Armed and Humorous

Patiently strolling among the crowded rows of her second grade class, Mrs. C spreads her attention evenly among her energetic students as they work on a writing assignment. Patiently absorbing the spray of machine gun-speed questions directed at her, she makes her way to the back of the room where a robust-bodied boy vies to gain her attention.

When she acknowledges him, his pained concern is not related to creative writing.

STUDENT, contorting his flexed arm toward his back: “It hurts when I do this.”

MRS. C, many years experienced with students who get off-task: “Well then, don’t do that.”

As she moves on to the next kid, she winks and nods at the man smiling in the back of her room.

Math-e-mad-ics

To all my math-nerd teacher friends - Happy Pi Day.

On this day of 3/14 I have no idea who discovered pi, the mathematical calculation of the ratio  between a circle's circumference and diameter (pi = 3.14); nor do I care. The part I enjoy now is when the middle schoolers bring me leftover pieces of actual bakery pie from their class celebrations.

Math and I have never had a stable relationship. I was good at it until the fifth grade when my teacher, Mr. Nowak, a kindly, older gentleman, allowed us to correct our own papers. Whether we earned our grades or not, we all received A's. The man, who walked with a limp, fascinated me after telling us he got his butt shot off in "The War."

In high school, one of my math teachers exploded from his classroom and pinned me against the lockers while aggressively manhandling my neck and chin. (In his defense, he'd earlier warned me to stop bouncing a handball against the wall while he taught class. I didn't.) I dropped his class the following week.

My final math teacher, sealed my math-less fate when he submissively allowed his classroom control to deteriorate to the point where he didn't punish kids for taping Playboy centerfolds to the chalkboard. Mr. M often showed up late for class, smelling of Old Spice, coffee, and cigarettes. The moment that likely pushed him over the edge was the day Shelvin Longley stood at the pencil sharpener, lit a pack of firecrackers, and dropped them onto the ledge outside the window. Already a nervous wreck, Mr. M nearly came unglued. Decades later I heard he died in his parent's home; a lonely, bachelor alcoholic.

Thirty-plus years later it's no wonder I can't even balance a checkbook.

A Loss For Words

Mild-mannered instructor, Mr. West, struggles to maintain control of his larger-than-normal Special Ed study hall. His usual calm, soothing demeanor increasingly agitates as the behaviorly-challenged high school students repeatedly ignore his requests to comply with even the lowest standards of classroom decorum.

 Approaching his wit's end, he lets loose with an eardrum-piercing whistle, mostly used for calling naughty dogs. With the entire class wincing and covering their ears, one puzzled student asks why he's being so "mean."

Recognizing an opportunity to craft this moment into a learning opportunity, Mr. West explains he’s not being mean.

MR. WEST, hoping to coax a vocabulary word from his students: “I’m not mad. I’m raising my voice because I’m dissatisfied and disappointed in your behavior. Can someone please tell me a word that describes my feelings? It begins with the letter ‘F’.”

STUDENT, serious and eager to have the correct answer: “Fuck?”

The entire class sits spell-bound waiting for Mr. West’s reaction.

MR. WEST, caught off-guard, expecting the word 'frustrated', pauses before he softly and defeatedly replies: “Yes. That's the word.”

Sensing his honesty, the students acquiesce and go about their studies.

Little Dumber Boy

Christmas of 1978 was a good one – despite the fact that my brother received the three Tonka trucks that I had on my wish list. Years later Santa admitted that she must’ve mixed up the gift tags.

 The evening before, we had our annual Christmas concert at church. As a fifth-grader, my group was the highlight of the performance. My family arrived late. The standing-room-only crowd spilled all the way back to the exit signs and piled themselves into folding chairs hastily lined in the aisles. I quickly ditched my family and wedged my way into a pew near the front.

 The show had already begun. We’d rehearsed our song many times. I knew it by heart. I quickly made a mental checklist of what I had to do. Sing loudly. Enunciate. Make eye contact. Smile.

I’d barely prepared myself when it was our turn to go on. Because I sat on the end of the row near the wall I lead my group to the stage. Hundreds of eyes stared brightly at us – eagerly anticipating the harmonious notes ready to burst from our joyous mouths. I steadied myself, and silently cleared my nervous throat. Pastor gave us our cue and we began singing.

Shockingly, my first words were not the lyrics to the song. Surprised at what I heard, I stopped for a moment – trying to get my bearings. Had they changed the song at the last minute? I was late, so I likely missed any last-minute directions. I managed to mumble my way through a verse until I realized what song we were doing. It was a simple one – a number we’d done many times as little kids.  I quickly composed myself and began belting it out.

Throughout our performance I noted the eye contact from the audience was phenomenal. They were beaming – almost giddy with excitement. Seeing this, I stepped up my showmanship and began grand hand gestures like Pavarotti performing opera in front of the Pope. Even my little brother was locked onto me – grinning from ear to ear while nodding his head in gleeful approval.

 When we finished, I galloped down the altar steps to a resounding applause, plunked myself into a pew, and basked in the glow of a show well done. The moment was fleeting as I watched the next group take center stage. The singers were all of my friends and classmates. Slack-jawed, and bewildered, I listened to them sing the song I’d expected to perform. I glanced to my right. Sitting next to me was a row of little kids. Really little kids. In my rush to get into the church after arriving late, I’d seated myself with the kindergarteners. Slowly it dawned on me what had just happened. I sang with the kindergartners! The congregation enjoyed my performance because they watched a five-foot fifth-grader in high-water pants and a clip-on tie make a buffoon of himself with a group of toddlers.

Waves of embarrassment flooded over my face. My mind raced as to why this had happened. Was Pastor teaching me a lesson for uttering the f-word on the Vacation Bible School bus earlier that summer? Was God punishing me for thinking impure thoughts while ogling Tina Carrigan’s nubile figure in her nearly transparent baptismal dress after a full-body water immersion ceremony?

 

I don’t remember much about the moments afterward. It’s likely my ego has clouded my memory to protect my personal posterity. Since that day I’ve had hundreds of red-faced moments, but it’s been nearly 40 years since I’ve sung in public.

City Suckers

This week my 11-year-old boys and I took a vacation to Hellwaukee Milwaukee to watch the Brewers. We hoped to go somewhere further from home, but we didn’t have the money time. As a family, it doesn’t matter where we go, as long as I have beer fun. So we loaded up the convertible mini-van and hit the road.

Less than hour into our trip and we were already flying through our cash traffic. The boys begged me to suggested we stop for lunch. Our freeway exit had all the major fast food chains, so we had no trouble finding the Walmart parking lot for lunch meat sandwiches a pleasant place to dine.

When we got into town we checked into the city dump our motel to unpack. In the lobby, we listened to two urban gentleman arguing over the price of a delivered pizza discussing the social benefits of cultural diversity. At the stadium, we enjoyed having most of our bleacher section to ourselves - until a 400-pound loudmouth a husky, jovial gentleman and his frat-boy buddies co-workers sat directly in front of us. The excess girth of their sweaty shoulders actually enveloped the backs of their seats and brushed against our knees. The big guy sucked down $8.00 beers like Prohibition was being re-instated after the game enjoyed himself immensely.

The next day we spent our life savings the morning at the zoo. This was the perfect place for me to maximize quality time ogling young moms in tiny sun dresses bonding with my sons. Endless exhibits of lethargic and sad exotic animals could be smelled seen everywhere. After hours of walking around the 30-acre complex we wished we would have worn more comfortable shoes taken an extra day to see it all!

That afternoon the boys and I hung out in the street construction downtown area. We kicked back in an open-air restaurant and doled out as much money on two craft beers as I would on a 30-pack of Blatz enjoyed the city slicker life. After that, it was down to the waterfront to scrounge for a parking spot see Lake Michigan. We took off our shoes and tip-toed around a dog crapping on the beach through the sand. We climbed way out to the end of the rugged breakwater and didn’t want to sit down because the rocks were covered with seagull shit the view was inspiring.

The drive home couldn’t happen fast enough passed in the blink of an eye. My boys, God damn bless them, passed out rode peacefully – leaving me with five hours of boredom to reflect on the joys of this family vacation. We took a break at the village park in Cadott to watch a creeper drive through the park looking for something to masturbate to stretch our weary legs.

Once parked safely in my driveway, I leaned back into the head rest and whispered softly to myself, “WTF did I just do?” “OMG, I can’t wait to do this again.”

Take Me Out to the Bowel Game

I’ve shared this story as a speech when I taught freshman and sophomore English classes. It’s difficult to re-create some of the sounds using a keyboard. ~TWW

Baseball is my sport. It has been for 40 years. The first team I ever played on, in Minong back in ’74, didn’t have real uniforms. Somehow I got a colored t-shirt and used an entire roll of my grandma’s masking tape to make the number “1” and spell out the words Little League Baseball - on the front and back. The homemade shirt was so stiff it felt like I was wearing a suit of armor.
Though I played in more than 100 games from Pee-Wees to Majors, to Babe Ruth to Morning League, and eventually to high school – only one game stands out in my memory.

We were playing at Haugen early in the summer after eighth grade. Haugen is a dot-on-the-map community north of Rice Lake. All of the kids in town went to the same school as those of us from Rice Lake, but we played on several different baseball teams, based on where we lived. I didn’t start many games back then. I was skinny, kind of weak, and there were a lot of kids much better at baseball than me.

On this day I was in the starting line-up, playing first base. The bleachers behind me were filled with a bevy of hot girls from school. I played it cool, chatting with them as I threw ground balls to my teammates, non-chalantly warming up as if I were the team’s star.

With my first at-bat, I lined a frozen rope into the right field gap. The ball left the sweet spot of the bat the way it’s supposed to. It kept going and going, rising at a perfect ascent toward the fence.
Most of my hits were awkward little dribblers that rarely left the infield, but this hit was the kind that makes the newspaper. Thundering down the line toward first base, instantly basking in the glory of my athletic manliness on full display in front of the dreamy-eyed girls, I could see the two outfielders turn their backs to me – which indicated they were chasing the ball. This meant I surely had a double, maybe even a triple! Rounding first, and in full mode to go to second, I looked up to see the right fielder no longer chasing the ball. He was picking it up and turning to make the throw to second base. Not only was I not going to get the triple I envisioned, I was probably going to get thrown out at second. My moment of glory was fading before it even happened. By this time I was more than half-way between bases when I put on the brakes – and tried to go back to first. Stopping the momentum of my 120-pound frame took all the strength I could muster. Every muscle in my body needed to get me back to first, quickly.

That’s when it happened. I farted. Loud!

Not a little fluff. Not an SBD. L-O-U-D! Smack-dab in the middle of my crowning moment as a ball player, and my sphincter betrayed me. Stumbling and bumbling my way back to first, each step was met with the resounding reverberations of unintended intestinal eruptions.  My mind raced as fast as the tainted wind that gusted from the seat of my jock strap.

As a kid, I watched a lot of World War II movies. All I could think of at this moment was the sound of Japanese Kamikazes, as their planes whistled and buzzed, spiraling into splashing, ocean explosions. I envisioned myself as a character in an action movie, streaking across a battle field in slow motion. You know the scene, the one where someone is lamenting in a long, drawn-out shout. That was me – except for the interspersed flatulence. “Ohhhhhhh nnnooooo, (insert juvenile fart noise made by sticking out a wet tongue)  Nnnottt nnnowww,” (insert fart noise made by placing hand under armpit and pumping arm rapidly) By this time the second baseman had the ball and he was coiling his arm to fire it to first. With my balance lost, I bear-crawled my way back to the bag - each footstep forcing out a sound like someone tap dancing on almost-empty squeeze ketchup bottles. My last lunge sent me airborne, crashing into the dust at first base. The last sound I remember, before nearly blacking out from mortifying shock, was the splattery report of a party balloon accidentally released mid-blow.

I lay there, face down in the dirt, hoping never to get up. Ball players, specifically boys, are relentless when it comes to razzing their buddies – especially when it comes to episodes like this. (I’m so thankful I wasn’t that kid who got the boner in the locker room shower – or the kid with the port wine stain birthmark in his butt crack.) I knew I couldn’t lay there forever. I had to face my fear like a man. Surely the girls were recoiled in horror, or worse yet, were pointing at me, doubled-over with laughter.

Making my way to my feet, carefully ensuring I was always in contact with the base, I stood up – prepared for the worst. This is where I expected to sulk from the field with my head hung in shame. An embarrassment of this magnitude mandates shunning by the cool kids, possibly even banishment from certain social circles. My eyes regained focus, and my ears picked up noises other than my leaky colon. A few scattered claps were followed by an “Atta boy!” and a “Woohoo!”. The first baseman said, “Nice hit.” Stunned, looking around the field and the stands, it became relievingly obvious that no one heard the sour notes tooting from my butt trumpet.

I don’t recall if I eventually scored that inning, or if we even won the game. I told the kids in my English class that winning or losing doesn’t matter. Play hard, do your best, be ready for your moment to shine, and fart as if no one is listening. ~TWW

No Phony Misery

No Phony Misery

The year; 1980. The place; a secluded back room in the middle school library. The participants; me, (a nerdy seventh-grader), a pair of way-out-of-my-league stuck-up eighth-grade girls, and a vending machine snack.

We’d just returned from lunch and took our seats at the table in the back room. Seventh grade was the first year for middle school students to have a schedule that included changing classrooms for each individual subject. The period following noon hour was my study hall. Nervous about messing up my schedule and making a fool of myself, I was on-time, properly seated, and well into Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five when the young ladies strolled in – tardy and talking. The girls, poorly feigning interest in their homework, began whispering and giggling. Vonnegut is difficult to understand, even with complete concentration, let alone for a 13-year-old staring into the faces of gorgeously-hot, rude chicks.

As it turns out whispering and giggling were the least of my worries. One of the girls reached into her purse and plopped a bag of Corn Nuts onto the table. That was the day I discovered I had a problem.

Misophonia is a medical/psychological affliction related to the general discomfort or dislike of certain sounds. “General discomfort” is a kinder and more pleasant description for how I describe my own internal reaction to specific sounds. Hatred, seething anger, and rage are more appropriate definitions for my level of intolerance. Knuckle-popping, gum chewing, slurping, sniffling, and open-mouth breathing by the people around me makes me slip into Stage-One fight or flight mode. But hearing someone eat is my pinnacle of torture.

The study hall girl, bless her bitchy heart, tried her best to be discrete by painstakingly opening the crinkly, vacuum-sealed plastic pouch as tormentingly deliberate as possible. In the pristine auditory environment of the isolated library her repeated fumbling and manipulation of the stubborn sound grenade in her hands was only slightly less disturbing than listening to someone attempting to make cellophane oragami while wearing mittens.  For what seemed like the same amount of time it takes to actually grow corn, she twisted and tore at the resilient four-ounce bag.

“Use some FUCKING SCISSORS!” I pleaded silently.  Eventually she squeezed the bag so hard that one end popped open, shooting several kernels of the nacho cheese-flavored dynamite onto the table. After a muffled guffaw from the hungry heathen, and an animated spit-take from her partner, she tossed a nugget into mouth and bit down with a ravenous disregard for civility. The ensuing moments tripped a switch inside me.  It wasn’t so much as a switch she tripped in me – it was a trigger – like on the gun I wanted to fire into her noisy face.

 Audible human mastication is a repulsive cacophony of crushing, grinding, sucking, licking, swishing, breathing, and swallowing. For most people, sound travels through the ear, over the tympanic membrane, past the hammer, the anvil, and the stirrup. It continues through the cochlea, the auditory nerve and up the central auditory pathway until it reaches the auditory cortex. The sound level increases along this entire journey. Once it reaches the auditory cortex it is processed and diffused.  In my case, when the sound is processed it doesn’t diffuse - it makes me want to throw a hammer THROUGH A WINDOW!

My eyes secretly bore a hole through my book and into her discordend soul. “Ka-pow, ka-pow, ka-pow, pow, pow, pow, crunch, crunch, crunch, mince, mince, mince…” Over and over again, the hollow sortie of horrific explosions echoed from within her head and into my nerve center. I casually glanced in her direction hoping to re-read the label on her bag to be certain she wasn’t eating a peanut butter and gravel sandwich, or a pack of firecrackers. To her credit, she wasn’t chewing with her mouth open – I have a buddy who does that. This guy chews like a garbage truck, and so do his kids. Another friend politely likened my buddy’s family’s eating etiquette as caveman-ish. I was thinking it was more like a National Geographic movie of hyenas feasting on carrion in the wilds of the Serengeti. One time, I was trapped in a vehicle with them for nearly an hour as they ate gummy bears, taffy, and beef jerky. It was all I could do to keep myself from grabbing the steering wheel and hurtling us into a bridge abutment.

With white knuckles and a bulging vein in my temple I survived that afternoon in the library, but my condition has gotten worse. My wife and her family are wonderful people, they’d do anything for anybody, but their table manners are atrocious. For 20 years I’ve eaten all my Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas meals in another room. Their fork scraping, full-mouth talking, and plate-licking often leave me slipping in and out of a coma. Sometimes even my own chewing sets me off. I have to crank up a Megadeth CD to get me through the squishy smacking of a braunschweiger and Velveeta sandwich.

The causes and cures for Misophonia are unknown. The actual numbers of sufferer is also unknown - as many of us keep this secret to ourselves. If only the guy clawing his way through a bucket of popcorn in the movie theater knew that the man sitting directly behind his seat was fighting an overwhelming desire to choke the shit out him. Or, if the hospital receptionist was aware that her saliva-infused gum snapping made me seriously consider running my ear drum through with a crochet hook.

The last several years of teaching school have tested my ability to cope with my disorder. Relentless pen clicking, foot tapping, pencil scratching, and sniffling have pushed my limits of neurological endurance. Recently, a student sat in my classroom and sniffed back a drippy nose for twenty minutes before I quietly rose from my chair and politely handed him a box of tissue. He waved me off, inferring he didn’t need any.  I re-offered the box and he looked up at me somewhat annoyed that I didn’t understand him the first time. Briefly I considered telling him that hearing him suck his snot in reverse hyper-speed and swallowing it was going to make me puke, but I decided to pull several pieces from the box, lay them on his desk and walk away.

For now I’ll suffer in silence until some kind of medicine or therapy is developed to ease the anxiety of my daily life. Don’t be surprised if the next time I’m invited to dinner I slip in a pair of ear plugs and ask if we’re having cotton candy. ~L

Sobbing S.O.B.

I cried today. Not a full-blown broken dam of tears accompanied by a wailing and sobbing-type episode, but the blurry eyes, runny nose, lump-in-the-throat kind.

A Facebook link led me to a YouTube video of a cancer-battling toddler who was given an opportunity to take the field with his favorite college football team. The boy, in a personalized jersey, and way too big pads, ran a touchdown play into the end zone as the defenders stumbled along the way. After scoring, the team put him on their shoulders and carried him off the field to the roar of the hometown stadium. The parents clutched each other and cheered - likely knowing this will be the only time they’ll do so. Total onion chopping stuff.

As I age I find myself tearing up more frequently.  I’m a grown man – an outdoorsman, a former athlete, and a hardass of the highest sort. I was an amateur boxer, a truck driver, a Harley rider, but those manly endeavors have done little to mask my sensitive side. I wept when my children were born. For years I choked up when saying goodbye to my high school senior baseball players at our season's-end banquet. A few weeks ago I nearly bawled while watching an elderly veteran, in failing health, stand resolutely and salute the flag during a school ceremony.

I’ve always been a crier. In fact, I specifically remember the moment I recognized my emotional frailty. At six, I was unprepared for Toto’s leap from Dorothy’s arms, causing her to miss the balloon ride from Oz back to Kansas. I can only imagine how the Predni family must’ve rolled their eyes and jabbed each other in the ribs once I left their family movie night.

Crying isn’t a shame. Everyone does it. So I happen to do it more than most men. And little girls.

One summer, when I was 11, I saved my paper route tips so I could buy a large Mepps bucktail spinner. (Subscriptions were $1.80 per two weeks. Customers paid with two dollars and told me to keep the 20 cents in change.) A month later, with $7.00 in my pocket and fishing pole tied to my bike, I pedaled to the bait shop, bought the lure and rode directly to the river. With my SECOND cast I snagged a log, broke the line, and lost my prized possession. After a chorus howls and knee-slapping from my friends I tied on another lure and walked down river. Not to find a better fishing hole, but so my buddies wouldn’t see the streams flowing from my eyes.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a wimp. Physical pain seldom bothers me. In fifth grade I pried my thumbnail off with a pencil during Mr. Nowak’s math class. Pried. It. Off. I worked for days at peeling back the cuticle until it exposed the growth plate. Eventually it dried-up enough to form a hollow spot large enough to insert a pencil tip. A few jiggles later and my homework was soaked in a pool of coagulating bio-hazard. No crying.

In eighth grade I broke my hand playing baseball. Four days later I had it examined. The bones had begun to heal crooked. Two doctors pinned me into a chair (without an anesthetic) and wrenched on my hand until the bones re-broke and could be set properly. I nearly passed out when they finished. With my hand in a cast, they sent me home on my bike. Not so much as a moist eyelash.

In a seventh grade football game I dislocated my Adam’s apple. Needing to breathe quickly and heavily from the physical exertion of the play there was a moment when I felt the sensations of suffocation and panic. As I lay flailing around on the ground, with a searing pain in my throat, the coach calmly pushed on the misplaced protuberance until it snapped back to its original position. Not even a sniffle.

These days I can’t recite the Pledge of Allegiance without a quiver in my voice. Seeing someone else cry makes me emotionally wobbly. A couple of years ago I watched one of our high school wrestlers, a boy with a double-digit winless record, pin his opponent in front of the packed parents night audience. As the referee raised the kid’s hand in victory, he smiled at his mom who was overcome with emotion. I made a quick exit to the restroom.

A psychologist would probably tell me that I cry because there’s something missing in my life. I’m certain my buddies would agree with such a diagnosis and they would surmise that what’s missing is my man card. And a set of testicles.

I’d like to believe I’ve always been aware that my days of being upright and mobile on this planet are numbered, and that’s why I am an emotional wreck. I make time to notice moments which are mostly ignored. Winning trophies and getting my name in the paper have never been my thing. I root for people who overcome their struggles, and for those who fail in their attempt. Days ago I saw a Facebook notice of the death of a former teacher of mine. He was a fixture in the halls of my high school for decades. I thought of him occasionally over the years and was surprised to see he’d lived for so long. Endless, touching words written about him in the comments section left me dizzy for the afternoon.

As much as I’d like to have stoic control over my emotions, I expect I’ll always need to concoct some semi-believable story to avoid embarrassing situations. Coming up with spur of the moment excuses for my watery eyes: a pepper allergy, a zipper mishap, or the Packers losing to the Vikings might cover it for now.

If you happen to be near me during the playing of Where the Red Fern Grows, or Taps, or Field of Dreams - please have a hanky ready. And buy stock in Kleenex.

Aging Grossfully

I turned 48 last week. Not a big deal as far as milestone birthdays go - unless I live to 96 - then I’ll regret not asking for some balloons.

Until recently, I didn’t give much thought about getting old. It just kind of crept up on me - like shrunken underwear. I certainly don’t feel old. Sure, my first few steps out of bed in the morning sound like I’m stepping on bubble wrap, but I can still carry my weight in firewood. I certainly don’t act old.  This week I farted in the car and locked the windows so the boys couldn’t put them down. I don’t look old. I may have a few strands of fishing line showing up in my in my haircut, but I still get carded when I buy beer at Walmart. At what age are people supposed to face the prospect of aging?

I didn’t consider it 40 years ago, when on my golden birthday, I created a haunted house in the musty underground garage of the lakeside bungalow my family rented. Scary monster artwork drawn with Crayons onto cardboard boxes and a hairy werewolf crudely-fashioned from paper grocery bags, clung precariously to the dank stone walls. Occasionally, I’m reminded of those creepy images when I look in the mirror, shirtless, and realize it’s time to shave my back.

Nobody came through my haunted house. I should’ve advertised it more, but my seven-year-old marketing budget only afforded only a sheet of notebook paper skewered with a stick pounded into the grass at the end of the driveway. An elderly couple, out for a stroll stopped, stooped and squinted at my sign. They stood up, looked at me animatedly motioning toward the open garage door like a pre-pubescent carny barker, and walked nervously away.

Thirty years ago my thoughts were focused on lifting weights. As freshmen footballers, my buddy and I pumped iron as often as we could. We’d do dips and squats in front of the mirror and immediately admire our physiques, searching for any signs of growth. A year earlier, after embarrassingly setting the middle school record for the speed and frequency in which I got pinned, my eighth grade wrestling coach pulled me aside and suggested I “build-up those toothpicks you have hanging from your shoulders.” I should’ve reminded him that though delicate and small, toothpicks can be dangerous weapons. They’re sharp enough to break the skin – or at least leave a pretty bad sliver.

My workout regimen in the school weight room actually caused me to bulk up a little. Too bad putting on weight and muscle didn’t increase my football ability. Because of my lack of football skill I was mostly forced to play guard and tackle. I guarded the water jug and tackled anyone who tried to take my spot on the bench. Working out kept me in peak physical condition for high school sports. I haven’t played football since my senior year, but I remain in reasonable shape. (If an inverted lollipop with size 11 shoes qualifies as a shape?)

Twenty years ago I was into competitive running. It began when I took a college fitness class and all we did for our “workouts” was run laps around the gym. I was in such poor aerobic condition that the campus nerd continually beat me. To be truthful, I shouldn’t refer to my physical activity as “running.” The term implies moving at a rapid pace. The only thing moving rapidly was my desire to quit.  I was never competitive as a runner. I only entered local races for the commemorative t-shirts that made me look like I knew what I was doing.  Beside the t-shirts, my closet was full of Spandex running shorts and tights. Hoping to be like other college students trying to display their individuality in college, I wore tights as part of my daily wardrobe – even with flannel shirts. It seemed cool then, but now I’m thankful there’s no blackmailable photos of a pimple-faced lumberjack in yoga pants.

A decade ago I went headlong into the chopper motorcycle craze. I watched all the biker build-off shows on television - and I even built my own custom bike. The stars of the TV shows were muscular, tattooed, and had hipster hairstyles. Since I had no muscles or tattoos I grew my hair out to shoulder length and slicked it back with enough Brylcreem to leave grease stains on my pillow. When I got my bike on the road it was a real head-turner. When I got my greasy-haired, Abe Lincoln-looking noggin on the road I was a real stomach-turner.

These days, as I approach 50, I’m content to sip cheap beer, and expensive whiskey, and shake my head at how other people look, and act, and dress. Occasionally, when a student tries to be tough in class, I share with him my belief that I can beat up all but two (and neither of those are students) of the 500+ students and staff in the building. I probably can’t, but my youthful ego tells me otherwise. If, in 2062, you see a nursing home resident with a mullet, earrings, sideburns, parachute pants, and an Ozzy concert shirt trying to beat people up – tell him to act his age.

Wipe Your Mouth

Twin brothers, age 10, huddle intimately over their long-awaited video game player which has arrived via special delivery. Working feverishly, forehead to forehead, they jockey for control to plug in all required cords.

Their father, in an adjacent room, overhears this conversation.

BROTHER 1, with animated disgust: "Mom’s right, your breath reeks!"

BROTHER 2, defiantly: "No it doesn’t!"

BROTHER 1, louder, feigning gagging:  "Uuuughkkk!"

BROTHER 2, making an excuse:  "It’s probably from the snack I just had."

BROTHER 1, not buying the story:  "Beef jerky doesn’t smell like poop!"

Father, unprepared for youthful bluntness, proudly sprays beer from his nose. ~L

Keep It Between the Lines

Over the past year hundreds of people a couple of people have asked me what a typical day is like in my life as an over-the-road trucker.  I usually answer with my standard reply, “You don’t want to know” “Each day is an adventure!” Instead of giving such a non-detailed response I decided to be brutally honest more thoughtful with my description.

For example: Last Monday I woke up dreading getting out of my bunk eager to meet the challenges of the road. I called my dispatcher and he offered me a load into Hell Detroit. I replied with, “Screw that,”  “Are there alternate destinations?” I begrudgingly settled for enthusiastically agreed to a Chicago run. Famous for its paralyzing traffic popularity among commuters and decaying infrastructure world famous skyline, I felt an overwhelming sense of regret excitement for my visit into the bowels heart of America.

My pre-trip preparation included planning a route that would get me in and out of the city without being murdered as efficiently as possible. As I inspected my truck I hoped to find a mechanical failure that would cancel the load I noted that all operating systems were in proper working order. After checking my maps, I tossed my food and clothes in a heap carefully stowed my supplies and set off with tears a gleam in my eyes. I had nothing ahead of me but 500 miles of construction open road.

As I inched cruised my way into the city I took notice of all the car drivers flipping me off politely waving as my big truck joined them for the morning rush. There must’ve been a popular song on the radio, as I saw my fellow motorists pounding their fists on the steering wheels tapping their hands to the beat and cursing uncontrollably singing along. After hours of wanting to abandon my truck carefully navigating the streets of the inner city, I reached my boiling point drop point. The foreman scolds me for arriving early thanks me for being prompt and banishes me to the end of the line promises he’ll unload me as quickly as possible. With a day’s wait ahead of me a little time on my hands I had a chance to take in a freak show visit the driver’s lounge. If you want to feel better about yourself meet a diverse collection of personalities, just spend a little time where truckers hang out. Step into any truck stop and you can practically smell the restrooms vital contributions we make to our nation. With limited access to running water, I’ve witnessed some drivers rinsing soiled laundry and washing their feet in a crowded bathroom sink multi-tasking while tidying up. I always think to myself, “Damned heathens!” “Golly, they’re concerned with maintaining a respectable appearance!”

After being ignored most of the afternoon getting unloaded it’s time to burn rubber out of this place say my goodbyes and get to my next load. With my electronic babysitter logbook ticking away I need to cheat my clock make the most of my remaining drive time. I’ll skip meals and restroom breaks so I can roll into a truck stop with my violation alarm going off an honest day’s work under my belt. All that’s left is to wedge my truck into a parking space other drivers have avoided set up camp and sob into my pillow relax for the evening.

I often wonder how I found myself in this nightmare dream world. It seems like only yesterday I was desperate for a job, seeking a career change. It’s often said that trucking isn’t a job - it’s a life sentence lifestyle. I, for one, can’t wait until I get paroled to do it all over again tomorrow.

DIEt

My immune system is battling foreign invaders - fresh fruit and water.  ~L

Catching a Buzz

Normal people's reaction: Gross. Throw it out!

My reaction:  Hmmm - reminds me of a tequila worm.  How can I market this?  ~L

'Fright'liner

Put 90 miles on the Freightliner this week in truck driving school - all of it in downtown Minneapolis/St. Paul.  Somehow managed to white-knuckle 80 feet of big rig through road construction (designed for pedestrians and go-carts) around the airport, Metrodome and Target Field.  ~L

Carhartt'nal Sin

Most likely ruined the collector value of all my Carhartts when I ran 'em through the wash today.  First time they've had a bath since '95.  Nearly created an environmental disaster with the gasoline, wood smoke, and motor oil runoff.  ~L

'Dis-track-ted' Driver

Created a new proverb this week.

Give a man a fish and he'll eat for a day.  Give a middle-aged mother of four a cell phone with texting capabilities and she'll run her minivan off the driveway to within a foot of hitting a tree.  ~L

Grade Grubber



It's been a while since I've been on the same grading scale as my second grade boys - but, I believe the only level higher than 'Super Duper Fantastic A+' is a Wowie Zowie Awesome A+.  ~L

Breaker 1-9

Double-clutchin' and dropping gears for 10 hours in truck driving school today.  Put 40 miles on an old Freightliner - half of them in reverse.  ~L

Tebow, or Not Tebow, That is the Question:

Got a Tim Tebow jersey yesterday. Not because I'm a bandwagon Bronco fan (lifelong Packer-backer here) or a big Tebow fan - it's because I'm a sucker for a good story. Some will just call me a sucker.

Tim Tebow's precipitous rise to NFL and pop-culture notoriety polarizes most of us who bother to have an opinion about him. His name evokes an immediate love/hate response from those who hear it.

Football geeks are quick to knock him because of the "flaws" in his throwing mechanics and they inanely argue the Xs and Os of his ability to become a long-term success. Others could care less about him making ESPN's Top 50 Greatest Players of All-Time - as long as he keeps winning.

Monday morning theologians and armchair atheists debate whether his post-game genuflecting violates the Bible's teachings in Matthew 6:1, 6:5, and 6:6 for guidance concerning praying in public. Others could care less about where he prays, as long as he prays - and he keeps winning.

Today's purveyors of political correctness do their best to make it shameful to cheer for an articulate, humble, educated, hard-working, successful, wealthy, attractive, genuine, self-sufficient, charitable, honest, able-bodied, white, heterosexual, Christian male. Others don't care who he is - as long as he keeps winning.

Watch Tim Tebow and you'll see a man who wears his character on his sleeve - not tattooed on his arm.  You'll see someone who bows his head to give 'thanks' - not someone who thumps his chest and says 'look at me.'  Watch Tim Tebow and you'll see someone who carries a good book in his pocket - not a wad of bills for the strip club. You'll see someone who gives his paychecks to build a hospital - not someone who organizes a Saturday afternoon golf outing seeking donations and a photo-op.

I'm a sucker for a good story.  I don't even mind if his is a short story.  So far I like the first chapter - even if he doesn't keep winning.  Call me a sucker.  ~L

(Thank you to my sister, Michelle, who lives near Denver, and is a big shot for a national sporting goods chain, for hooking me up with the jersey.)

Will Power

Remember when Will Ferrell was funny?  I don't.

Ever since my mid-40s I've wanted to be a comedian.  After many minutes of dedication to the art of well-crafted humor I realized I'd never be a beloved American humorist like Larry the Cable Guy.

But, I'm getting pretty good at being not funny - like Mr. Ferrell.  He's great at it.  He's almost the Kathy Griffin of unfunny.  Watch any of his movies or Saturday Night Live skits and witness the master of not making people laugh.

Our lives eerily parallel each other.  We're both tall, the same age, and we make fools of ourselves publicly.  My blog has almost 20 followers and his career has nearly twice that many. And, we both drink Old Milwaukee.

Will Ferrell recently filmed this beer commercial.  Watch him nail the essence of non-humor.  Pure genius.  I'm so jealous.  ~L

Christmas Present Combat

Leave it to my little boys to bastardize the graceful game of ping pong and turn it into a full-contact sport - including penalties and submission holds.

This morning, one of the twins matter-of-factly described his method of executing the "death shot" - a strategic technique used when the opponent's lead is deemed insurmountable.  According to he, when given the opportunity, the paddle is swung at the ball in an aggressive forehand motion, purposely missing the ball and launching the wood-grained weapon at his brother.

That explains the dents in the drywall.  ~L

Clean Your Ears

Water pours from the shower head, busily striking the bottom of the fiberglass bathtub with a loud, hollow spatter.  Metallic vibrations from the worn out exhaust fan adds to the noise - making conversation difficult in the tiny bathroom.  Twin boys, age eight, performing their Sunday evening ritual, struggle to communicate.

Their father, in an adjacent room, overhears this conversation.

BROTHER 1,  standing outside the shower; speaking at normal volume:  Jack, did you know that we're animals?

BROTHER 2,  inside the shower, speaking at normal volume:  What?

BROTHER 1, louder:  Did you know that we're animals?

BROTHER 2,  louder:  What?

BROTHER 1, nearly shouting:  Did you know that we're animals?

BROTHER 2, nearly shouting:  We're not animals - we're mammals!

BROTHER 1:  What?

BROTHER 2, louder:  We're not animals - we're mammals!

BROTHER 1:  Mrs. Graves said we're animals.

BROTHER 2:  No, Mrs. Graves said we're mammals.

BROTHER 1, softer and sounding perplexed:  Mammals?  That's weird.

Father smiles, wishing he had a tape recorder to play back this moment for them someday.  ~L

AM/FM F-U

As a former Eau Clairian and a purveyor of salty language, I chuckled after reading this letter on a friend's FB page.  ~L

(thanks for the link Stacy)
(thanks to "annonymous" for pointing out this letter was debunked by snopes.com)

Salvage Company

Spent an hour visiting with the neighbor.  He pulled up on an ATV dragging a toboggan with a deer on it.  One of his friends hit it with a car just after leaving his house.  Two beers later a Hefty bag filled with future hot dogs was headed home.  ~L

Mass Math Meth Mess

Gives new meaning to "higher education."
http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-504083_162-57336875-504083/boston-professor-charged-with-running-meth-lab-police-say/  ~L

Semi-Educated

Enrolled in college this week.  A 45 year-old, beer-gutted freshman wandering the halls of academia looking for the bookstore, the student union, and a restroom close to the lecture hall. 

For 30 years I've had an affinity for reading and writing.  Did a six year tour of the UW system to earn a four-year journalism degree.  Spent nearly 15 years in the newspaper field - much of that time sensing I'd missed my foreordination in life. It wasn't until I stood at the head of a high school classroom as a long-term, substitiute English teacher that I finally realized my calling.  (It's not as cool as singing Jerry Reed songs - but almost.)  ~L

High-Tech Rednecks

Many of our home computer and electronic accessories are now wireless.  Not because we're rich or tech savvy - but, because this happened again. 

Seems the new puppy mistook our USB cables, ear buds, mouse, battery chargers, and laptop power cords for black licorice whips.  A couple were fully 110V when she worked them over. 

If she sneaks into the house during Christmas, this will bring me joy.  ~L

Deer Stand...or Sit

Spent several hours deer hunting the remote ruggedness of the Blue Hills yesterday.  After miles of traversing some of the most unforgiving terrain hunters can endure, my boy and I rested on the only chunk of solid ground surrounding a secluded lake. 

Reclining among the roots and needles of towering white pines, we contemplated the possibility of our little peninsula having never felt the weight of a human footstep.  Or if the trees overhead ever held a human gaze.  Perhaps ancient natives used the area as a fishery, or trapping grounds for fur-bearing animals, or possibly for harvesting wild rice? The archaeological possibilities surrounding our 'discovery' made us feel like early-American explorers.

Our Lewis and Clark-like experience ended a hundred yard later when we stepped onto a tote road that lead us past a recently used campsite, strewn with beer cans and this:



Plywood privy complete with seat,  paper holder, and mosquito spray.

 (Credit my son, Henry, for suggesting a photograph of the backwoods bathroom for my blog.)

Finish Line

Earlier this week I read an obituary that reminded me of this old photo.

Gary King Construction was the original sponsor of my race car at the Rice Lake Speedway in 1985.  ~L

(The funeral home's website that hosts the obituary [linked above] for Gary King is occasionally down.  This link works, but is not as detailed.)

Yellow Snow Angels

They've got 40 acres of unblemished snow in which to make their winter lawn decorations - yet, my boys opt to plop and roll where the dogs do their 'business'.  ~L

Whitetail Wipeout

Years ago, an old deer hunter warned me that if I found a bandana on the ground in the woods - it's there for a reason.  ~L

Yard Waist

Had to buy a bundle of new clothes last week.  My midriff measurement has remained stable since the Reagan administration, but recent dietary neglect grew it into a 36-inch gut.

Anyone need a pile of parachute pants and stone-washed denim?  ~L

Every Dog Has Its Day

Webster's dictionary has yet to create a word to define the feeling running through me when I returned home from work to find my house door wide open.

The fear of having my secluded home burglarized scares me much less than the fear of allowing a couple of free-range, un-potty trained farm dogs to have unfettered access to white carpet.

A thorough visual and nasal inspection yielded only a tipped over wastebasket.  ~L

Proudly American

Eleven years ago I had the opportunity to visit the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C.  I was one of thousands who silently shuffled along the imposing monument - mesmerized by the endless columns of former lives etched upon it.  Some visitors pencil-rubbed onto paper the names of loved ones inscribed into the stone. Others sat on benches, stoically reflecting on what stood before them.  Many came bearing small mementos to leave on the walkway.

Nestled among the flowers and the stuffed animals and the candles was a small, wood-framed photograph of a young serviceman in his dress uniform.  Attached to the frame was this simple, hand-written poem:

I never knew you.
You died before I was born.
I will never forget you.
I was given your name.

Class Dismissed (revised)

(Note: the original version of this post was erroneously deleted. I posted again - with revisions.)

Bamboozled my way into a teaching gig at our local high school last week.  For the next three months, 85 freshmen and sophomores look to me for guidance through creative writing and literature.  If they only knew it's taken me ten minutes of re-writes to avoid using commas and semicolons.  (Thanks to former colleagues, and professional editors, Megan E., Monica H., and Kevin Q., my portfolio of published works is a sham.)

Only in America (or maybe only northern Wisconsin) can a man rise from the ranks as a schlepper of advertising copywriting, to hack blogging about dick jokes and beer, to become a shaper of young minds.

Because I'm no longer satisfied with earning two-figure paychecks, I decided I'd avoid using phrases like "dangling participles" and "straightening out Longfellow" in my classroom.  ~L

Gifts That Keep On Giving

A big thank you goes out to my redneck brother-in-law for his part in tonight's supper.

Last Christmas, when all the other relation were bringing salads and pies and Jello molds and cheese trays to our annual family dinner, Uncle Pat showed up with 50 rolls of jumbo Sweet Tarts, a gallon of Famous Dave's barbecue sauce, a paper grocery sack filled with miscellaneous sand papers, a bottle of Southern Comfort, a set of metric wrenches and a frozen pizza.

Finally, after sampling each item from his holiday hodgepodge, I'm graciously reminded of this scene from National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation (skip forward to 2:46 if you can).  ~L

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1K8-kNuDgoA&feature=results_main&playnext=1&list=PL7F015C44EF565D44

Can Eat Off 'Em Now

Floors got mopped on consecutive days.  Yesterday - because they needed it.  Today - because I got dog poop on my slippers and tracked it all over the house.  ~L

Young Tongue

For this post, my 100th TWW entry, I intended to share a reflective essay on why I enjoy keeping a journal.

Tonight, that subject was trumped at the supper table as I watched the oldest boy spend nearly a minute licking out a spaghetti stain from his t-shirt.  ~L

Growing Our Own Groceries

Eating locally produced food is popular these days. Tonight's entire menu originated only a couple of dozen feet from our dinner table - including the hand cut apple wood used in the grill. ~L

* pork chops
* green beans
* applesauce
* home brew beer

Bladder Matter

At the doctor today for a urinalysis.  The last time I peed in a cup the transaction involved alot of beer and a moving vehicle.

Thought of this scene while in the act.  ~L
(ignore the subtitles)

Rusk County Rainbows

An unexpected October squall delivers a brief double rainbow (sometimes triple) to the Blue Hills region near the village of Bruce in Rusk County, WI.  ~L

Sick Humor

When asked for my preferred method of receiving an annual flu shot (nasal or needle), I replied, "Smokable, if ya got it?" - much to the dismay of the teachers and students waiting outside the school nurse's office.

With no privacy curtains available I decided against requesting a suppository.  ~L

3,000 Hits

It's taken 91 entries for The Writing Wredneck reach 3,000 hits. If it was part of Major League Baseball it'd be eligible for the Hall of Fame.

Thanks to all who follow TWW - especially those who've told me they do (mom, wife, son, Tony, Lee, Jan, Ty V, Erin, Jason, Megan).

According to my blog stats rednecks have no international boundaries.

United States 2,684
Netherlands 63
Russia 34
Canada 32
United Kingdom 31
Germany 27
Romania 17
India 12
Iran 9
Mexico 9

A surprising surge from India this week bumped this entry into the top spot for most viewed (75). Second most viewed is this short video (68).

Thanks again everyone.  ~L

Boy Meats Girl

In passing, I overheard this snippet of an actual plea from a middle school boy to a girl in the hall at school: "C'mon, I'll give you a steak when I shoot my deer..."

Not sure what he was looking for - maybe her tutelage with algebra, a date to the homecoming dance, or possibly buying her silence for witnessing a classroom misdeed.

Behold the power of venison.  ~L

Hot Wheels

Living in a redneck zip code I'm accustomed to seeing unique modes of transportation parked around town.  An area carpenter uses a rusty 70s vintage hearse to carry his tools to the job site.  Another guy spends his summers living in a converted bread delivery truck- complete with 10-foot chimney. One local family even drops the kids off at school in a former ambulance. (Not the stylish passenger van type - but the giant, square box kind.)

Today was a first when I saw this parked next to the town tavern.  Bet he can outrun the law when he's pulled over for a DWI (at least for a quarter-mile).  ~L

Just Say No to Weed

Journalism school taught me the Latin phrase caveat emptor - which means "let the buyer beware."  As a former newspaper guy I understand the power of advertising and how it can persuade reasonable consumers into purchasing overhyped and mostly useless products - like magnetic bracelets, name brand bottled water and Rascal Flatts CDs.  Until now, I've always had the ability to resist the temptation to try something new only because I've seen a cool advertisement.  Unfortunately, this commercial got me. (Because the commercial is for an alcoholic beverage, YouTube requires age verification before viewing)

My 20-year hungover past has seen me consume numerous nasty beverages - boiled Leinenkugels with melted butter, Hershey syrup with vodka, and Miller Genuine Draft light.  But just one can of Jeremiah Weed Lightning Lemonade has made me consider pledging my support for the revival of prohibition.

I hope Dos Equis is better.  Stay thirsty my friends.  ~L

Rec Room Reptile

Shortly after the oldest boy picked up the "toy" snake he believed his younger brother set out to scare him with (in retaliation for not sharing the video game machine in a timely manner) dad was in the backyard releasing the very "real" snake.  ~L

Wart's the Answer?

I recently met with the subject of this blog post from last school year - and I had to ask him.

I shared his decision at the end of the post.  ~L

Glass Hopper

This bugger jumped onto the truck windshield when I stopped at a rural intersection on my way to town. He accompanied me on errands to the feed mill, Walmart and the gas station. For 20 miles, at 60 mph, his grip never wavered.

On the return trip, I pulled over to drop him off at his home. Before I could roll down the window and flick him off - he jumped into the same ditch from where he originated.

The stories he's probably telling now. ~L

Oh Buoy!

Understanding navigational markers on a lake while operating a speed boat is just as important as having a good radio and a cooler full of beer.

Yesterday when I bought this vintage craft - the propeller did not look like this.  ~L

Playing With My Dinghy



1977 Glastron Sportster with 85 hp Evinrude

It's been said that the best days of boat ownership are the day you buy it and the day you sell it.

Today we're half way there.  ~L


Man Oh Man

When it comes to my physical appearance I do the best I can with what I've got.  And what I've got is a body that closely resembles Abraham Lincoln smuggling a basketball under a sleeveless t-shirt while riding an ostrich.  But I'm comfortable with it.  But according to several recent news articles I've read concerning men's appearance and grooming, many men are not comfortable with what they've got.  The articles expound on delicate subjects we men are shy to discuss down at Killer's tavern. Subjects such as 'manboobs', 'manscaping', and 'manorexia'.

At first, I thought having manboobs would be cool.  After a lifetime of being self-conscious about having a set of pecs smaller than a 11-year-old Chinese gymnast, manboobs might give me the confidence I need to wear my western shirts unsnapped down to the waist like Kenny Chesney does.  But, I realized I'd probably get a set of 38Ds and enjoy them so much I'd never leave the house.

Manscaping is something I swore I'd never try - until the wife and kids forced me to do it  after I embarrassed them at the public pool.  I admit my swimsuit is slightly outdated and a tad too small, but I had no idea I looked as if ZZ Top was attempting to escape from my trunks.

'Manorexia', a newly-coined twist on the mostly female eating disorder anorexia,  is used to describe men who diet and exercise relentlessly to look like popular male magazine models.  Anorexia is a dangerous, and often deadly mental and physical disorder for millions of women around the world and it shouldn't be taken lightly. 

As a man, I'm guessing manorexia is more of a vanity-based disorder among a particular segment of urban males.  Here in northern Wisconsin I'm hard-pressed to find a 'manorexic' man anywhere.  I searched all the popular places around town; Buford's BBQ Barn,  The NASCAR Emporium and Deli, and Earl's Discount Tire and Cheese - and I couldn't find one manorexic man.  Heck, our local Wal-Mart doesn't even stock pants with waistbands smaller than a size 48 (for men or women).

The article stated manorexic men feel pressure look like male magazine models.  After polishing off a twelver of Pabst while trying to find a skinny male model in all my back issues of Guns & Ammo, the Farm and Fleet 2009-2010 Christmas catalog, and Outlaw Biker magazine the only pressure I feel is pushing against the back of my belt buckle.  ~L

When the Cat's Away

'The Boss' is gone to an out-of-town conference.  For three days the kids and I will enjoy a lack of supervision.

On the menu last night: Wal-mart beef jerky, pepper-jack Tostitos and a generous helping of Southern Comfort for me.  Hot Pockets, graham crackers with chocolate frosting and Mt. Dew for the children.  ~L

Wild Audience

Last night a nice eight-pointer browsed his way across the hayfield toward me as I sat on the front porch noodling on my acoustic guitar.  Travis Tritt's Here's a Quarter and The Clash's Should I Stay or Should I Go work just as effectively as any Doe-In-Heat lure.

As I tore into Hank Williams Jr's A Country Boy Can Survive and hit the verse "We can skin a buck..." he decided not to wait for the encore.  ~L

Read Between the (Fishing) Lines

Recently, I had the misfortune opportunity to take a group of ungrateful brats kids fishing - something I've dreaded looked forward to for a long time. Nothing gets the lazy youngsters more disinterested excited than an outdoor punishment adventure!


I haphazardly threw an armful of crappy poles carefully stowed our gear minutes before we took off the prior evening so we got going several hours later than planned an early start on the day. The little bastards darlings could barely contain their yawns smiles. The car was filled with non-stop whining joyful anticipation.  Even I was beginning to curse under my breath get excited!


When we arrived at the putrid cesspool the old fishing hole we were greeted by the smell of rotting fish fresh air and the sound of nearby road construction waves lapping at the shore.  Before we got out of the car the greedy pigs little rascals were already fighting over who got the last root beer making plans for all the fish they'd catch.

Before long, the future delinquents tots were lobbing their hooks and bobbers into the trees best honey holes. Only minutes after the first cast they asked when we were leaving began catching fish  - and I began chugging beer relaxing.  After a lifetime an hour passed we had a total of five bucket full of puny beautiful fish!

When the snot-nosed urchins angelic little cherubs caught me trying to dump the fish back into the lake admiring their catch they repeatedly nagged sweet talked me into doing the cleaning and cooking for them.  Their relentless begging persuasive plea was so annoying sweet it nearly brought a gun to my head tear to my eye.

 Damn it! Golly! I can't wait until they can go fishing by themselves ask me to go again!  ~L

Fancy Farming

Transferred our poultry operation from the climate-controlled rookery to the multi-level housing facility via the tandem axle livestock trailer.  ~L

Silly Walk

Annoyed by the constant scuffing my broken-soled slippers made on our wood floors one morning - I briefly resorted to walking like this.  ~L

Wagonload of Woo Hoo!

My boys, and their cousin, escape the oppressive heat (and oppressive flies) by taking the four-wheeler for some laps around the hay field.  At the 0:41 second mark is where the title originated.  ~L

Farm Fresh

Had a Tom Sawyer-like afternoon yesterday.  Convinced by mom that painting is really fun, my kids helped their Uncle Mark whitewash his barn walls. 

No surprise when all four agreed (while eating Dairy Queen during the ride home) that working a paint brush wasn't so bad.  ~L

Itchy Britches

Symptoms indicate I must've taken a leak while clearing a patch of poison Sumac (without gloves) from around the swingset last week.  ~L

While the Sun Shines

The neighbor made 160 bales from our five acre field today.  Mostly clover and grass and daisies.  I bartered the hay for an on-going supply of manure from his milking sheep farm.

Henry, and his friend Brandon, bucked all the bales onto our '52 Chevy farm truck for the six mile trip to the hay mow.  We returned home with two tons of composted pen-pack bedding ready for top-dressing the garden and raspberry patch.  ~L



Brandon and Henry ready to unload at the elevator.