Life With Smuffy: (Episode 2) “Smuffy Takes the Cure” (or, “Think You’re Invincible?…Don’t Bet on It!”)

March 28, 2017March 29, 2017 ~ Midwest Storyteller ~ 1 Comment

It’s doubtful that anyone, upon entering into a lifelong commitment, realizes what they’re getting themselves into. Marriage certainly remains the number one eye opener of all time.

Lacking this foreknowledge, and madly in love, I married Smuffy and discovered that I’d entered a contest. No – more like a tournament.

I’d come from a large farm family where the girls outnumbered the boys 6 to 1. We had our issues – that’s for sure – but I don’t remember an overly competitive spirit amongst the siblings. It may have been there, but I didn’t pick up on it.

That thing America thrives on – competition – sped right past me and I didn’t even care. I hated team sports and shrugged off people who announced that they were going to out-do me academically. My attitude was pretty much, “Knock yourself out, Honey!”

For Smuffy, raised in a household full of boys, life had been one grand rivalry after another as each tried to prove whatever it is they were trying to prove. See, I still haven’t figured it out! But, boys will be boys, I suppose.

I shrank from participating, but Smuffy thought all I needed was a little coaxing. And, with those puppy-dog brown eyes of his, he lured me into all sorts of silly wagers – each one a contest, championship, best two out of three, winner take all.

Though it seemed irrelevant to me which one of us could spit over a log or hit a tree branch with a rock with greater accuracy, Smuffy thrived on it. I preferred, as one of my favorite P. G. Wodehouse characters once put it, “to exist beautifully”, preferably with a good book, cup of hot chocolate and a cat in my lap. I love kitties. I adored Smuffy, and I had to admit that, though it wasn’t my cup of tea, Smuffy was cute when lost in one of his fits of boyish playfulness.

Uninterested in monetary wagers, Smuffy preferred to invent stunts for the losers to perform. He liked to drag others into the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. Shortly after we married, Smuffy made a bet in a pitch game we were playing with another couple. Intoxicated with the smell of victory, Smuffy strutted his stuff, promising that he and his surprised partner would, should the girls rebound from their massive losses and win, remove their shoes and socks, roll their pants up past their knees and run all the way around the house in the snow.

The temperature – in the teens. The house – large. The snow – deep.

By this time, Smuffy’s over-confidence had made me a trifle peeved. Since the girls didn’t have to reciprocate if they lost, I gave him “the look”, which, by the way, he didn’t recognize, and said, “You’re on!”

After we won, I felt a little sorry for Smuffy’s partner. Recovering from a nasty virus of some sort, he looked as though he wanted to grab Smuffy by the neck and throttle his bright idea right out of him.

I stood outside, monitoring their progress as they mushed around the house with a flashlight. Surely this would cure him!

Not a chance! No matter what the activity, Smuffy could think of a way to turn it into a contest. We couldn’t just play Monopoly. We played Killer Monopoly. I came to the point where I took amusement by letting other players sit rent free on my properties “just because they were my friends”. Then, I’d charge him full price for being “not nice”.

Smuffy did, at times, end up losing. He grew adept at slithering out of the consequences of his outrageous bets by careful wording. He always seemed to escape through some tiny loophole or technicality when I folded my arms and demanded payment.

Not caring whether I won or lost, I had relaxation on my side when Smuffy lured me into competition. It came in handy.

One day, he came home with a bow and arrows. He spent the whole weekend practicing with his new toy, perfecting his aim and technique. Sure enough, when I ventured outside, Smuffy wanted me to try it, betting, of course, that I couldn’t hit a rotten watermelon sitting at the far edge of our garden. He showed me how to hold the thing and draw back the bow. I nailed the watermelon with a satisfying foomph. Two more bets and two foomphs later, Smuffy dismissed me, saying he suffered from a tired arm. The following weekend, we acted out a similar scenario. The bow and arrows disappeared after that.

I began to think my sweetie needed help. An intervention! Surely there must be a cure!

One winter, a stray cat arrived. I admit to being a cat magnet. I love them and they love me. I think, like hobos, they must mark my house, labeling me as a soft touch. It takes all the fortitude at my disposal to avoid petting them and feeding them. I know what will happen if I do. I am firm. I am resolved – 99.9% of the time.

We called this cat Old Yeller. He was yellow. He was old, at least in experience. With a shaggy and unkempt coat, he moved his massive bulk along with fearsome purpose, as though he saw all and heard all with the one eye that hadn’t been scratched out and the one ear that hadn’t been bitten off. We never took pictures of Old Yeller. Why would you? He looked something like this –

Smuffy preferred to chuck rocks at Old Yeller in hopes of running him off. I did my best to ignore him. Cat lover or not, he just didn’t fall into the category of “snuggly” as far as I was concerned. He looked like he’d seen a thing or two and had mangled both of them. He hung around through cold weather and into spring.

One weekend, as the weather warmed and Smuffy tackled his first outdoor project, Old Yeller joined him in the back yard. Positioning himself with an air of authority on the picnic table, he snarled and hissed at Smuffy each time he moved anywhere near him. One. Tough. Cat.

Later in the afternoon, I went out for a little sunshine. Smuffy greeted me, gesturing toward Old Yeller.

“I know you’re always saying how much cats like you, but I’ll bet this is one cat that wouldn’t let you pet him. That’s about the meanest cat I’ve ever come across.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I shrugged with nonchalance. “He might not be so mean to someone he really liked.”

Smuffy’s eyebrows shot up. “You gotta be kidding me! You seriously think you can pet that cat?” He waved an arm toward Old Yeller, who took it as an act of war and responded with hair-raising yowls of feline profanity. “I’ll bet you can’t!”

I paused, basking in a wave of inspiration. Had Old Yeller come along as Smuffy’s intervention?

I maintained my casual attitude. “Oh, I don’t know…I’ll bet I could. Cats really do like me, you know. What’ll you bet me?”

Smuffy named off a couple of things and I wrinkled my nose at him, poo-pooing them as penny ante. If he wanted me to endanger myself by even approaching Old Yeller, he would have to come up with something better.

I watched as my willingness, combined with indifference, sparked Smuffy’s competitive fires. He wanted to win. He had to win.

“That cat is wild! I don’t think anybody’s ever petted him. If you can pet that cat, I’ll…I’ll…”

“You’ll what? Remember, kitties like me,” I smiled.

I had him hooked. I waited. And, yes, Smuffy went over the edge.

“If you can walk up to that cat and get him to let you pet him, I will personally, right now, walk over to the edge of this yard, face the neighbors, pull my pants down around my ankles and sing, ‘The Star-spangled Banner’ for all to hear!”

“Promise to sing nice and loud?”

“Nice and loud.”

“What about your underpants?”

“Huh?”

“It’s really not fair if you don’t pull down your underpants.”

Smuffy hesitated. On a scale of 1-10, Smuffy’s modesty quotient is somewhere around 42. He’d already wagered a good deal of his decency. Soon, I saw that my show of confidence had only stoked his own.

“Okay. My underpants, too.”

“No cheating? No technicalities?”

“No cheating.”

“If you forget the words to the song, I’ll help you along.”

Arms folded across his chest, Smuffy watched me approach Old Yeller, warning me all the way that I’d better be careful, lest I draw back a stub.

I chose the cooing method. Slowly advancing, I called Old Yeller every precious pet name that came to mind. After a gentle stroke on the back of his head, I gave his spine a tickle before massaging his jowls. He purred in approval.

Soon, Old Yeller decided he’d had enough for a first encounter and jumped off the picnic table.

I smiled at Smuffy. “Your turn.”

“How did you do that?”

“Like I’ve always told you – kitties like me.”

Smuffy pled for mercy, exhausting every excuse at his disposal before going to the south edge of the lawn and getting down to business. I remained firm. Strong. Determined. It felt good – this new sense of power.

I had only one regret. Smuffy happened to be wearing the longest-tailed shirt he owned. I thought it took the polish off the performance and I said so. Again, technicalities prevailed as he informed me that raising the shirt had, at no time, come into discussion when the bet went down.

My little technicality hadn’t come into discussion either. I saved it till after we’d gotten past “the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

“Very nice,” I said, releasing my pent-up giggles. “From now on, I’m only going to agree to a bet if the stakes are high and I know I’m going to win. Remember, you could end up singing this same song on the front steps of the theater on Main Street – without the shirt!”

Waggling a cautionary finger at him, I turned and started for the house.

“It was only a fluke,” he called after me. “I don’t know why that cat let you pet him, but I’ll bet you couldn’t do it again!”

“Oh, it’s no fluke,” I called back, turning to savor the moment. “And I wouldn’t bet on it again if I were you. I’ve been feeding that cat hot dogs… for… the… last… three… days!”

Now, I can’t keep track of Smuffy every minute, you know. He may get into an occasional competitive wager with someone else now and again, but somehow he’s lost the urge to drag me into it.

Smuffy has taken the cure! Whether or not he falls off the wagon remains to be seen. If it happens, I’ll put down my hot chocolate, shove in a bookmark and be there to chronicle the event.

Stay tuned…

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The Rose Leaf Project

March 22, 2017March 22, 2017 ~ Midwest Storyteller ~ 3 Comments

I promised in the earlier post, “Creativity Unhampered”, that I’d return to my flight of fancy concerning my new discovery – Triple Thick. I suppose it may have been sitting on the shelf in Hobby Lobby for years, but I never knew it. Now, I’m giddy with possibilities.

After using it to restore my mom’s vintage clothes hamper, I wondered how it might work on various objects. Check out the hamper restoration here.

Rose leaves, partially decayed and plastered all over my porch after wind and rain, offered an interesting experiment. With nothing left between their veining, they looked like tan lace. I salvaged a few, pressing them between paper towels and flattening them with a heavy book.

I’d like to point out here that I exercised a great amount of restraint in getting started. My very nature called out to me to collect about five hundred of these beauties, because what if the experiment turned out to be the greatest thing I’d ever done! I reigned in the urge, for once, counseling myself that it could also be the biggest flop I’d ever wasted time and energy on. Forcing myself to keep it simple, I reasoned that Hobby Lobby had more supplies and that the bushes would lose their leaves again next year.

Once dry and flat, I spread my perfect lace leaves out onto a piece of paper to paint.

Now for color. I wasted some brain-time on this. Somewhere during my twelfth trip around the mulberry bush, I decided that it didn’t matter -they just needed color. Spray paint seemed the best idea. None of my leftover colors, however, seemed like anything I could tolerate, even as a test. I’m sensitive that way, you know.

So, I raided Smuffy’s paint stash and came out with chrome automotive paint. Why not? I rather liked the result. I let them dry before turning them over, giving the other side a silver coating as well.

Next step: Triple Thick! I could have brushed it on, as I did with the hamper lid, but my curiosity tempted me to see what happened if I dipped them, giving them a thicker, sheeted coating. But then, how to let the very wet things dry once both sides were wet? Hmmmm… I had a brainstorm. (Now, don’t be a smarty-pants and ask me, “What with?”) Placing waxed paper in a cardboard box and up the side, I secured it by sticking straight pins through from the outside. These would provide “hangers” for my leaves while the waxed paper caught the drips.

BONUS: I didn’t find Triple Thick to be overly smelly.

DRAWBACK: The leaves were extremely thin, and doing a complete dip got them extremely wet, so some of them did tend to curl a little.

Follow the instructions for drying time. I had lots of other things to do, so I probably waited half a day between re-dipping. My leaves got dipped three times. I suppose you could do as many coats as you like.

If you wanted to do this to a larger object, you would either paint the Triple Thick on with a brush or pour it into a shallow tray for dipping. The tray would need to have an airtight lid to keep it from drying out between times.

The results of my experiment? I’m rating it a success!

I know some of you have keen powers of observation and are wondering why there are fewer leaves in some photos than others.

I went to the basement to gather my leaves that had been drying on a large piece of paper on the floor. They were missing. So was the paper. I’ve lived with Smuffy for a long time, so instead of assuming that I had lost all my marbles or taken up sleep-walking, I went straight to the source and asked him what happened. He informed me that, assuming the whole thing to be trash, he’d wadded it all up and put in the garbage can. Sighing, I dove in, muttering something along the lines of, “If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard…” Yes, Smuffy is a tidy man. A very tidy man. Anyhow, in the process, there were casualties. Another one got stuck to the sleeve of my sweater and came out the worse for wear. I ended up with four. See? I knew I should have collected five hundred!

The leaves came out slick, glossy and slightly bendable. And, I might add – nifty! While I was finishing this post, I also discovered that Triple Thick comes in a spray! Here we go again…

I began to think how I might use the leaves. Here are some ideas –

I’d love your ideas! Comment and let me know if there are any items that might otherwise be too fragile to keep that you are thinking about preserving with Triple Thick.

One last instruction – When you finish your project, remove the waxed paper from the cardboard box and peel away the dried puddles of Triple Thick. While not half as much fun as dancing on bubble wrap in bare feet, it does offer about ten seconds of entertainment for those of us not ashamed to indulge our inner child.

Speaking of children, I think Triple Thick has possibilities for all sorts of projects with your kids.

Next up: Smuffy’s back! SUBSCRIBE, so you don’t miss “Life with Smuffy: (Episode 2) Smuffy Takes The Cure” (or, “Think You’re Invincible?…Don’t Bet On It!)

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Little Gladys and the Extended Cure

March 16, 2017March 15, 2017 ~ Midwest Storyteller ~ 7 Comments

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?

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’?

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 –

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 –

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.

Creativity Unhampered!

March 4, 2017March 4, 2017 ~ Midwest Storyteller ~ 4 Comments

I thought I’d begin my first creative post by posing a question. What in tarnation is this thing, anyway?

Think. Whimsical? Practical? (Close family members are not allowed to take part in this quiz.) Don’t scroll down. Control yourself! Give yourself a chance. By the time you finish reading this, you may end up with the satisfaction of knowing that you think like my mother.

My mom could literally make something out of nothing. I never knew anyone quite like her for inventing what-cha-ma-call-its and doo-dads.

Like Mom, I loved turning my imaginings into realities, but I didn’t want to do it her way. I’d been in the stores. I’d seen the catalogs. I wanted glorious, brand new, coordinating supplies that would meld together seamlessly into a masterpiece.

That didn’t happen. I’d gather up what scraps and tidbits we had around the house, complaining that it would never come close to what I had in mind. She’d listen, then dive into her stash. She had a knack for squirreling away the oddest things. I know, you’ve all got that auntie who saves cottage cheese cartons or the plastic rings off milk jugs. Mom, however, saved the singular, the curious, the nifty.

I’d pout when I ran short of materials for a project. Mom would say, “Don’t worry. We’ll piece it.” I remember telling her one day (I was at “that age”) that I didn’t want to piece it! I told her that someday I’d march into stores and buy up plenty of just what I needed. I’d make wonderful things, not even caring if I kept the leftovers! “Piecing it” would be a thing of the past and as far as I was concerned, the sooner the better! On the whole, I was a good, compliant kid, but I had my moments.

I had no idea! The things I learned from Mom while we “pieced it” have come to my rescue over and over again.

Have you figured out what that thing was yet?

Without Mom, without “piecing it”, my community wouldn’t have had a youth theater. Well, anyway, if we’d had one, we wouldn’t have had much in the way of sets, props or costumes. Have you ever stared at a script that called for an “Inthermo Device”, capable of blowing up the Statue of Liberty? I pieced it. It was cool! A lifetime of “piecing it” gave my daughter a fabulous wedding on a budget that didn’t make us hyperventilate. More on that in future posts.

Among Mom’s things that I couldn’t throw away was a cruddy old clothes hamper. Sitting in our bathroom for as long as I can remember, it was a sad-looking thing. The braided trim drooped. It’s wicker, decades behind at receiving necessary paint jobs, took a further beating from seven children. It’s wooden lid, covered in a strange laminate “stuff” that had grown tired and peeled away sometime back in the 1950’s, snagged at your hands and clothes if you happened to brush against it. Once it passed from decrepit to hideous, Mom retired it to the recesses of her upstairs, stuffing it full of other things she didn’t throw away.

Smuffy advised me to pitch it. He sighed when I said I had plans for it. My cogs turned for months, considering methods and materials. I took before, during and after photos. And now, here’s where I give my disclaimer. Creative minds can have a bit of a problem with keeping all the snippets in their proper mental cubbyholes. I have no idea what happened to my “before” and “during” photos, so I’ve given up looking. Here’s the hamper, minus the drooping braid, banged-up wicker and naked wood lid. Not bad!

Braid and wicker didn’t pose a huge problem. Smuffy tacked the braid back on and I spray painted it. Then, I met my challenge. The handles in the photo are original, somehow managing to survive with their laminate “stuff” in good shape. Determined to keep the hamper as original as possible, I racked my brain for a way to make the top look like this shiny, black-with-swishes and a hint of gold stuff.

I did the logical thing. I spent a good, long time in Heaven. Oops! I meant to say Hobby Lobby. I found this –

Triple Thick! I had a hunch this might be the answer. I gave the wooden lid three coats of gloss black paint with a sponge brush. Then, I mixed (at a ratio of about 8/1) faux-finishing glaze with some ivory paint. I sponged this over the lid until it looked as much like the handles as I could achieve. (Sponging with glaze has a long drying time, allowing you to wipe off mistakes and start over.) After it dried, I mixed a dab of gold paint into some more glaze and gave it a coat to tone down the ivory, “aging” the finish a bit.

Now for the Triple Thick. I needed something to give a slick mirror-like finish to the lid without my having to sand, lacquer, sand, lacquer….Oh, please! Triple Thick gives a diamond, non-yellowing clear finish that looks like you’ve applied coats and coats. I used the whole jar – the large size. It sells for $5.99. The small size is pictured above. I’m pretty well pleased with the shine, depth and the degree to which it matches the handles.

I had rescued the perishing! Mom would be proud. But, this Triple Thick stuff – WOW! The possibilities! What else might I be capable of with a jar of this in my hands?

And then it rained. The rose bushes dropped their leaves. The wind pasted them all over my wet porch. I noticed that they looked like lace, having lost all but their veining. And then I heard that little voice say, “You could save those.” Then, the voice said, “Triple Thick!”

Not about to let anything “hamper” my creativity (I’m so witty), I pressed the leaves between paper towels and waited. And you’ll have to wait, too. That story’s coming soon.

Oh! Did you guess? Here it is –

It’s a recipe holder, of course! How could you not know? Mom did what anybody would do, right? You’d know, wouldn’t you, to save the innards of an old broken percolator and an old fork that’s lost it’s bakelite handle? Then, of course, you’d shove them together to see if they fit, because you’ve been wanting a way to keep that recipe right in front of you. Mom left it “as is”, but I gave it a snazzy paint job so it would look cute in my kitchen.

I believe there’s a TV show called “Strange Inheritance”. I could show them a thing or two!

Coming soon: The Rose Leaf Project. SUBSCRIBE, so you don’t miss it!

Questions? Comments? I’d love to hear from you!

Midwest Storyteller

…where each day's journey leads to a better place

Month: March 2017

Life With Smuffy: (Episode 2) “Smuffy Takes the Cure” (or, “Think You’re Invincible?…Don’t Bet on It!”)

The Rose Leaf Project

Little Gladys and the Extended Cure

Creativity Unhampered!

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