If you or anyone you know is within driving distance, please join me at this event. We’ll be able to chat about my book (and yours if you have one), the story behind it and the road to getting it published. Spoiler Alert: There are lots of ins and outs, do’s and don’ts and surprises involved!
Coming SOON: Details on events in the near future –
December 6th – Boonslick Regional Library in Boonville, Missouri
December 7th – Missouri River Regional Library in Jefferson City, Missouri
Yes, it is my present situation that brings to mind one of my favorite quotes from P. G. Wodehouse’s writings:
I am, indeed, far from gruntled as I bring you the first half of this update on my novel series, “Morgan’s Landing”. The artists who have been given the task of cover design must have also been given something designed to induce a coma. Everything is ready and nothing is stopping us from going to print – except the cover. I thought the cover would be the least of my worries. All I asked for was something eye-catching and beautiful that carried the general feeling of what lay within its pages.
Having not read what lay within its pages, the artists must have assumed that I am one of those Russian novelists Wodehouse wrote about when he or his characters made observations like these –
“In the spring, a livelier iris gleams upon the burnished dove—but not in Russia, where they shoot poets for writing that sort of thing.”
In “The Clicking of Cuthbert” we find: “No novelist anywhere any good except me. PG Wodehouse and Tolstoy not bad. Not good, but not bad. All the rest worse. I spit me of them.”
“A Russian novel is where everyone is called Ivan and either dies of consumption or spends 400 pages deciding whether to.”
This Vladimir Brusiloff to whom I have referred was the famous Russian novelist. . . . Vladimir specialized in gray studies of hopeless misery, where nothing happened till page three hundred and eighty, when the moujik decided to commit suicide. . . .
One character, a Mr. Mulliner, said of himself, “I have a tender heart and I dislike to dwell on the spectacle of a human being groaning under the iron heel of Fate. Such morbid gloating, I consider, is better left to the Russians.
Another, while suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, prompted the narrator to remark, “If he had been a character in a Russian novel, he would have gone and hanged himself in the barn.”
One reference attempted to look on the bright side: “Cuthbert was an optimist at heart, and it seemed to him that, at the rate at which the inhabitants of that interesting country were murdering one another, the supply of Russian novelists must eventually give out.”
And my personal favorite: “No wonder Freddie experienced the sort of abysmal soul-sadness which afflicts one of Tolstoi’s Russian peasants when, after putting in a heavy day’s work strangling his father, beating his wife, and dropping the baby into the city reservoir, he turns to the cupboard, only to find the vodka-bottle empty.”
You dear Russian folks out there have all my respect and admiration. However, I’m thinking P. G. Wodehouse had a point back in the day when he took a poke at some of your novelists.
I, however, am not a Russian novelist and you can expect something a bit brighter from the “Morgan’s Landing” series. This is likely what has put some sand in the gears with the book cover.
The first cover they sent me was absolutely beautiful in that it had the depth and tone of an Old Masters painting. However, the woman featured there, though her hair and clothing fit the description of the main character, sat in a windowless, darkened room and looked as though she were consumed with thoughts of ending it all.
After that, things took a turn, but it seemed to be on a path that was not reflective of the book’s setting.
Next, I received a cover design that looked representative of the character and setting, but the addition of a sky filled with black storm clouds convinced me once again that the artists thought they were designing something for one of those Russian novels.
Not that the characters in “Morgan’s Landing” don’t have their troubles – they do! However, the sun does shine in Morgan’s Landing and there is a lot of fun within those pages. Tweaks have been suggested and now we wait. Hopefully, we won’t wait too long because I want these books in your hands and mine.
If you’ll remember, there is a “Morgan’s Landing” screenplay circulating out there amongst several productions. One of them in particular has taken the positive step of attempting to bring in A-list talent for one of the main roles and if that comes to fruition, things could start to get even more exciting! It’s hard to be disgruntled with all that going on. In fact, I’m about as gruntled as I can get!
My part in this is to wait. It’s as if my “baby” has been put up for adoption and there is nothing I can do other than wait for a producer to give the screenwriter a “Let’s go!” I so appreciate award-winning screenwriter, Alan Roth, who has done a wonderful job of writing the screenplay and in getting it into all the hands of the people who need to see it. If any of you are inclined to add a request for blessing a favor in this matter to your prayer list – go to it!
Hopefully, my next update will be a release date for Book 1 in the Morgan’s Landing series. It’s entitled “Hear My Whisper” and will be with you as soon as the cover design is finalized. Following the release, there will be book signing events and I hope to see you there.
Many of you have a story to tell. DON’T WAIT to get started! The road ahead is full of bumps and detours.
Leave a comment and tell me what is stirring in your heart and mind to write. It may be fiction or it may be a true story that you can’t bear the thought of being lost to the ages. I know I have one of those and I hope to have the time to start on it soon.
Sorry to seem absent lately, but I’ve been a bit pre-occupied lately due to this –
I’ve written for years and years. You know how it is – a little bit of this and whole lot of that. I really enjoy writing the humor non-fiction stories here on the blog because they are about my favorite things in life – Smuffy, Lil’ Snookie, Phoebe June and the family stories that shouldn’t be forgotten. And you know I love sharing what I’ve learned about healthy eating and lifestyle with you.
I don’t know if you’ve ever sat down to write a novel. It’s a whole different critter than any of the above and it’s not kid-stuff. It begins as a joy at having a story that you think people will love to read and then it is work, work, work to get it to the place where it can be read.
Several years ago a I had a dream. I don’t say that figuratively. I had a dream one night and when I woke I realized that the entire story was still there in my memory like a downloaded file. I grabbed a spiral book and wrote down every detail.
Little did I know it would be a three-novel series! Little did I know how much historical research, editing, and time it would take to complete. What I found that I knew the least about was the publishing world! Filled with agents, editors, publishers, conferences and my pleas for guidance from more experienced authors, it frustrated me at times to a degree that made me want to pick things up off my desk and throw them against the wall. However, wisdom prevailed. My desk is already messy enough and I didn’t need to make it any worse.
I had confidence in these stories. So, evidently, does the publisher! The first in the series is on the way and I’ll keep you posted here on the blog so that you’ll have plenty of hints along the way and be amongst the first to know the minute it’s available. I have a feeling you’re going to enjoy it!
I believe everyone has a story to tell. If you were going to write a book, would it be fiction or non-fiction? What would it be about? Would it be a mystery, a love story, a true story? Leave a comment and let me know.
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.
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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Lest you think all Smuffy does is renovate the kitchen, let’s get back to what the man does in his off hours. He doesn’t get too many of those, so he likes to jazz them up as much as possible. I remember closing out Episode 6 of Life With Smuffy by giving thanks that there are enough angels to go around.
If I am to be honest and share the little phrase that floats through my head most often lately, it is this: “Poor Smuffy”. Living in an old house means constant upkeep and what isn’t actually broken needs updating. Then, there are acts of God, nature’s tendency to descend from order into chaos and the animal world to contend with. Because Smuffy knows how to do everything, he does everything. Why call the man when you can be the man?
We try to take a bit of leisure on Saturday mornings before we plunge into the mammoth project of the day and discuss the plan of attack, sighing a lot as we exchange looks that tell us that we are of like mind in wondering when and if this will ever end this side of Heaven. A couple of weeks ago, we were doing just that.
I took a sip of tea and snuggled more comfortably into the sofa. Smuffy, while never having contracted the Boogie Woogie Flu, has had a severe case of Rockin’ Pneumonia all his life and I’ve had to train myself to hold my head still when conversing with him while he’s in his rocking chair lest I get whatever it is people get in their necks from sitting at tennis matches and whipping their heads from side to side all day. I hoped against all hope that I wouldn’t be losing my kitchen contractor for the day. Nature, in the form of a once orderly tree, had descended into such a state that the whopper just to the south of our driveway would soon be causing plenty of chaos should the next big storm send it crashing onto the vehicles or the house.
“What’s the day look like, Dear?” I asked.
“Well, I’ve been thinking about that tree,” Smuffy sighed, taking another sip of coffee and making me wonder, yet again, how he can sip the hot stuff while moving so fast. He can hold a plate of hot food and eat an entire meal while rocking at top speed, too, but that’s another story.
I stifled my own sigh and the groan that threatened to escape me. Smuffy didn’t have any business up in that big old tree, but I’d never known that bit of common sense to stop him. In addition to the danger of plummeting from a great height, the day promised to be hot enough to cause a heat stroke.
“The more I think about it,” he went on, “the less I want to climb it. I’ve decided I’m just gonna call somebody and have it taken down.”
I could have jumped off the sofa and gone into a buck and wing dance right there in my jammies, but I refrained, lest it send him into one of those so-are-you-saying-I-can’t-get-that-tree-down-by-myself? attitudes.
We spent a few minutes discussing who we might call for the job and I actually began to feel like we were getting a little posh just for calling anybody for anything. Smuffy listed off a few smaller outside chores he wanted to attend to before getting to work on the kitchen and then we each went our own way with him heading outside while I set about to get dishes, laundry and a few other things started before I got dressed and plunged into serious cleaning.
Just as I grabbed some clothes and headed for the bathroom, the phone rang. Smuffy’s voice on the other end came slow and measured.
“I’m on the roof.”
Before the “Why?” that trembled upon my lips could escape me, he continued.
“There are wasps. I have agitated them. They are between me and the only way down. I need you to bring the wasp and hornet spray out and throw it up onto the roof so I can spray them and get down.”
“Okay,” I said, “but I hope you realize that I’m the last person you want throwing something at anything. And I’ll have to find it first.”
Smuffy tried to tell me where the can of spray was, but I knew he naively spoke of where it was supposed to be. When we’d moved and reinstalled the reverse osmosis for the kitchen, I’d had to empty the shelf that held all that sort of thing and disperse the items around the basement wherever they’d fit. On the way to the basement, I shed the robe, knowing it would hamper my (as I loosely referred to it in my mind) throwing arm. The neighbors, if they didn’t get too close, would interpret my nightie to be a sundress, or so I told myself.
I don’t know if you have one of those “old house basements” that looks like a game of “Where’s Waldo and How Long Do You Think He’s Been Dead?” but locating the can nearly had me weeping at the thought that by the time I finally found it Smuffy could be sliding off the roof, a swollen mass of stings. Laying hands on it at last, I imagined this must be how Sherlock Holmes felt every time he searched through cigar ash and discovered a speck of something that could only have fallen from a gentleman of independent means wearing a scarf of Shetland wool and carrying an Orpington hen.
I ran outside and around to the back of the house to find Smuffy perched near the highest point of the roof. I thought this might be the proper time to ask him why he was up there. He reminded me that he’d been wanting to adjust the antenna for a while now. He explained that he couldn’t come any closer without agitating the wasps further and that I needed to back up and fling the can with all my might.
It went just about like I had expected. In fact, it went that way three or four times. Finally, Smuffy suggested that I go around to the northwest corner of the house to higher ground so I wouldn’t have so far to throw. He could then climb over the roof and most of the way down and be ready to catch the can. I didn’t balk at this, but I do admit to having the unpleasant awareness that I would now be much nearer to the street in my nightie, flinging myself about while being hollered at by a guy on the roof. Oh, well…
While sound in theory, I had no faith in this new plan of Smuffy’s. The last thing I wanted to see was Smuffy scrambling up, down and sideways across a steep roof trying to catch an oblong metal object launched by a woman in a manner which was bound to convince passersby that she’d been having a couple.
I scrambled in amongst the petunias and boxwood, tightened my grip on the can and drew my arm back in preparation to let it fly.
“It’s not a shot put!” Smuffy yelled. “Here, watch me.” Instructing me to back up, he stood up and motioned with his arm, instructing me how to hold the can, how to swing my arm and when to release. Then, crouching as near the edge of the roof as he could safely get, he cupped his hands and squinted as though he fully expected to receive a concussion.
Well, you can’t call me a slow learner! I’ll have you know I landed it near enough to Smuffy that he managed, with a few interesting dance steps, to grab the can on my second attempt. I ducked inside out of public view and he slithered over the top of the roof and down the other side to tackle the swarm. Watching out the dining room window at the back of the house, I asked myself if this was the kind of thing I’d traded the tree job for and if it might have been wiser to save the money for hospital bills. I gave thanks that there are enough angels to go around and went to get dressed.
A short while later, with the washer and dryer going and now the dishwasher, I finished dusting and pulled out the vacuum cleaner and continued my mission to get the basic chores done before I started my list of extras. It was then that the earth moved.
The whole house shook with the crash. The windows rattled. The floor moved under my feet. Phoebe June did a little shaking of her own. The force was such that I looked around to see if cracks were snaking across the plaster on the walls and I wouldn’t have been surprised to find that the foundation had shifted. Had some huge explosion occurred on the other side of town? Sirens would probably sound any minute. I raced around to the south kitchen window and my eyes followed a tall ladder as it stretched up into the very tree we had just decided not to cut down ourselves. The gutter dangled off the east end of the porch and the fallen portion of the tree wouldn’t let me get down the deck steps. I spotted Smuffy at the top of the ladder before I ran back through the house and out the front door.
I still couldn’t get anywhere near him for the tree lay over the front lawn, flower beds, driveway and the yard on the other side of the driveway, not to mention a portion of our truck.
Seeing me, Smuffy pointed at the truck. “I thought I parked the truck far enough away,” he yelled. “Guess not.”
I looked at our dangling bumper – a nice match for the gutter. Turning to the house, I gave it the once over. No broken windows and the porch remained attached. Shingles seemed to be in their places. Now I gave Smuffy the once over.
“What are you doing up there? What happened to calling the man to come cut down the tree?” I yelled.
“Well,” Smuffy replied, and I’m not sure he didn’t give his chin a thoughtful rub. “I just decided I wasn’t going to let this old tree beat me.”
I resisted the urge to scream that for two cents I’d be happy to beat him.
“I suppose it never occurred to you to tell me in advance that you were going to climb up there and cut down that tree?”
At this point I threw my hands up in the air and went back in the house, figuring that his logic must be that after the wasp incident, this was mere child’s play. Your mind can’t help but take some sort of stab at Smuffy’s reasoning.
Once my heart stopped racing and the urge to strangle Smuffy subsided a bit, I stopped to give thanks again that there are enough angels to go around.
The scary part about it is that Smuffy only took down a third of that tree. Maybe he’ll give me a while to recover before the next chapter in this story.
The answer is “yes” in case you are wondering – Smuffy has always been this way.
Dig those socks!
Life With Smuffy does, indeed, have its ups and downs. I’m glad that his angels specialize in bringing him down gently.
My Life With Smuffy has been exciting from Day 1. Read about our Smokin’ Hot Honeymoon. You’ll find, in Smuffy Takes the Cure that I did try intervention. His river adventures here and here will make this story seem like a walk in the park (on flat ground)!
I’d love to hear from you. Please leave a comment!
Sometimes, it’s best to gather a few small things together in order to convey the idea that there is a pattern or consistency to the matter.
If you’ll recall my recent tale of how Smuffy removed the hedge I hated with the help of our 1965 Studebaker Cruiser, you might remember Pookie’s reference to another time when he, after leaving his truck out of gear, had to remove it from the trunk of a tree after it rolled down the driveway. If you missed all that, you can bring yourself up to date with “A Studebaker in the Hand is NOT Worth Two in the Bush” here.
Smuffy assures us that he has never been involved in a vehicular accident that was his fault. He may add, with a blush, that the number of vehicular accidents attributed to him while he is not even inside the vehicle is rising to a level that borders on the ridiculous.
Again, it is the assemblage of these events that proves my point that Smuffy and the gearshift lever have relational difficulties and I present my case to you now as thoroughly as if I’ve had Paul Drake on the case and Hamilton Burger itching to object.
For a short time after Smuffy’s documented annihilation of the hedge, he managed to play along with only two strikes against him. Of course, I tried to keep him on the straight and narrow with a word of caution now and then and a helpful tutorial.
Then came the day he asked the boss if he might borrow his truck.
We (mostly me) had been furniture shopping for a year and a half. You know how the struggle goes – trying to solve the dilemma of the look/the space/the price. All this could be taken care of, we discovered, with an hour and a quarter’s drive to a small town north of us. It took several trips to deal with the purchase of the sofa and then came the ordeal of chairs that pleased my eye and Smuffy’s buns and his inherited desire for high-speed rocking. (If Smuffy were head of design at any one of the major vehicle manufacturers, they’d all have rocking seats by now.) We’d been enjoying our new sofa, but the chair selection had dragged on.
The folks in that family-owned furniture store were patient with us and, we were soon to learn, would do just about anything for us. Alas, in November of 2002, the special order chairs were ready.
Smuffy, concerned that our short bed pickup might prove a tad skimpy, had asked his boss for the use of his work truck for the day. We’d become acquainted with shops and an excellent restaurant near the furniture store, so we planned to make a day of it.
As we could only go on Saturday, the store owner had told us that he would be out that day and that only his wife and another female employee would be assisting us. He wanted us to be sure we could handle the loading of the furniture, as he didn’t want to make physical demands on those ladies.
The only thing that diminishes the “what might have been” in this story is the fact that the furniture store was located on flat ground.
As we pulled up in front, there were no parking spots available so we parked around the corner, went in to tell them we’d arrived and ask if they had a place to load in back. A cheery sales lady in the brightest yellow dress and jacket ensemble I’d ever seen welcomed us. At the time, I took it as a sign that she had a sunny disposition. She did. But, yellow is also the color of warning lights.
She informed Smuffy that double parking in front long enough to load was customary, so he ran off to get the truck and I waited on the sidewalk with Ms. Sunshine. He circled the block and just as he rounded the corner, the last car parked in front of the store pulled out, allowing him to ease right in behind a mini-van and avoid having to double-park.
Smuffy, having never been known to waste a precious second, leaped out of the boss man’s truck, ran around to the back and dropped the tailgate. Ms. Sunshine seemed like the vigorous sort to me and I relented after her continued insistence that I hold the door and she help Smuffy. He climbed into the truck bed to heave while she ho’ed and together, they plunked one large box containing a chair and then the other into the back of the truck. Smuffy jumped out of the truck, gave the tailgate a good slam and joined me on the sidewalk.
Then, the strangest thing happened. Ms. Sunshine, as though she and the chairs had been lovers and were about to be separated forever, threw herself over the tailgate of the truck, heaved backward and dug her little slick-bottomed pumps into the pavement!
Yes, the truck was rolling. I saw the mini-van give a lurch, but, all in all, she did exert enough force against that truckload of furniture to stop it and no damage was done.
I still don’t know how she did it – sheer adrenaline, I suppose – but I’m glad she did.
I spun around to face Smuffy.
“You didn’t!” I gasped, as soon as I managed to speak.
He raced out into the street, around the truck and threw his upper half through the driver’s window. I saw his face turn a vivid shade of pink as he moved the gearshift lever into “PARK”.
Some lessons simply must be learned the hard way, I suppose – or maybe not.
We thanked our swift-thinking, fast-acting friend and I forked over the money for the chairs, wishing all the while that I had some left for a fat tip for her. Had we been double-parked…Well, I shudder to think!
As we drove away, I began to quiz Smuffy. Concerning those little symbols on the steering column, did he think “P” stood for “Probably don’t ever need to put it there?” Did he think that “D” stood for “Don’t bother to move this lever anywhere else?” Then, I informed him that if he planned on pleading with me to keep this one a secret, he was wasting his time.
Two weeks later, with the weatherman calling for another beautiful Saturday, we decided to take our pink 1958 Buick Super out on a day trip.
After dropping Pookie off to spend the day with friends, we went antiquing in a couple of quaint, historic towns, one of which had the old-fashioned town square with diagonal parking. I emphasize, at this point, that I was merely a passenger.
We hopped out and made our way around the square, looking in all the cute little shops. As we settled back into the car, I fastened my seat belt while Smuffy turned the key in the ignition. Another point to emphasize here is that some of those old classics can be started in any gear they happen to have been left in.
As we drove up onto the sidewalk, I wondered what all those people on the other side of the plate glass window in front of us must be thinking. But, I must be getting used to this sort of thing, because the only other thing I found myself thinking what a great story this would make.
I tried to be as respectable as possible when I informed Smuffy that this type of thing simply must cease once and for all.
Weeks later, we went Christmas shopping, this time in the 1965 Studebaker Cruiser. Smuffy dropped me off at one store and went to do some shopping on his own. When he returned to pick me up, he apologized for taking longer than he expected and mumbled something about being thankful that the car didn’t need repairs during the holidays.
His explanation gave me that old, familiar feeling. He’d left the car sitting in the parking lot while he shopped. When he returned, he turned the key in the ignition and nothing happened – nothing – not even the slightest sound. Smuffy groaned inwardly as the whole discouraging scenario played out in his mind – how were we going to get home and what would he have to do and spend to fix this thing? Suddenly, his eyes were drawn to those little symbols on the steering column and there it was in good ole’ “D”. This car, thankfully, couldn’t be started in “DRIVE”.
What a blessing that he has stopped doing this on hills!
A certain awareness came over Smuffy after this. Up until now, he thought he could take gearshifts or leave them as a casual user and then came to the realization, too late, that perhaps he couldn’t. Alas, there didn’t seem to be a twelve-step program or rehab center geared for the transmissionally challenged.
After managing to stay on the wagon for a while, or at least keep the wagon stationary, Smuffy arrived home for lunch one day wearing the look of a man who had been humbled by trying circumstances. It seems he’d pulled his van into the parking lot of a convenience store as usual. He stopped, but ignored his craving for coffee and a cinnamon roll while he finished listening to an interesting report on the radio. He then entered the store, grabbed his goodies and chatted with the girl who rang up his purchases.
At this point, everyone’s attention was drawn to the scene unfolding out on the parking lot. A man, after pulling his truck into the parking lot and leaping out of it, began to run at break-neck speed. As they watched, he flew to the door of Smuffy’s rolling van, yanked the door open, jumped in and threw it into “PARK” just as it came within a gnat’s eyelash of striking the gas pumps.
I shook my head at Smuffy’s tale, realizing that the only thing left to do was to put in yet another request for extra angels to be assigned to him.
The real question remains: Can this be inherited? And, if so, how do you know the signs? Shortly after I had documented this tendency in Smuffy to commit endless rolling violations, I came to question his offspring.
From the kitchen, I heard the most terrible banging and stomping and fussing. I rounded the corner to have Pookie inform me that the vacuum cleaner switch was most definitely dead. She’d done everything she could think of and the darned thing just wouldn’t come on. As she shook it and called it names and demonstrated all this to me, I looked at it sitting there with its cord all wound neatly around its little prongs and I sighed.
“Is it plugged in? You might want to check that.”
Pookie spent another five minutes rolling on the floor in hysterics. While pleased that, at the age where self-awareness, lack of confidence and paralyzing embarrassment collide with one another every five minutes, she was able to laugh at herself, I wondered if I should brush this off entirely.
My thoughts turned to that little laminated card in her wallet, recently given to her by the folks at the Department of Motor Vehicles. I closed my eyes, giving thanks that there are enough angels to go around.
My Life With Smuffy has been exciting from Day 1. Read about our Smokin’ Hot Honeymoon. You’ll find, in Smuffy Takes the Cure that I did try intervention. His river adventures here and here might not be something you want to read just before bed.
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