The Underused Four-Letter Word

And so it goes on – winter.  The cold and snow can keep you homebound. Gray skies, when they don’t get the memo that enough is enough, can make you gloomy.  Christmas is over and sparkly decorations are put away.  Every other week it seems some new strain of crud is going around and doing its best to cancel events or make you wish they were canceled.

Then, those post-holiday bills arrive to remind us once again that next year the spending limit ought to be reduced.  Boosted by this bit of cheer, you hop online and print out your tax forms. Since you haven’t filled them out yet, you try to bask in a little ray of sunshine with the optimistic thought that perhaps, this time, Uncle Sam may have caught on to the idea that it is more blessed to give than to receive.

Around here, Smuffy has always been the one to see the glass as half empty while I typically view it as half-full.  I have to admit, though, that gray days spent with tax forms can take their toll on me.  Sometimes, you just need a reminder or a little jolt to alter your outlook.  I got one last week.

As is my habit, I watched the Trim Healthy Podcast (affectionately referred to by us THMers as “The Poddy”) on YouTube.  Sometimes it’s full of rock-solid science to boost your health and well-being.  Sometimes, it’s full of rabbit trails that provide the silliness that you may be lacking in your life and sometimes it provides a level of encouragement that will rock your world.

This one, Change Everything In Your Life With A Four Letter Word! [Podcast] Ep. 365 , was just what I needed and I think you’ll benefit by watching it as well!

I love it when there’s science behind encouraging things!  Near the beginning of the podcast, Serene shared that studies have shown that in order to create a synapse in the brain where you know a thing – really know it and you’re not going to forget it – it takes 400 repetitions of the information.  However, if you are laughing and playing while learning it, the process only requires 12 repetitions!  P-L-A-Y is the four-letter word that can change everything.  They went on to share many ways their mom incorporated play and ways they feel like they’ve lost their sense of play and want to get it back again.

Just think of it – how many times did you labor over those multiplication tables until they finally got in your head, but then heard some silly TV theme song around that same age only a handful of times, yet you can still sing it word-for-word today?  Are you maybe just a bit too grown up for your own good?

Why do you consider cleaning house or preparing meals for your family some type of drudgery when, as a child, you had hours and hours of fun with a toy cooking set and thought it was great when you got your own little broom and dustpan for Christmas or birthday.  I think of our Lil’ Snookie and his love affair with all things lawn care.  His excitement over toy mowers, leaf blowers and weed eaters knows no bounds and his mommy and daddy will be delighted if this attitude continues for many more years!

Smuffy and I discussed the podcast and agreed that we needed to tackle all the everyday stuff with an attitude of fun and play.  It takes a little effort at times.  He’s been having his share of issues lately that all seem to revolve around vehicles needing repair and I am in the middle of edits on the first novel in my upcoming series.  We’re trying to remind each other that we’re having fun.

Some days you succeed.  Some days you don’t.  After a mad search through a cupboard the other day that resulted in what sounded like three quarters of the contents landing on the floor, he finally found what he’d been looking for, but looked a bit out of sorts when he came into the room where I sat.  I tried to remind him that not only did he find it, but he had fun looking for it.  He promptly informed me that he did not have fun looking for it.  But we did laugh. 

Famous industrial engineer and efficiency expert, Frank Bunker Gilbreath, always thought of innovative ways to help his twelve children learn.  The family always rented the same big, old lighthouse for summer vacations and no one really cared whether it was kept pristine.  He would write all over the walls in Morse code and tell his children to figure out what the messages said.  He would likely have been a frustrated teacher if he had not written such things as, “The candy bar is in the top left desk drawer.”  In no time at all his children were challenging themselves to learn the code because they never knew what fun or prize might be in store.

Cooking, Lizard Holes and Watering Cans www.midweststoryteller.com

Lil’ Snookie’s presence is a great reminder for us to P-L-A-Y!  You can see in the top photo that he’s excited about putting on the apron over his jammies and fixing food for everybody!  Give him a watering can and he’ll do his best, even if in reality he’s about a thousand cans short.  The middle photo was more of a safari (apologies for quality as I snapped it through the porch screen).  He asked if he could go out in the yard because he wanted to find a big stick and look for a lizard hole, after which he would insert the stick and then bend down over the hole and shout, “Hallooooo!”  Someday, he may consider that to be frustrating or fruitless, especially if the lizard doesn’t answer, but right now, it’s P-L-A-Y!

I’ve learned to approach cooking healthy meals for my family with a sense of learning, adventure and play.  It has made all the difference!  Now, I just need to find out how to play with these tax forms.

If it’s snowy, make snow angels or at least watch someone else doing it.  Put out some cute decorations for winter or Valentine’s Day, or start making homemade Valentines now.  If the day is gloomy, try new soup recipes, play games with the kiddos or watch a funny movie.  Call a friend who’s recovering from the crud and spread some cheer.  Challenge yourself to cranking out those tax forms with some fun reward when it’s all over.

Struggling? Catch that podcast! Change Everything In Your Life With A Four Letter Word! [Podcast] Ep. 365

How do you find fun and play in the ordinary or the necessary?  Leave a comment and share.  It might bless someone’s day.  Go ahead – make us laugh.

Laughter plays a huge part in this, so don’t forget to visit my “Life With Smuffy” page and my “Laugh!” page.  They’re full of adventure and fun.

Kid Stuff – Don’t You Love it?  I Do!  I Do!  I Do!

A good dose of silliness never hurt anybody.  I feel sorry for those who are overly straight-laced or take themselves too seriously.

Snookie's Angle  www.midweststoryteller.com

There are two eras in my life that will always be my most joyful times and those are when Pookie was at the carefree age of wonder and learning and right now when Lil’ Snookie is right in that same stage.

During this stage, everything is a delight, every thought and feeling can be expressed, every question can be asked and nothing is embarrassing.  This comes right before THAT stage – you know the one – where everything is boring, thoughts and feelings must be hidden, they’re too awkward to ask questions and everything is embarrassing.

Games, giggles and goofiness – and it’s all guilt-free.

My favorite part is listening to the comments of children who are trying to figure out life, grown-ups and how things work.  My mom enjoyed this and kept a record of many of the things that gave her the giggles over the years.

I’ll share some now and save a few for later.  I have a feeling they’ll remind you of some of your own stories that you can share with me in the comments.  Wouldn’t it be great to write a book with all our combined giggles?

When Snookie was little, she enjoyed her Sunday School class very much and by age three she pretty much had all the songs memorized.  She often went about the house singing “Jesus Loves Me”, “This Little Light of Mine” and many others.  One day, as I heard her singing, “I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart…”, I noticed that she had advanced to adding the consecutive verses.  The next thing I heard was, “I’ve got the peace of Captain Thunderstorming down in my heart…”  Why bother with the peace that passeth understanding when you’ve got good ‘ol Captain Thunderstorming?  I suppose I’ll never know who she thought he was or why she thought her Sunday School teacher wanted to sing about him.  Hmm…

Mom always got the giggles when she thought of how Pookie interpreted the subject of dentures.  After a significant weight loss, Mom had to be fitted with a new pair and I drove her to and from her appointments.  Pookie always rode along, absorbing all our discussions in the car.  When she asked why we sat in the waiting room without Grandma, I explained to her that Grandma was getting new teeth and we would have to bring her back again when they came in.  One day in the following week, Pookie came to me looking just a tad pitiful and asked, “How long till Grandma’s teeth grow back in so she can come eat supper with us?”   Just when you think you’ve got things explained…

My Lil’ Snookie lives by the motto, “Speak early.  Speak often.”  Don’t let anyone tell you that boys will be less verbal than girls!  He began with “DaDa”, “bye-bye” and “book” at eight months and hasn’t stopped.  His doctor had said that by the time he turned a year old, she’d be in hopes of his having learned ten words, so I decided to write down the words he knew how to use before the one-year check-up rolled around. We were able to furnish that surprised doctor with a list of 110.  If he hears a word, he’ll try to master it.  His favorite phrase from the start has been “I do”.  It is the affirmative answer to any question and the expression of desire.  One day as I prepared lunch when he was just under 18 months, he began to pace the floor, chanting “Tattoo!”  I had no idea what he meant because most of his words were pretty clear. I almost always knew what he was trying to say (and there’s no way he’s getting this Grandma’s blessing for one of those at any age.)  His cries for “Tattoo!” grew louder and intensified until the poor little fellow was going in circles, arms waving, as he hollered, “Tattoo!  Tattoo!  I do!  I do!  I do!  I do!  I do!  I do!  Tattoo!  Tattoo!”  Desperate to alleviate his distress, I scanned the kitchen and began to watch his eyes, trying to track down what had him so worked up.  Then, I saw it.  I picked up the jar.  “Would you like some cashews?” I asked.  He nodded with excitement, “I do!”  I broke them into pieces on a little plate and had a happy boy at last.  The thing is – we’ll probably always call them tattoos now.

My aunt Martha told of the time when they had invited a young mom and her little boy in their new neighborhood over to visit.  They got along famously and she asked them to stay and eat, promising them nothing special – just what she had on hand.  The little boy was eager to help her in the kitchen as she opened up some canned goods to heat and used a pair of tongs to lower hot dogs into a pot of boiling water.  They enjoyed their simple meal and within the next week or two they visited again.  Martha offered them lunch again, stating that she hoped they didn’t mind having the same menu as last time.  The little boy headed for the kitchen, excited at the prospect, and called out, “I’ll get the weenie tweezers!”

By the time Martha related that story to me, their family had been referring to the utensil as “weenie tweezers” for over forty years. 

I know it’s stuck in your head now.  Don’t blame me if you spend the rest of your life picking up your tattoos with the weenie tweezers – you came to this blog of your own free will.  I’ll never be able to pull those grabby things out of the drawer without a mental nod to that story and now you probably won’t either!

It’s your turn now.  Leave a comment with your favorite story or stories from the kiddos.  I want to hear them all!  Perhaps I’ll share yours in a future fun post.

Next up – March’s First Friday Freebie!  See my Freebies! page and share with friends.

I hope you’ve had a laugh. Need another one? Head on over to my Laugh! page where there are plenty more and by all means, check out my Life with Smuffy page. He never disappoints.

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‘Tis the Season for Joy, So Try!

All the songs tell us that we should be delirious with happiness right now.  All the street lights should look like strings of lights and even the stop lights ought to be reminding us of ornaments as they blink a bright red and green.  With people passing and children laughing, we should be meeting smile after smile and every jingle or jangle we hear should be the sweet sound of silver bells.

I love Christmas.  My mom loved Christmas.  She knew how to make something out of nothing and take joy in what she did have and set aside any thoughts about what she didn’t have.  I love surprises and gift giving and if there’s one thing in life right now that has raised the joy in that, it is having our little Snookie.  At almost two years old, he’s all wonder and happiness.  Together, he and I have been making Christmas cards for him to give to his special people and when he “paints” with his markers, he is purposeful and pleased and understands that he’s making a beautiful thing that will make someone smile.

There are, of course, some of you who are having trouble mustering up a smile.  Perhaps it is for good reason.  There’s no getting around that for some people Christmas is a reminder of loss or past or present pain.  Sometimes it can be fear of loss if illness threatens someone you love.  It can also be the absence of someone due to miles or because there’s been a rift that you feel helpless to repair.

Whether you are decorating your heart out and baking mountains of cookies while the carols play or whether you are struggling, an extra smile can’t hurt, so I’d like to share one of our Christmas smiles with you.

Touching Jesus  www.midweststoryteller.com

When Pookie arrives each day, she asks me how our day went and how things unfolded with lunch, naptime and Snookie’s mood and behavior (which, by the way, is nearly always wonderful).  Then on the drive home, she asks questions to get his version of the day.  I had decorated for Christmas and placed the Baby Jesus candle in the room where he naps so that we could light it while we snuggle, sing “Away In a Manger” and talk about Jesus.  (Do I need a disclaimer here to say that after he falls asleep I blow out the candle before I leave the room?)

The first day we lit the Baby Jesus candle, it was still fresh in his mind on the drive home.  The conversation went like this:

Pookie: Did you have a good day?

Snookie: Candle!
Pookie: Did Grandma have a candle?
Snookie: Light!
Pookie: You lit a candle?
Snookie: Jesus!
Pookie: Oh! You and Grandma lit the Baby Jesus candle?
Snookie: I do.  (Always his answer when he’s affirming an action or desire.)
Pookie:  Did you know Christmas is Baby Jesus’ birthday?
Snookie: Cake!!!
Pookie: Well, maybe we will have cake for Jesus’ birthday.
Snookie: Try Mama.

So, now, though we’ve not had the tradition in the past, Pookie is thinking that maybe a birthday cake is in order for Baby Jesus.  And, why not?  He is the reason for the celebration after all.

Children and their understanding of Christmas can not only bring us laughter, but bring us back to a place of wonder.  If you’ve wandered from your wonder into a place of commercialism, cynicism or down-heartedness, maybe it’s time to pray that your childlike joy returns.  I’d love to hear your stories of how the children in your life have understood Christmas, so please leave them in the comments.  I’d love to write a post filled entirely with those! 

One of my favorites is when my niece was discussing the Christmas story with her mommy.  They talked their way through it and when they got to the part about the wise men coming to bring gifts to Jesus, she asked what they tripped over.  Now, this puzzled my sister and she asked the reason for the question.  My niece gave the obvious answer:  “Mommy, it says they fell down and worshiped Him.  What did they fall over?”

I hope this has given you a smile.  I encourage you, like Snookie, to “try”.  Pull out your Bible and read through the portions of the book of Isaiah that promise us hope and tell us that the people walking in darkness have seen a great light.  The Light is Jesus and it far outshines the candles we use in symbolism.  Go to the New Testament and read the story of Jesus’ birth in the Gospels and ask Him to put that same “Peace on Earth and Good Will Toward Men” in your heart.  It’s more than just something to be printed on greeting cards.  Or, bake Him a cake!

Take the first step by going in search of the Christ-child.  Just try!

Still struggling with stress and perhaps even guilt? Check out “I Surrender All…Guilt” here and and “I Surrender All…Guilt” (Part 2) here.

Leave your comments with your fun Christmas stories, so we can all share Christmas smiles!

Subscribe either in the right sidebar on your computer or if on a device, navigate to the Contact page on the menu and you’ll see a subscription box. Be sure to “pin” this article and share it on your social media.

If you’re in need of a case of the out-and-out giggles, take a journey through my “Laugh” page and also the stories about my “Life With Smuffy”.

The Tradition of the Un-given Gift

I’m here today to commiserate with those of you who may be thinking that The Most Wonderful Time of the Year always seems to have some small slip-up that knocks a bit of the sparkle off.

I suppose is happens to us all, but once you become a repeat offender, you tend to get somewhat of a reputation.  Family members in attendance at gift-opening time are known to ask outright if one of their gifts happens to be from last year.  Or, they lean forward with a raised eyebrow and inquire, “Are you sure that’s all?”

They’re not greedy.  They’re just offering me an opportunity to right my wrongs.  I take a little comfort in the fact that, though this seemingly unshakable tendency of mine irritates me to no end and adds to the general mirth at the festive gathering, at least it’s not dangerous.  Unlike Smuffy, no matter how many times this has happened to me, I never run the risk of being drowned, impaled or dismembered. So far.

Are you ready for my Christmas confession?  Are you longing to learn of my annual downfall? 

I am a lover of gift-giving!  My brain is an idea factory!  I am a super-shopper and, most of all, I am a master-hider!  My skills at the latter are my nemesis, however.  All year long, I scrounge, I create, I store up and I stash.  I make lists of things I’ve bought, want to buy, want to make and need to assemble and still lack parts.  I am in my element at thrift stores, garage sales, online, clearance aisles, craft stores and, yes, retail establishments.

I blame it on the house.  Limited storage causes me to scatter my treasures to the four corners, layer them between other stashed away items and wiggle them into cubbyholes already occupied by other items which then serve as camouflage.

Then, the tree goes up.  Then, wrapping begins.  Amid oven timers and cooling racks, when everyone’s backs are turned, out come all my treasures to be boxed, wrapped and fancied up with hand-made bows.  Except one.

I always miss ONE!

Smuffy’s been known to receive a cozy cardigan in May when I’m on a closet cleaning binge.  Poor Pookie has learned that she, too, is likely to be handed something in mid-summer that was intended for the Christmas stocking.  This has been going on for more years than I care to count. I swore I’d turn over a new leaf when I got a son-in-law, but he’s been around long enough now that when I handed him his last gift this year, he smiled and asked if I was sure about that.

A grandchild is on the scene now, causing me to repent afresh and overcome this tendency. Leaving out something intended for Little Snookie would be unpardonable!

I’ve been known to misplace a paper list. This year, I installed a new app in my phone to help me list each family member and each gift.  I had my act together.  I cleaned out one spot and one spot only and collected my stash there.  I did all the wrapping at once and checked it off again on my phone.

Ah!  Christmas went like a dream.  I took all the ribbing with a smile, informing everyone that I was 99.9% sure that there wasn’t a single thing that didn’t make it into a stocking or under the tree.

Then, it happened.  Christmas festivities wound to a close.  The house seemed strangely quiet – too much so – as the car pulled away with Pookie and her loves, leaving Smuffy and me (and Phoebe June and several bags of paper and cardboard boxes).  I went into the entryway, checked the front door and turned out the light. 

As I turned around, thinking nothing was the matter, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a tuft of tissue amid red and green over there.  For behind the TV there sat a small bag.  I rolled my eyes and felt my shoulders sag.  I knew what it was – there was no denying.  I merely chuckled, walked past and refused to start crying.

The Un-Given Gift www.midweststoryteller.com

Pookie will love it!  She’ll think it’s just right – when I place The Un-given Gift into her hands tonight!

I know exactly what happened.  It was small and easily crushable under the tree with all those bigger gifts.  That little bag would be safer tucked away just behind the edge of the TV.  Well, wouldn’t it? 

What can I say?  It’s a tradition.

Happy New Year!  May you change the things you can and learn to laugh about the things you can’t.

Any true Christmas confessions?  Just leave those in the comments.  I can’t be the only one.  Can I?  Hello?  Hello?  Anybody out there?

Subscribe so you don’t miss out!  If you haven’t taken the deep dive into my “Life with Smuffy”, you really don’t know what you’re missing, so check it out along with the fun things on my Laugh! page.

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Don’t Blame the Cat – the Spaghetti Squash Did It!

If you live in the United States (and perhaps even if you don’t), you’ve heard about and seen video of the flooding that is devastating the Midwest.  Though it didn’t arrive here as early as in other places, it did come in full force.  Although the experts tell us that it hasn’t reached the Great Flood of ’93 levels, you couldn’t tell it by appearances.  I thought the best example I might give you is a photo of the same location that I used as the background to the heading of this blog.

Katy Bridge View, Flood of 2019 www.midweststoryteller.com

Where, O where, you ask, did the railroad tracks go?  They’re under all that water somewhere.  I’m not so sure that journey would lead you to a better place! We have a picturesque park that offers visitors a breathtaking view of the Missouri River and all the beautiful countryside of the neighboring county to the north of us. This became our new view from Lookout Point of all those farms, fields and homes. 

Missouri River Flood of 2019 www.midweststoryteller.com

The sight of that barn roof poking out of the water is enough to sicken you.  While the water mark may not have reached the previous record, “Enough,” as Mary Poppins said, “is as good as a feast.”  Enough!

Though we live on high ground, we have not been immune to watery woes.  If the river reaches my door, we are all in trouble, folks!  The rains, coming often and lasting long, did give us a bit of a taste of what’s happening on the other side of the river and since it is better to laugh than cry when life gives you lemons and enough water to make lemonade for everyone in the country, I thought I’d share a what happened here during the flooding in May.  No photos, though – no time for that!  Read on, for this one goes to show you that it is not always Smuffy who finds himself in the middle of mayhem and mishap.

A glance at the clock told me I had two hours to go unless someone showed up early and someone always does.  I was in my element!  Over the years, I’d lost count of friends who’d referred to me as Martha Stewart, June Cleaver, Mary Poppins or Emily Post.  Yes, I was born to host!

If it’s one thing I hate, it’s cancelling my carefully pre-planned shindig.  The previous day’s downpour had lingered on into the day of my Ladies Backyard Picnic and I had already sent out a notice that we would be picnicking indoors.

I forced myself to brush off the let-down, for my yard, always at its glory in the month of May, was having an exceptional year.

The second blow had come when the patio drain clogged, forcing the all-day deluge from the gutters up through the basement drain the night before.

This hadn’t come as a total surprise.  Smuffy had been muttering about the thing for a week or so, making a priority of getting the sewer machine he has access to at work fixed so that he could bring it home to use.  When the weather forecast predicted a few days of what he calls toad-strangling downpours, he’d hauled it home to give it his undivided attention.  It didn’t seem to want to cooperate with his efforts and the day before the party, we started taking on water. 

Finally, he declared it fixed and sent it down the pipe to do its job of ripping out a wad of tree roots.  Smuffy, with the finesse and intuition of one who, through the years, has become a pipe whisperer, declared victory and threw the machine into reverse.

Things got stuck.  Perhaps the root wad dingled while the sewer cable dangled or possibly it may have happened the other way around, but now we seemed to have the machine permanently attached to our patio. 

Poor Smuffy, after sitting in the rain over the drain for hours, called for my help.  Heaving on the count of three with all our might, we couldn’t budge it.  By the time he’d applied a removal tool (which didn’t fit) and installed a pump in the basement with a hose out the door to take the water out, we were reduced to taking turns with the knee-high rubber boots.

There are moments in life when, like it or not, one must admit temporary defeat. I ran madly around the basement (in boots big enough for Smuffy) lifting things to higher ground, hoping that I’d gotten everything I needed out of the freezer for my party the following day.

Then, it hit me – Phoebe June!  She’d been watching the proceedings from the basement steps, taking it all in with great interest and a look that told us that if we’d only bothered to ask her opinion, the whole thing would have been sorted out long ago.  She accepted with a great deal of grace and dignity, I thought, the fact that rather than furnish her with a small set of oars, we’d moved her potty pan up to the dining room and plugged her kitty-sized hole in the basement door to keep her from exploring the flood zone.

Worn out but undaunted, I’d gone to bed with a prayer that if we actually started to float away during the night, God would wake me.

Now, on the day of the Indoor Ladies Backyard Picnic, I felt like I’d spent the day summoning my Martha-June-Mary-Emily powers with a reasonable amount of success.  The ladies would arrive at six o’clock.  Why not?  The flood was in the basement and the party on the main floor. We would ignore the sound of the pump. The rain continued to add moisture to my mess and the weather radar promised a dandy storm somewhere in mid-afternoon – and dandy it was!

As I cleaned and double-checked my list of preparations like any good hostess would, the wind and rain beat against the house and thunder and lightning did their best to get me to worry that the power might go out.  I pushed these thoughts aside.  Whatever happened, all would be right with the world by six o’clock.

At four o’clock, right on schedule, I grabbed my sturdiest meat fork and poked holes all over my first spaghetti squash.  The garlicky, cheesy, spaghetti squash and chicken casserole had become a favorite and I couldn’t wait for the ladies to try it.  I shoved the squash onto a plate and inserted it into the microwave, giving it my usual twenty-two minutes.

Rounding the corner to the living room, I crossed to the mantle to tweak the peonies I had arranged in vases.  When my foot slipped on the hardwood floor, I looked down to find myself standing in water.

Phoebe June?  No!  Not even with the indignity of having her potty pan parked in public would she consider such a sin!  I followed the trail of water across the floor where it oozed from beneath the area rug and disappeared under Smuffy’s chair.  Then, I saw it.  The gutter above the window behind the chair had clogged and the downpour was being forced in around the window somehow.  I ran for towels, began soaking up the mess and called Smuffy.

His phone rang.  To be exact, it rang right next to me.  He’d forgotten to take it to work.  I called the office, only to discover that he’d gone out and they had no idea where he was or when he’d be back.

At times like this, I sometimes just go on auto-pilot.  It beats panic.  The abundance of towels seemed to be taking care of the flow so I donned the boots again and made my way back down to the swamp to gather the fixings for my picnic beverages, hoping that the refrigerator and freezer, located some distance from the drain area, hadn’t gotten their electrical parts moistened to the point where I’d get zapped.  Besides, I told myself, rubber boots prevent that sort of thing.

After sloshing over to the major appliances and begging them to be gentle with me, I pulled out the ice and seltzer water.  Somewhere, from up above, I heard a loud ka-BANG!  A solid THUD followed it before silence fell.

“Oh, Phoebe June,” I muttered.  “What is that cat up to now?” 

Wisdom tempered my urge to run. The volume of the sound indicated that something of grand proportion had just occurred on the main floor.  I took it slow, however, knowing that breaking into a full run would send gallons of water up my back, all over my clothes and into my hair, ruining my last chances of appearing as the elegant hostess.

Hugging my supplies (for I vowed to make no more adventures into the swamp), I made it to the top of the stairs and headed through the dining room toward the kitchen.  I stopped at the sight that met my eyes and I’m pretty sure my mouth fell open.

The microwave door stood wide open.  The spaghetti squash had exited entirely and the greater portion now lay on the counter in Humpty Dumpty fashion.  The remainder dangled all around the kitchen without prejudice against any surface.  The walls, windows, valances, woodwork, range, floor, cabinetry, small appliances – they all had their portion of spaghetti squash.

The only thing lacking a good dollop of squash seemed to be Phoebe June, who sat behind me, her wide eyes asking, “What happened?”  I gave her an apology for my false assumptions, heaved a sigh and peeked inside the microwave.

Phoebe June the Innocent www.midweststoryteller.com

The inside, looking as though its portion of spaghetti squash had been applied with a trowel by someone who knew their business well, brought a moan from the depths of my soul.  The clock screamed 4:20 when I dared glance at it.  I had another squash to cook in order to make the casserole, but the mess would have to be dealt with first.  I grabbed a spatula.  I would do this, by gosh and by golly, even if the ladies all arrived before the casserole came out of the oven!

While I scraped, wiped and picked, my mind raced.  I needed to decide which of my plans remained top priority and which could be scrapped.  I needed to clean the kitchen.  I must change into some lovely outfit, bejewel myself and perform a quick maintenance to make-up and hair which, thankfully, didn’t have squash in it.  I’d been saving the bathroom for last and it had to be cleaned.

Once having gotten the inside of the microwave restored and Spaghetti Squash #2 inserted with a prayer and extra deep puncture wounds, I turned on the water to wash my hands.  Water!  I’d forgotten about the water.

I raced to the living room, fearful of how much water may have come in around the window while I’d been dealing with squash.  The towels seemed to be taking care of the flow.  I looked up at the window, feeling helpless as to how to do anything about the overflowing gutter for the rain still came down in buckets.  Then, my eyes focused on the scene beyond.

One of the city’s street drains is located a few feet from the top of our driveway and it had clogged as though it had gotten word about it being National Clogging Day.  Water came over the top of the driveway like a waterfall, crashed around the wheels of my car (which Smuffy had moved to the top of the hill to keep it away from a suspicious tree limb during the storm) and roared down the driveway.  Years of experience told me that when it reached bottom it would go straight onto our patio and since that drain remained clogged, it would enter the basement.

I suppose I do have a panic button, because this pushed it.  I grabbed my phone in a desperate attempt to reach Smuffy because Smuffy makes everything right – eventually.  Then, I nearly cried as I remembered that he’d left his phone behind.  I called the city.

While they didn’t exactly say, “Too bad.  So sad.” or “Kiss my grits!”, they did inform me that things were tough all over, that the problem was city-wide and that none of their drains were equipped to handle this amount of water all at once.  What it amounted to was that no one was coming to unclog anything.  I hung up and went back to the kitchen to scrape the squash off the windows.

With Squash #2 into the casserole and oven and Squash #1 under control, I wiped up the bathroom and went to change clothes.  The sound of the rain beating against the house had lessened to the point that I began to believe the weather reports that promised that all this nonsense would come to a complete stop by the time my guests needed to drive to my house.  I began to breathe again. A few of them had been messaging me concerning their fears about leaving home in such a torrent.

I picked up a pair of dangly earrings and put them on as I made another trip to the living room.  The window leak seemed to have stopped.  I picked up the wet towels and looked around the room, abandoning my plans to move all the furniture back and set up long tables down the center with checkered cloths and bandana napkins.  There simply wasn’t time.  The ladies would have to get their food in the dining room and be content with the coffee table and TV trays.  I glanced out the window to see if the whitewater falls had slowed any.  That’s when I noticed that my car was missing.

I gasped.  My brain did a few somersaults while it asked itself if it were sure Smuffy had left the car at the top of the hill.  Visions of nightly news reports raced through my mind as I recalled the oft issued warning that a mere foot of rushing water might cause a vehicle to be carried away. 

I turned and ran, arriving at the kitchen window out of breath, only to peer over the edge of the porch and see my car parked in its usual spot.  I sighed with relief that it hadn’t ended up on the patio, in the garden or in the neighbors’ back yard.

I’ve been rattled in my time, but this day had earned red letter status in the rattling department.  I longed to know one way or the other – had Smuffy stopped by unannounced and moved my car or had it been swept away and miraculously carried in the hands of angels to its perfect resting place?  Another glance at Smuffy’s phone told me this story was “to be continued…”

The doorbell rang.  My daughter and sister were among the first to arrive, full of offers to help if I would only tell them what needed to be done.  All I could tell them was that their guess was as good as mine and we stumbled through receiving guests and putting out food and drinks.

I can think of no other time when I’ve felt so grateful to stop, sit, relax with friends and enjoy good food!  Though their hostess did not offer up the mostest in terms of fashionable tablescape and seating arrangements, they seemed to feel fully compensated by the fact that the day’s events provided the evening entertainment.

Smuffy made an appearance, admitting that he had, indeed, stopped by and moved my car without telling me.  And Phoebe June, you ask?  She mingled, managing to assert her cattitude and be rude to a guest only once after being ignored and feeling like the accused all day. 

You can’t ask for more than that.

I crawled into my warm, safe and dry bed that night offering up thanks that I hadn’t been in the kitchen when things exploded.  As I drifted off to sleep, I pondered the mystery of it all.  Why, after at least twenty years of the same cooking method, did this particular squash become a ballistic missile?  With a team of experts and a few million dollars, the military might be able to come up with something that, if nothing else, would frustrate and exhaust our enemies to the point of surrender.

Next up – it’s time to join Smuffy as he endeavors to make a few adjustments to the car.  No seat belts needed.  Just clear the area!

Subscribe so you don’t miss it!  If you haven’t taken the deep dive into my “Life with Smuffy”, you really don’t know what you’re missing, so check it out! Why not start with the story of our Smokin’ Hot Honeymoon? Phoebe June has her own page so if you haven’t gotten to know her, click here.

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It’s Not the Heat – It’s the Humidity! (Confessions of a Curly Girl)

Ah, September! Everyone has their own reasons for loving this transitional month, but the first thing that comes to my mind is the joy of having a passable hair-do again.

I have no idea what month of the year my Scotch and Irish ancestors arrived here, but it must have been in autumn or at the first greening of spring. They gazed at the rolling hills, lush foliage, sighed with relief and exclaimed, “Ah! Just like the old country!” I’m convinced if they’d arrived during one of our ice-encrusted winters or during a summer such as we’ve just had they would have kept right on moving. They’d have been justified in doing so if only to spare their children and grandchildren endless bad hair days.

One of the great mysteries of the universe is humidity. Hanging at one hundred percent day after day and holding moisture so thick you can feel it part like the Red Sea as you pass through, it does not nourish the clouds. It may not rain for weeks at a time. Anything that heavy and oppressive ought to give way to sheer gravity, wouldn’t you think?

All the straight-haired girls complain about the humidity’s affects, but I caution you – don’t do it in front of us Curly Girls. It’s the equivalent of hearing a guy say that his pain is worse than being in labor. On a good day, we Curly Girls will offer a weak, indulgent smile and keep our mouths shut, but once we’re about three weeks into Bad Hair Season, we are no longer responsible for our actions.

Some of us were blessed with curls from the get-go. For others, like me, it comes upon a person suddenly and without warning. There I was, going along through grade school, minding my own business, when the sudden change blindsided me.

It had never been perfectly straight. My mom or big sisters could wind my wet locks around their fingers and get it to turn up or under on the ends. My bangs, cut straight across my forehead, lay in an even line, behaving as bangs should.

When Hair Behaved www.midweststoryteller.com

Then, it happened. Within a matter of months, things spiraled (literally) out of control, resulting in a series of school photos unfit for the human eye.  My parents and siblings, who may have shared a dozen or so waves amongst themselves, had no idea what to do about the walking bush they used to call little sister. I still remember being perched on a stool, surrounded my multiple siblings all offering advice to my scissor-wielding sister as she stood beside me trying to figure out where to start. Their hand gestures scared me to pieces.

If your hair is straight, humidity will reduce the volume and relax the curl. You may even get a frizz or two on top. My advice – take it and be grateful. I, on the other hand, can gauge the relative humidity by consulting my bangsometer. It’s readings fluctuate all the way from winter’s “sprayed-and-stayed” to spring’s “why-are-you-pointing-over-there?” to mid-summer’s “oh-for-cryin’-out-loud-I-used-a-ton-of-spray-and-they’re-actually-curling-FORWARD!”

When that happens, we Curly Girls bear it as best we can, along with life’s other injustices. However, it does provoke nasty looks when someone approaches with a camera.

The Hair www.midweststoryteller.com

I know what you’re thinking. I can hear you saying, “Silly girl, when it’s humid outside, just let it do its own thing!” Ah! Again, let me enlighten you. Curly bangs must be inches longer than straight bangs. Otherwise, they will bunch up next to the hairline in a wad. I refuse to post a picture of that sort of disaster here. Ever.

There are times when you just pretend that voluminous is glorious and smile anyway.

Voluminous is Glorious www.midweststoryteller.com

The squiggles you see in my little blondie’s hair were but a foreshadowing. She grew up to have some pretty sassy curls, too, and yes, they brought with them the trauma I’d expected they would.

Once a year, on my birthday, I throw caution to the wind and actually approach open flame with “the hair”.

Approaching Open Flame www.midweststoryteller.com

You’re probably assuming that Smuffy is off-camera, stage left, holding a fire extinguisher, but no, I do it like Evel Knievel.

The nineties offered an opportunity to express myself. I loaded up on styling gel and while everybody else turned upside down to blow dry and spent a fortune on perms and hours achieving volume, I just air-dried and walked through doors sideways.

Nineties Rule www.midweststoryteller.com

It balances out the shoulder pads and the wallpaper really well, don’t you think?

On really bad hair days, I could shove in a few pins and contain the mess on top (if you call this look “contained”).

Miss Kitty www.midweststoryteller.com

A friend told me that this attempt at a “glamour shot” succeeded in making me look like Miss Kitty Russell, owner and proprietor of the Long Branch Saloon in Dodge City, Kansas. I took no offense. (I still have a crush on Marshall Matt Dillon.)

Photographic evidence does not lie.

Arrest That Hair www.midweststoryteller.com

Taken just one day apart, these photos show that just when you think you’ve got a grip on things, humidity and humility arrive hand-in-hand, causing your smile lose its natural ease and become strained.  Please, someone tell me that I did not leave the house on Day 2!  (These are not mug shots. We were testing lipstick shades, just in case you’re thinking I got arrested for that hair.)

Over the years, I stopped moaning, “I hate my hair!”  Parts of God’s plan will always remain a mystery to mere mortals and He certainly performed a mysterious work on my head. I made peace with the fact that He knew what He was doing, especially after reading the words of the ardent lover in Song of Solomon. Remember him – the one who bounds over the hills like a young stag, pleading, “Arise, come, my darling, my beautiful one…”? One of the physical qualities that had him so worked up was the fact that his beloved possessed hair “like a flock of goats”.

I think I’ve offered enough evidence here to prove that this man would go wild over me! If there’s ever been a woman with hair like a flock of goats…I’m just sayin’.

Smuffy has embraced my curly look as though he’s Solomon himself and has come to the point where, if a wild notion strikes me to straighten it, he gives me the thumbs-down.

The struggle to come to the place where I could shout from the rooftops, “I love my hair!” came almost nineteen years ago when I walked into the chemo room knowing we would soon say good-bye.

Since then, all I can say is , “Love it! Love it! Can’t get enough of it!” But, golly, I’m glad it’s September!

If you’re struggling to embrace your curls, I hope my story has helped you appreciate them or, at the very least, smile a little and lighten up!  Need a stronger remedy? You’ll find more on my “Laugh” page. enjoy Life, Laughter and Lemons here and, by all means, catch up on my exciting “Life With Smuffy”!

My little goats have been corralled and now behave themselves to a much greater degree.  A lifelong search has brought me, at last, fabulous products that separate the curls and define them, making all the difference. Coming up: A review of my all-time favorite Curly Girl arsenal of products!

Subscribe so you don’t miss it!  Leave a comment – I’d love to hear from you!

Today I am linking up with Anna Nutthall.  For more inspiring posts, click here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Top 10 Things You’ll Reconsider Once You’ve Become a “Kitten Mom”

Phoebe June is a delight. We adopted her on December 7th. Later that evening, I saw via Joanna Gaines on Instagram that on that same day, Chip surprised the family with a new kitten! For a moment, I questioned whether I should change Phoebe June’s name to Magnolia, but somehow “Phoebe” had already “stuck”. We do love “Fixer Upper” and the Gaines family and wish them the best with their new additions – the kitten and the soon-to-arrive baby!

I’m sure if you’ve seen any of her innocent-looking photos, you’re assuming that Phoebe June spends her days with her powder-puff paws crossed waiting for someone to stroke her velvet fur.

Phoebe on Adoption www.midweststoryteller.com

The reason for that is that all the action shots I’ve tried to obtain of Phoebe have been a complete blur. When she is not striking a demure pose for the camera, Smuffy and I are taking turns at Wildcat Patrol. Well, I take more turns than Smuffy, but then I also get the most kitty cuddles, so I suppose I can live with it.

Our veterinarian wanted to know if Phoebe was alert and playful. I showed him my scratch marks.

Having a cat in the house is different from having a kitten in the house. Our last two cats, who were two years apart in age, each lived to be 16 years old, so it’s been a long time since we started afresh. Though they remained playful all their lives – Y I K E S ! – it’s not the same as bringing home a charged-up little lightning bolt of energy that is the most playful hunter on earth – a 7 ½ week old kitten.

Phoebe June had an adorable sister. Here they are on the day we met when I was trying to decide which to adopt.

Phoebe June and Sweet Sis www.midweststoryteller.com

Sweet Sister seemed docile and shy – such endearing qualities. Phoebe June, on the other hand, entered the room with an air that suggested that if it were not a fun-filled place, she’d be happy to remedy the problem in three seconds or less.

Having had a couple of truly neurotic cats in the past, I chose brave kitty. I got brave kitty! She’s smart and tries her best to cooperate with the rules, but some things prove irresistible, such as the taking down of the Christmas tree. I should have probably gotten a sitter for that one.

To give you a glimpse of our fun-filled days and a guide should you consider bringing home a kitten, I’m sharing this list that reflects how we’ve acclimated to Phoebe June’s world.

Top 10 Things Kitten Mom www.midweststoryteller.com

Cats are fascinating and each one seems to have strange traits, odd fears and unique habits that don’t have any rhyme or reason and don’t quite fit in with any of the scientific studies on cats. There are just some things the experts can’t explain about feline behavior.

Phoebe June has her share of these quirks already, but the one that is the most puzzling and causes me the greatest loss of sleep is her unexplainable desire to eat my hair! This she confines, annoyingly, to the early morning hours. She’s a clingy sort, but being nocturnal, she roams a bit a night and nods off under the bed between her excursions and a few hops back onto the bed to be sure I haven’t run away from home.

Then, in the pre-dawn, when the stealthy mountain lions of the wild stir and head out for the hunt, Phoebe June stirs also. She hunts for one thing only – Mommy! It’s as though she’s re-discovered me after a prolonged absence and the joy is too much for her.

Climbing onto my head with her purr-box rumbling like a Harley, she wraps all four paws around my head and clinging with all her might, tries to remove my hair! And the question is: Why?

Needless to say, at this point I am awake! As I disentangle her and pull her down to ruffle her fur and give her a snuggle, I can’t help but giggle at the amount of affection that seems to be lavished upon me in this strange act. Though she may be clutching at my head with all her strength, there are no claws involved, only purring, wallowing and (sigh) gnawing.

And then you fall back asleep?” you assume. Nope. Phoebe June’s full affections take a while to dissipate and she’ll make several more attempts at snatching me bald before she gets it out of her system and settles down on my shoulder to flop around until breakfast is served.

Hopefully, this is a passing phase, because one of her favorite times to run amok through the house is around 10:45 each night. These frenzies can last a couple of hours, so if she doesn’t give up one or the other habits, I may be feeling soon, as they say, “a mere shadow of my former self.”

I thought Phoebe June’s story might bring you a smile during the wintry days of January. You can deny it, but I know you’re watching those funny cat videos online!

If you’re a “cat person”, I’m sure you have a story or two to of your own about the cats in your life. Scroll back up to the top of this post and “Leave a Comment” to share them. I’d love to hear from you!

Have some cat-loving friends? Be sure to SHARE!

Want more on how Smuffy deals with cats? Check it out here, but please, cover your eyes!

Life in the Funny Papers: Parenting Can Make You Laugh (If You’re on the Outside Looking In)

I’m sure most of you have enough going on in your lives that you haven’t given much thought to why I haven’t been posting lately.  For the handful of you who were wondering, the short version is this:  Gimpy knee followed by a case of poison ivy for the record books (especially for me, since I’ve spent my life up until now as the person who “doesn’t get poison ivy”), followed up by an injury to the midsection that was so painful that I couldn’t get in a position to use either computer.  TWO poison ivy shots and lots of rest have me on the mend.  All that, I’m sure, would make a great story, but it hasn’t gotten funny yet, if you know what I mean.

Anyhow, I’m back!

After treating you to that gem of a story about my aunt Gladys Pearl, my mind lingers on my mom and her siblings. I’m thinking it’s time to introduce you to Mom’s brother, Gerald. This seems like an odd thing to attempt, since I never knew him. He passed away before my time. I heard all about him, though. Oh, yeah!

If you are parenting young children and about to tear your hair out – take heart! That challenging child is nothing new and not necessarily a product of modern society. My grand-parents lived to tell about it, although I’m not sure how long it took them to laugh about it. 

Here they are as newlyweds, blissfully unaware of what lay ahead:

Nettie and Judge Get Married www.midweststoryteller.com

Grandpa Judge (who, as we’ve already touched upon, wasn’t one) and Grandma Nettie (formally Jeanette) married in 1913 and had six children.

Here’s Gerald Virgil, the oldest, and his little sister, Martha. 

Spiege and Martha www.midweststoryteller.com

He looks fairly harmless to me, but then I have to remember that when this picture was taken, he was just getting started.  Somehow, Martha doesn’t look as happy as big brother.  That could be due to the usual uncertainty babies have about strange photographers.  Martha might, however, with a wink and a smile, claim it was because she was being pinched.

According to siblings, Gerald tended to be just a tad spoiled. Well, as spoiled as a child could be if he were born to parents who scratched out a living in a small town along the railroad tracks in the Midwest in the early part of the twentieth century. Life wasn’t a walk in the park for any of them and Gerald, unfortunately, had a problem with his eyes early on, causing him to need strong glasses. As her firstborn, Grandma Nettie doted on him.

Gerald had a mind of his own from the start. As he grew and began, shall we say, expressing himself, he soon became known as Gerald only on paper and perhaps in his mother’s heart.

I don’t think I ever knew his name was Gerald until I was old enough to take an interest in family tree records. The stories I grew up with were all about “Spiege”.

That might seem an odd name, but Uncle Spiege wasn’t given it – he earned it. In the early 1900’s, a cartoon in the newspapers regularly featured an ornery little boy named Spiegel. I’ve done quite a bit of searching and I haven’t come up with any of these cartoons. I’d love to see one or to know the name of it, so if any of my readers remembers it or knows an “old-timer” who does, please comment and let me know.

Gerald, outdoing Spiegel’s shenanigans by a country mile, soon had the nickname applied and over time, it was shortened to Spiege.

Spiege operated according to his own whims and fancies, a quality that caused Judge and Nettie to practice extreme diligence in parenting, whether they liked it or not. Once having gotten an idea, Spiege acted on it. As a grown man, people may have described him as entrepreneurial, driven, fearless, innovative, artistic, uninhibited. In his growing-up years, however, those who knew Spiege likely used a different set of adjectives as they developed a keen awareness that this was a boy who needed to be watched.

Sittin' on a Stump www.midweststoryteller.com

Watching Spiege wasn’t easy. Filled with wanderlust, he ended up anywhere and everywhere, doing whatever he pleased. Also, he possessed two qualities that would try the patience of any parent – a devilish impulsiveness and the annoying habit of never asking permission.

On one of the rare occasions when he and his sister, Martha, happened to be getting along, they decided to “play hobo”. This involved some clothes even shabbier than the ones they were already wearing, some old tin plates, scraps of food scavenged from the kitchen and the absolute necessity of building a fire in the loft of a neighbor’s barn. Later, when the game was over, but the fire was only getting started, someone spotted smoke rolling out of the barn. Volunteers arrived to find a fire burning on the barn floor below a blackened hole in the loft above where the hobo campfire had burned its way through.

Once, at suppertime, the family decided that what the meal lacked was cheese. Judge instructed Spiege to run over to the store and bring back a block. The family waited in their basement kitchen (strange, but true) with the other food on the table. This included a family favorite – a big bowl of chocolate gravy.

The best I can figure, by asking what seemed like a million questions, is that this is a half-set pudding of sorts.

Soon, they heard Spiege clomping down the stairs. It never occurred to them that, being Spiege, he’d need instructions on cheese delivery. Stopping halfway down the stairs, Spiege paused, lowering the block of cheese between his knees with both hands. Most likely, he intended to demonstrate his prowess at the underhanded toss. Once the cheese landed in the bowl of chocolate gravy, however, any applause he might have received gave way to chaos as the rest of the family set about cleaning the floor, walls, windows and one another. They found out that night how chocolate gravy tasted with everything, especially cheese.

Grandpa Judge once happened upon Spiege after hearing loud noises and figuring he’d better go investigate. He found Spiege at the cistern, banging away at the large mass of concrete that covered it.

What in the world are you doing?” demanded Judge.

Spiege, hammering with all his might, explained it away as though it were an everyday occurrence. “I need a piece of this concrete.”

With a great love of horses, Spiege loved to draw and paint pictures of those beautiful animals. If he’d stuck to this hobby, Judge and Nettie may have avoided sleeping with one eye open all the time.

Spiege got into so much trouble that it became difficult to tell when Spiege found trouble and when trouble found Spiege. It got so that if anything happened, Spiege heard his name being called as the first person to be brought in for questioning.

This, no doubt, fueled his natural urge to wander. Spiege often disappeared, coming home when he got good and ready. Judge and Nettie, despairing over this, tried everything to keep him at home or at least get him to report his whereabouts.

Nettie, in a fury one day after finally finding Spiege and dragging him home, decided to put a stop to it by making the punishment fit the crime. Judge, hearing a lot of banging and screaming and yelling, came around the house to see what all the fuss was about. He found Nettie at the shed in an obvious fit of temper.

What are you doing?” he asked.

I’ll put a stop to this,” she fumed, leaning against the latch. “I’m gonna cure that boy of running off once and for all. Get me a hammer and nails! I’ll fix this door so he can’t get out till I’m good and ready to let him out! That’ll teach him a lesson!”

You can try it if you like,” said Judge, peering through the cracks in the shed, “but I don’t think it’s gonna teach him anything. He’s gone.”

Nettie jerked the door open. Spiege had already found a loose board and wriggled out through the back of the shed.

Being a loving father, Judge racked his brain for a way to teach Spiege a lesson before they all lost their minds for fear of something happening to him on one of his wanderings. One day, before leaving for work at the barber shop, he took a length of rope and, in sheer desperation, tied Spiege to a chair on the front porch.

There,” he said, securing the knot. “This is one day you won’t be going anywhere. You’re going to stay put all day long and see how you like it.”

After a while, Nettie ventured out onto the front porch to check on her son. Stunned, she looked around for any sign of Spiege or the chair. Had he fallen off the porch while trying to free himself?

Frustrated, Nettie paused, staring ahead, wondering what to do next. A small movement caught her eye. Something seemed out of the ordinary. Squinting, she focused her gaze across the yard, beyond the railroad tracks, across town, all the way to the front porch of the general store where Spiege sat, defiant to the last and still tied to the chair!

I think they pretty much turned him over to God after that and let him roam.

Topping off at 6’4”, Spiege, as a teenager, felt pretty sure of himself. He’d outgrown his younger brother, Tim, by a full foot in height.

Spiege as a Young Man www.midweststoryteller.com

Tim, by the way, wasn’t really named “Tim”… (I know, I know – here we go again – more on Tim later.)

Sometimes, when you really need someone to lean on, you run to big brother. One day, Tim, arrived breathless and wildly disturbed, begging Spiege to come with him. Jumping in the old jalopy, Spiege drove as fast as he could, listening to Tim’s story.

Having decided to take a walk along the train tracks to a nearby town about six miles away, Tim had enjoyed a leisurely walk until he’d spotted a pack of dogs up ahead. Assuming that they were feasting on some animal that hadn’t made it across the tracks in time, he went to investigate, only to find that it was not an animal, but a man, who had been hit by the train.

It was a gruesome sight to behold for the two boys and they hurried back to town to inform the authorities.

That night, Judge and Nettie crawled under the covers, only to have their two sons come into their room and begin spreading blankets and pillows at the foot of their bed.

Judge sat up, staring at them. “Now what are two full-grown boys like you doing sleeping with their Mama and Daddy?”

The boys continued making their pallet at on the floor, unmoved by any aspersions cast against their manhood.

If you’d seen what we’ve seen today,” said Spiege, “you’d sleep with your Mama and Daddy, too!”

Wanderlust had left Spiege for one night, at least. He was happy to be where the home fires burned and the family circle offered comfort and peace.

Spiege continued to go his own way, doing things with a sense of adventure – everything from venturing out west to try his hand at sheep herding to finding a sweetheart through social media. (A newspaper ad.) The latter worked out pretty well, as their marriage lasted “until death do us part” and they raised five children together.

Knowing Uncle Spiege when he was young would have been an adventure, and it’s one I’m sorry I missed – I think.

Although Uncle Spiege lost the sight in both eyes – one to cataract and one to detached retina – he never lost his strong will and creativity. He created amazing things in his workshop that most of us with 20/20 vision could only hope to accomplish. He’s shown here at age fifty when a local newspaper did an article on how he’d lived his life after going blind.

"I Don't Live in Darkness" www.midweststoryteller.com

In the interview, Spiege said this:   “If I could get a job as much as this pension pays, I’d tell them to take the pension and keep it.  I’ve found out one thing.  You can’t sit around and hold your hand out.  I knew a blind man once who made $2.75 and hour, but he thought more of a wine bottle than he did of his job.” 

I think this is an inspiring comment coming from a man with a lifelong disability who had every reason to feel sorry for himself.

If you are raising a child who is “difficult” or perhaps a child with a disability, keep in mind that within those challenges lies a spirit that can rise above life’s circumstances. In the meantime, however, you may need to hide the hammer, repair the shed and invest in really heavy chairs.

I’m still wondering what the kid intended to do with that big chunk of concrete.  

Enjoy your summer – and keep an eye on the kids!  Even if you’re not raising a Spiege, there might be one roaming the neighborhood, and it’s only funny in the funny papers (and perhaps on blogs almost a century later).

Comments?  I always enjoy hearing your thoughts.  Just click on “Leave a Comment” under the title of this post.  And, whatever you do, don’t forget to share!

Little Gladys and the Extended Cure

Let’s journey back to the late 1920’s. If you can recall any tunes from “O Brother, Where Art Thou?”, hum along.  It’ll put you in the proper mood.

In the tiny town along the railroad tracks where my mother grew up, life revolved around daily chores, school, church, and a trip to the store for necessaries, news and a haircut (all in the same place and provided by her daddy, Judge, who wasn’t one, but that’s another story). A break in the routine came when relatives visited or when the kids got to go spend time with grandparents.

Even prior to being old enough to attend school, my mom often stayed with her grandparents to help out the old folks, seein’ as how their rheumatiz kept them from doing all the things they’d done when they were spring chickens. They lived near another tiny town just ten miles down the tracks. By the way, is anything ever “up” the tracks?

Here they are dandling a couple of the grandkiddies on their knees, Grandma in a dress that seemed to reappear in most of her photos and Uncle John sporting a fine head of hair and a beard to match.  I imagine he cut quite a figure in his Union Blues back in his Civil War fighting days, don’t you?

Martha and Uncle John www.midweststoryteller.com

Just so we get things straight – Grandma Martha married John, who had actually been married to her sister, Emma. It was all on the up-and-up, because Emma had passed on, leaving Uncle John a free man. Martha, having been first widowed (now that fellow was my mom’s actual grandpa) and then receiving a court judgment freeing her up from a no-good scoundrel, married John, who, in addition, was a second cousin, once removed. So, my mom grew up with a step-grandpa/uncle-by-marriage cousin whom they all called Uncle John. Well, now that that’s all cleared up…

Now isn’t this a little darlin’?

Little Gladys Pearl www.midweststoryteller.com

She’s my mom’s little sister, Gladys Pearl.  I have no idea where she came up with that parasol, but I’ll bet she was mighty proud of it!

The family didn’t call everyone by double names, but they must have sensed that it was a fit for Gladys Pearl. She’d need it later, when she married and moved to the Deep South.

Little Gladys Pearl had a turn at staying with Grandma and Uncle John. Things were different in those days. Though big cities may have already embraced telephones and electric lights to a certain degree, out here in the Midwest things remained “off the grid”. In fact, there was no grid. Believe it or not, even good parents believed that anyone with a responsible job who could look you in the eye and shake your hand could be trusted. They may have had a few qualms about putting a small child on a train and giving the conductor instructions to see that they got off at the right stop, but they did it. I’m not sure if anyone met Gladys Pearl at the train when she reached her destination, because I’m sure they didn’t have a phone. Somehow she got there and perhaps had to find her way out to Grandma and Uncle John’s place.

Gladys helped Grandma and Uncle John with small chores and they enjoyed her visit, just as they did when their other grandchildren came. Having a pair of energetic little legs to run after this and that eased the daily grind.

One night, after going to bed, Grandma and Uncle John tossed and turned. Their rheumatiz seemed determined to keep them up all night. Miserable, they called out to Gladys Pearl, asking her to please bring them the liniment.

There seemed no point in going to the trouble of lighting a coal oil lamp for such a swift and simple errand. Gladys Pearl crawled out of bed. Guided by the comforting voices of Grandma and Uncle John and a glimmer of moonlight, she felt her way through the darkness and groped for the cupboard door. Following their instructions, her fingers soon fell upon a small bottle. Grasping it, she turned and, feeling her way toward their bed, handed it to her grateful grandparents.

Grandma and Uncle John passed the bottle between them, splashing the fluid onto their fingers and rubbing it everywhere. They applied it to every aching joint they had before resettling themselves under the covers.

After a bit, they called out to Gladys Pearl again, thanking her for being such a good helper and telling her that they felt better already! All three now settled in for a good night’s sleep.

The following morning when the household came to life, the day began with surprises all around.

Little Gladys Pearl, doing her best, hadn’t managed to get hold of the liniment bottle. Even if there had been a sliver of moonbeam to assist her, she likely hadn’t learned to read anyway.

What Gladys Pearl got was a glass bottle version of this –

Mrs. Stewart's Bluing www.midweststoryteller.com

Just in case you missed the punch line, I’ll explain. (And, if you are below a certain age or have never made a salt crystal garden with your kids, you probably did miss the punch line.)

Laundry bluing is exactly that – BLUE! To be specific, it’s NAVY blue! Clothing dyes include blues, yellows, etc., but over time the blue fades away, leaving fabrics “yellowed”. To bring the crisp, newness back to whites, you would add a tiny touch of bluing to a wash load. Note the instructions for usage as pertains to diluting –

Mrs. Stewart's Bluing Instructions www.midweststoryteller.com

Full-strength bluing, applied directly (and liberally) to the skin, left Grandma and Uncle John navy blue all over, not to mention their night clothes and the bed sheets. And, in case you’re wondering, it doesn’t wash off – it wears off. It’s a good thing they were country folk. They could, most likely, avoid a trip to town for a month or more if necessity called for it. This case of the blues probably made them reluctant to socialize.

Though this true story has made it through the generations, I’m sad to say that it never occurred to me to ask who noticed first.

Did Grandma and Uncle John wake up and, looking down at their hands, come to the conclusion that a mysterious deadly plague had descended on the household overnight? Or, did Gladys Pearl wake up first? If so, it must have been traumatic at her age to look in on Grandma and Uncle John, hoping they might be stirring and working their way toward fixing her breakfast, only to find her grandparents had turned blue!

As far as I know, the old folks took it all in stride. Grandparents have a way of doing that when it comes to the little ones. Besides, they did “ask for it” – didn’t they?

One other unanswered question remains. I’m fairly certain, however that the answer is “no”. I doubt they ever wrote to the address on the back of the bluing bottle, informing the company that their product, when applied during a bout of rheumatiz, worked wonders. 

I’ve used Mrs. Stewart’s Bluing, with care, in the laundry.  It does the job on those yellowed cottons.  Check out their website here.  They have instructions for everything.  Maybe you can find out what it does for fish and dogs.

Comments? Questions? I encourage you to seek out the old-timers in your family and ask plenty of questions. It can’t all have happened just to us, you know.