusion. Think of siblings who have had the very same
upbringing yet grow into completely opposite adults and their parents
wondering, "what the hell!? I know we taught him better than that!"
That being said, wouldn't the world be very boring if we all
thought the same way about everything? It would be very sad, truly because in
all things there are different perspectives. One person could not possibly
conceive of all the ins, outs and intricacies of life.
I have a dear friend whose only area of commonality was that
our children were in kindergarten together, but I wanted to be her friend. We
don't share religious views, we have different lifestyles and we couldn't be
more different, but I love her. Not her religious views, not her lifestyle, not
her politics, her. And because she didn't see things exactly the way I did, my
views expanded. It didn't change the way I believed, but I saw her value.
The problem with politics, I think, is two fold. The first
being is it is difficult to understand where another person is coming from when
we don't have the same life experiences. If one person grows up in a two parent
household, it is difficult for the person who's parents are still together to
really understand certain concerns.
For example: Mr. D's parents have been married for over
forty years. To each other. My parents separated when I was 11 and divorced
when I was 13. Even my mother's second marriage was a debacle. So when Mr. D
and I hit fourteen years some time back, I was a mess the entire year. Even
though we were no where near the dire straits of my parents (remember they were
separated for two years before) it still was the place where my parents fell
apart. This is the conversation I had with Mr. D as that anniversary rolled
around.
Me: "Babe, I want you to know that even though we are
not my parents, I may be a little sensitive for a bit. It has nothing to do
with you, it's all in my head, but I thought you should know."
Him: "But we're nothing like your parents."
Me: "I'm pretty sure I just said that."
Him: "Well just don't think that way."
Me: "Well gosh, why didn't I think of that?"
Him: "What can I do to help?"
Me: "Just be who you are. It's something I have to work
through."
Him: "I don't understand."
Me: "I gathered."
The point is from where we stand things seem pretty straight
forward and logical, but the other person feels the same way about their point
of view. We don't hand out questionnaires when we embark on friendships. We
generally strike up with people with similar (read not exact) interests, but
it's our differences that keep things interesting.
The second problem lies in how we deal with those
differences. It is the lions share of the problem because we as a people have
forgotten how to discuss our differences like adults. Instead we start calling
names and questioning intelligence like we never left high school. I can
promise you, no one who has been told they are dumber than a sack of hammers
has EVER stopped and said, "you know what? You're right, I am dumber than
a sack of hammers. I see things in a whole new light. Thank you, thank you, for
saving me from my incredible incompetence and clearly misguided notions."
Never happens.
For example, I was once asked out by a boy who I worked
with. We talked a bit and generally enjoyed these conversations. So imagine my
disgust when he, having just asked me out, turned and walked away when he
learned I was Mormon. I'm Mormon, not a Nazi war criminal, but his entire view
changed. Everything he liked about me disappeared and all he could see was what
he felt was an unacceptable (religious) belief. We didn't have to get married,
but to go from friends to strangers in a matter of minutes was kinda rude. The
best way to be friends with persons whose political views are different than
yours is to remember the things you love about them.
If two opposing views can be respectfully discussed, by all
means, proceed. If one of you decides to roll in the mud, bless their heart and
change the subject because when you roll with pigs you get dirty too. For
example:
Bless his (ignorant heart), he couldn't find his way out of
a wet paper bag with a map and a compass.
Bless her (melodramatic) heart. It's so hard when she isn't
the center of attention.
Bless his (downer) heart. He got peanut butter and jelly in
his lunch again.
Bless her (willfully stupid) heart. She still thinks the
world is flat.
One invokes blessing of hearts when one has encountered a
confounding situation. It can be used when dealing with the ignorant, the drama
queen (a gender-less behavior), the downer and yes, the willfully stupid.
The Bless your/his/her/their heart works like this: the
Blesser presses her lips together as she remembers her commitment to stay out
of the aforementioned mud and verbally or mentally blesses the blessee.
Here's where it gets tricky. If the person who's heart you
are blessing is from the south, do not, I repeat DO NOT bless their heart out
loud. And whatever you do, remember allowing yourself to be pulled into
pointless debates only ruins your day. Some people can't understand, some
people don't understand and some people won't understand.
If you (the reader) are the bringer of contention, shame on
you. I thought I taught you better than that.
So when we are friends with people who have different
political views (or any opposing views, really) than our own, does it mean we
have to agree with those views? Not remotely, but we can disagree without being
disagreeable. Novel concept, I know, but it's amazing when put into practice.
And all arguments absolutely require a minimum of two people.
One more point: blanket statements are my pet peeve. They
are completely inaccurate, but are constantly draped over anyone the blanketer
disagrees with. STOP IT! Nobody ever "always" or "nevers".
Hope this helps.
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
My Husbands Girlfriend...s
I believe I've covered the subject of my husbands other significant other before. Her name is Zelda and they were together long before he and I were a couple so I've done my best to ignore her continued intrusions into my life. He's introduced the harlot to my son and they often will spend time with her together. Her most recent arrival was in Breath of the Wild.
My boys love it/her, so I bide my time until they remember they should eat and shower sometimes and they come up for air.
Now there is a new woman in our home. Her name is Alexa and she is the bane of my existence.
It started innocently enough. Mr. D commented a few days before Father's Day, his desire to get a device called a Dot. The Dot is a ridiculous device conceived by some ultra lazy individual who found google too taxing and took it to the next level. So instead of taking your phone from your pocket or even, heaven forbid, turning your head slightly to the left to find the time on the microwave, stovetop or wall clock, you can say, "Alexa, what is the time?" And she will tell you what time it is.
When my man brought her home (apparently he was serious) she was asked various and sundry questions. She tells jokes, she sings songs, she spoils movies. She does all the things unless I'm the one asking the question...and all of a sudden, she's dumb as dirt.
I heard her name bellowed through the house no less than a hundred times a day for the first few days. When she gave a wrong answer a second bellow would ring through the air. "Alexa stop!" They yelled more at her than they did the idiot twins and that's saying something.
The shine has gone off the penny however. She and her all encompassing knowledge have fallen silent and now she more just collects dust as she takes up space.
Like the idiot twins.
My boys love it/her, so I bide my time until they remember they should eat and shower sometimes and they come up for air.
Now there is a new woman in our home. Her name is Alexa and she is the bane of my existence.
It started innocently enough. Mr. D commented a few days before Father's Day, his desire to get a device called a Dot. The Dot is a ridiculous device conceived by some ultra lazy individual who found google too taxing and took it to the next level. So instead of taking your phone from your pocket or even, heaven forbid, turning your head slightly to the left to find the time on the microwave, stovetop or wall clock, you can say, "Alexa, what is the time?" And she will tell you what time it is.
When my man brought her home (apparently he was serious) she was asked various and sundry questions. She tells jokes, she sings songs, she spoils movies. She does all the things unless I'm the one asking the question...and all of a sudden, she's dumb as dirt.
I heard her name bellowed through the house no less than a hundred times a day for the first few days. When she gave a wrong answer a second bellow would ring through the air. "Alexa stop!" They yelled more at her than they did the idiot twins and that's saying something.
The shine has gone off the penny however. She and her all encompassing knowledge have fallen silent and now she more just collects dust as she takes up space.
Like the idiot twins.
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
My Dog Bluto...
My brothers and I had a dog when we were kids. He was a black lab mix of some kind. My dad said he was a Heinz 57. If anyone understands that reference, please send me an email because I don't get it. Anyway, my dad used to say that Bluto was a dumb dog, but looking back he was a lot smarter than we gave him credit.
For example: We lived in trailer in the backwoods of Nemo Texas for a bit when I was really young. The trailer was down a country road off a rural highway, if that paints the picture any clearer. So we had what one could call a circular driveway which really meant if we were coming in from town, we pulled in on the left, and if we were coming up from Gramma's house, down the hill at the end of the road, we pulled in on the right. There was a group of three trees that separated the two paths so we could pull all the way around and never have to reverse. Yay!
Bluto's whole life revolved around us kids, I assume, because whenever we went into town he was always waiting for us at the beginning of the gravel road. Always. When he saw our rust colored van turn onto the gravel road, he'd race us home. My parents would actually endanger our lives on the unsteady gravel path to try and beat this dog back to the house. Now, if we passed the first entry, he knew we were headed to Gramma's, and he'd hit the gas and give it all he had to make it down the hill before us.
One day my mom noticed Bluto slowing down as we neared the driveway, and she punched the gas pedal. Bluto sped up, and then she hit the breaks and abruptly swerved into the second driveway. He was halfway down the road when he saw us stop, so he dropped to his butt to the ground and slid along the sharp, pebbly gravel to a painful butt burning stop. We had a good laugh, poor dog, but after that he made sure we'd passed both turn ins before he'd give it his all. That doesn't seem like a dumb dog to me.
We took him with us when we moved to The Farm and he followed us kids through all of our shenanigans. He was the only adult who knew where we were at any given time. One time the four of us were running through the woods when Bluto caught sight of a squirrel and quickly chased it up a tree. The squirrel weaved around the trunk like it was drunk then abruptly dropped dead. It fell to the ground where the boys and I crouched over to study it, awed that it had just died like that, when it jumped up and latched on to Jerry's thumb! Jerry started screaming and waving his arm around in an effort to removed the squirrel and Bluto was jumping around trying to grab the squirrel from the air.
Jerry decided to move the circus closer to home and started running back to the hogan screaming as he waved his arm around with Bluto close behind jumping and chomping while the rest of us fell in and followed behind.
By the time Jerry reached the hogan, I guess the squirrel had truly hit it's limit and dropped dead, for real. I can't remember which parent came out to see what all the screaming was about, but I do remember my dad taking a pocket knife to the squirrel's face and finding white foam in it's cheek. They sent the carcass to a lab to test for rabies. Jerry dodged that bullet, but his thumb was swollen for what seemed like forever.
Bluto was a good dog. We left him on The Farm when my mom packed us up and moved us out. I wonder what happened to him. He was always friendly with the other dogs in the neighborhood, sometimes too friendly if you catch my drift. I know he took a bullet for it on one occasion. I wish we'd taken him with us, but he was happy on The Farm so I guess it made more sense that he live out the rest of his days in a place where he could run free and impregnate with reckless abandon. I mean, why not, the cats did.
For example: We lived in trailer in the backwoods of Nemo Texas for a bit when I was really young. The trailer was down a country road off a rural highway, if that paints the picture any clearer. So we had what one could call a circular driveway which really meant if we were coming in from town, we pulled in on the left, and if we were coming up from Gramma's house, down the hill at the end of the road, we pulled in on the right. There was a group of three trees that separated the two paths so we could pull all the way around and never have to reverse. Yay!
Bluto's whole life revolved around us kids, I assume, because whenever we went into town he was always waiting for us at the beginning of the gravel road. Always. When he saw our rust colored van turn onto the gravel road, he'd race us home. My parents would actually endanger our lives on the unsteady gravel path to try and beat this dog back to the house. Now, if we passed the first entry, he knew we were headed to Gramma's, and he'd hit the gas and give it all he had to make it down the hill before us.
One day my mom noticed Bluto slowing down as we neared the driveway, and she punched the gas pedal. Bluto sped up, and then she hit the breaks and abruptly swerved into the second driveway. He was halfway down the road when he saw us stop, so he dropped to his butt to the ground and slid along the sharp, pebbly gravel to a painful butt burning stop. We had a good laugh, poor dog, but after that he made sure we'd passed both turn ins before he'd give it his all. That doesn't seem like a dumb dog to me.
We took him with us when we moved to The Farm and he followed us kids through all of our shenanigans. He was the only adult who knew where we were at any given time. One time the four of us were running through the woods when Bluto caught sight of a squirrel and quickly chased it up a tree. The squirrel weaved around the trunk like it was drunk then abruptly dropped dead. It fell to the ground where the boys and I crouched over to study it, awed that it had just died like that, when it jumped up and latched on to Jerry's thumb! Jerry started screaming and waving his arm around in an effort to removed the squirrel and Bluto was jumping around trying to grab the squirrel from the air.
Jerry decided to move the circus closer to home and started running back to the hogan screaming as he waved his arm around with Bluto close behind jumping and chomping while the rest of us fell in and followed behind.
By the time Jerry reached the hogan, I guess the squirrel had truly hit it's limit and dropped dead, for real. I can't remember which parent came out to see what all the screaming was about, but I do remember my dad taking a pocket knife to the squirrel's face and finding white foam in it's cheek. They sent the carcass to a lab to test for rabies. Jerry dodged that bullet, but his thumb was swollen for what seemed like forever.
Bluto was a good dog. We left him on The Farm when my mom packed us up and moved us out. I wonder what happened to him. He was always friendly with the other dogs in the neighborhood, sometimes too friendly if you catch my drift. I know he took a bullet for it on one occasion. I wish we'd taken him with us, but he was happy on The Farm so I guess it made more sense that he live out the rest of his days in a place where he could run free and impregnate with reckless abandon. I mean, why not, the cats did.
Monday, February 27, 2017
That Time I Got Stitches...
I have several siblings, but of the three I grew up with, all four of us required stitches at one time in our childhood and every time it could be trace back to the doings of one brother. Every. Single. Time.
My brothers are Jerry, Jay and Wayne. These are not the names my mother gave them, but are monikers they applied to each other. It is a long and sordid path that takes us to the origins of these names and is thus a post for another day.
Anyhoo, one day whilst living on The Farm, my brothers and I were playing that classic game called "drop big rocks to splash each other with puddle water." The goal was simple, see how muddy you could make your opponent before the puddle ran out of water. So much wholesome fun.
So, I had tossed my rock into the puddle and was reaching out to pick it back up when Jerry dropped his rock right on top of it. Unfortunately, my hand was sandwiched between the two. To be more accurate, it was smashed.
Now I remember jerking my hand from the rocks and being fairly appalled at the shape of my ring finger. I also remember being hoarse having just had a bout with a cold. My cries were more of a raspy "ahhh" than a robust shriek. I clutched my hand to my chest and ran back to the hogan (what we called the main house. Not nearly as cool or functional as a legit hogan.) where my Mom met us at the door. I showed her my mess of a finger and she kinda turned white. She quickly bandaged my hand and wrapped it around a jack o'lantern shaped bean bag she'd made. She used to be super crafty so it was a handy tool.
Once more we headed into town to the doctor. This time his office was on the other side of the highway. The wait wasn't nearly as long and my mom stayed with me the whole time. (One point for mom!) I got three stitches in my ring finger. It took months and months for the swelling to go down. My mom said several times that she wondered if I was ever going to be able to get married because it would be so hard to put a ring on that finger. (Minus one point from mom!)
Jerry had caused stitches in the other two siblings years before, so I guess it was my turn. Thankfully, he ran out of siblings...for a time.
He never caused stitches in the three siblings that followed, (many moons later) but one day when our sister was about two, he was playing with a purple Barney Rubble figure he'd found in a box of Fruity Pebbles. He'd tied a string around Barney's neck and was swinging it around his head when my sister's dad said, "you better stop that or someones gonna get hurt." Jerry barely got, "nothing's gonna happen," out of his mouth when the string slipped from his hand and Barney sailed across the room where he bounced off of Baby's noggin. Step dad watched the trajectory of the the toy and Jerry had disappeared before he could look back.
And in spite of it all I still managed to get married. Thank heavens for different ring sizes. Allowing the fat fingered woman the chance to marry since rings became a thing!
My brothers are Jerry, Jay and Wayne. These are not the names my mother gave them, but are monikers they applied to each other. It is a long and sordid path that takes us to the origins of these names and is thus a post for another day.
Anyhoo, one day whilst living on The Farm, my brothers and I were playing that classic game called "drop big rocks to splash each other with puddle water." The goal was simple, see how muddy you could make your opponent before the puddle ran out of water. So much wholesome fun.
So, I had tossed my rock into the puddle and was reaching out to pick it back up when Jerry dropped his rock right on top of it. Unfortunately, my hand was sandwiched between the two. To be more accurate, it was smashed.
Now I remember jerking my hand from the rocks and being fairly appalled at the shape of my ring finger. I also remember being hoarse having just had a bout with a cold. My cries were more of a raspy "ahhh" than a robust shriek. I clutched my hand to my chest and ran back to the hogan (what we called the main house. Not nearly as cool or functional as a legit hogan.) where my Mom met us at the door. I showed her my mess of a finger and she kinda turned white. She quickly bandaged my hand and wrapped it around a jack o'lantern shaped bean bag she'd made. She used to be super crafty so it was a handy tool.
Once more we headed into town to the doctor. This time his office was on the other side of the highway. The wait wasn't nearly as long and my mom stayed with me the whole time. (One point for mom!) I got three stitches in my ring finger. It took months and months for the swelling to go down. My mom said several times that she wondered if I was ever going to be able to get married because it would be so hard to put a ring on that finger. (Minus one point from mom!)
Jerry had caused stitches in the other two siblings years before, so I guess it was my turn. Thankfully, he ran out of siblings...for a time.
He never caused stitches in the three siblings that followed, (many moons later) but one day when our sister was about two, he was playing with a purple Barney Rubble figure he'd found in a box of Fruity Pebbles. He'd tied a string around Barney's neck and was swinging it around his head when my sister's dad said, "you better stop that or someones gonna get hurt." Jerry barely got, "nothing's gonna happen," out of his mouth when the string slipped from his hand and Barney sailed across the room where he bounced off of Baby's noggin. Step dad watched the trajectory of the the toy and Jerry had disappeared before he could look back.
And in spite of it all I still managed to get married. Thank heavens for different ring sizes. Allowing the fat fingered woman the chance to marry since rings became a thing!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)