Dad's Injury

I want to thank my younger (and only) brother for this observation. I was so focused on the 8x10 glossy of Minnie Pearl (suitable for framing) hanging in my grandparent’s home, that I completely allowed another detail to slip my attention.

In this photo, dad, dressed in his Navy whites, is just 20 years old. He probably weighs 95 pounds soaking wet. If you look closely, you can see a bandage on his left hand. Now, dad was not wounded in action. The only action he saw, according to him, was in the bar fights he had with Marines. He was stationed in Virginia Beach as a clerk. No, this injury is from a completely different source.

Dad was injured on the night before his wedding day. You might call it a redneck bachelor party. Dad and some others (I don’t know if it was his brothers, friends or what) spent the evening before his wedding ‘coon huntin.’ For the non-redneck part of the world that would be hunting raccoons.

This raises some questions: why would you pick the day before your wedding to hunt ‘coon? Why do you even hunt ‘coon? What are you going to do with one if you got it? Were these guys planning the menu for the reception? I understand that there are some people who claim to eat raccoon, but I’ve never seen it on one of those snooty chef cooking shows. (Note: recipe for ‘coon at the end of this post.)

Back to the injury: I don’t know if he volunteered, or if the task was assigned to him, but his job was to hold on to the dogs (not any dogs, mind you. These were ‘coon dogs). When the unfortunate raccoon was spotted (or smelled, or whatever they do), the dogs took flight, fulfilling the inner mandate of years of scientifically precise selective breeding (“Hey Sonny, reckon your dog wants to hump mine? I’ll split the litter with you.”).Dad was true to his calling. He was to hold the dogs at all costs. The costs were that he was pulled through woods at night by a hyperactive pack of hunting dogs. All 95 pounds of my dad were flapping and whipping back and forth like a piece of duct tape holding together a 54 Chevy. The only obvious injury was to his left hand. The rest remains a mystery.

Grandma Rena’s Recipe for ‘Coon:

Take one medium sized ‘coon, skinned and dressed. Remove entrails for future use (we’re not made out of money, you know).

Place in an ungreased roasting pan with lid.

In a separate bowl, prepare the stuffing for the ‘coon: you will mix together 2 pounds of mushroom compost (this compost is made by mushroom producers from material such as hay, straw, corn cobs, poultry and horse manure – or any combination of organic material that is 1) inexpensive and 2) readily available) with salt, pepper, and cumin to taste.

Stuff the ‘coon with the mixture and place in a pre-heated oven at 450 degrees or on the pot-bellied stove and cook for 4 hours.

Remove from heat and let stand for 30 minutes.

Remove stuffing, discard the ‘coon and eat the compost. Serves 4 grown-ups and 12 young-uns.

Day-Off Diversions

So today I took the day off from work – although those I work with would admit that what I do strains the definition of the word “work” – and spent the day with my wife. It was a lovely fall day; 2 days past the autumnal equinox, a gentle breeze with sustained winds of 20-30 mph, and pleasant temperatures that hit 90 degrees. You read correctly. 90 degrees on Sept 24. Anyway, we spent the morning goofing off, taking a drive, buying apples, going to the library, etc. Of course, you might imagine that I would have some observations along the way, so here they are in random order.

• We had lunch at a very nice restaurant. It was our first time there. Two businessmen (note, businessmen, not business persons) were seated behind us. One of them asked the server, “Where are your restrooms?” to which came the reply, “Oh, you mean the men’s room? It’s through those doors.” Well, of course he meant the men’s room! What do you think? Was he looking for the ladies room to steal some lotion, for cryin out loud? Where’s Bill Engvall when you need him?

• I have no quarrel with homeschoolers. I know some great people who home school their kids and they have great kids. We may have homeschooled our own kids, but then we wouldn’t have teachers and a school system to blame for our kid’s failure to become brain surgeons. But, why do some home school people think that weirdness is required curriculum? While buying apples, we saw some homeschooled people on a “field trip” (I know some who consider a trip the gas station a field trip). These kids were totally under-stimulated. They were getting excited about a growth chart. They muscled each other out of the way to stand next to the height chart that was a cut-out of “the Apple Guy.” Really? That’s the high point of your day? I understand that little kids get a kick out of this; mine did when they were little. But at 12 years of age, you would think that the wonder of such mysteries would begin to fade. (note: the Apple Guy was really scary. He was a hybrid of a red delicious apple, Burl Ives, and Andy Warhol. An experiment in genetic engineering gone horribly wrong.)

• We went to the local library. I know that this is pure geekness – a warm day off and you go to the library, but I have long ago embraced my inner geeknees. If it wasn’t for the library, I wouldn’t have any place to go to catch up on my magazine reading. It’s not like I’m going to pay good money to subscribe to those things! Anyway, it is the middle of the day and what did we see at the library? Kids who should have been in school! There were just a few random Jr. High age kids at the library, so it wasn’t a field trip or a class excursion. I was impressed. I realized that I was in the presence of genius. Who would think to look in a library for a kid skipping school?

Now, I’m off to the stadium for Friday night high school football. It’s homecoming – my favorite event of all. Teen age girls dress up like supermodels on the runway and slather on more make-up than an Egyptian princess. Ya gotta love it. Is it a coincidence that homecoming is always close to Halloween? Is it a dry run for trick-or-treat? I sense another post in the making.

Down Home Folks

In 1999, my brother, sister, and I gave our parents a 50th anniversary party. As I write these words, I realize that that was 11 years ago! I think that makes me old enough to be my own father, but I digress. Dad and Mom were married in the office of Akron Baptist Temple by one of the associate ministers – who, by the way, was able to attend the anniversary bash. In those days, one would be married in a church office only if there was a shotgun pointed at the groom’s back. For my parents, that was not the case. They married in July on 1949 and I was born in December of 1950 (note to friends: significant birthday coming up; gifts are expected). They were married in such a modest ceremony for 2 reasons: first, Dad was on leave from the Navy; second, they were just down home people who couldn’t afford fancy weddings and such events would be equivalent to “putting on airs.”

Since it was a simple ceremony, there was no photographer hired. Instead, grandma snapped the only extant wedding photo of my parents. For the 50th celebration, we had it enlarged and put on display along with photos of various events in their lives. But, we were in for quite a surprise. When the photo was enlarged, for the first time we were able to see clearly the picture hanging on the wall in my grandparent’s house. We knew it was there, but it was so small we were unable to recognize the face. We assumed it was a relative.

Now, I don’t know if Dad and Mom were placed in front of that particular wall on purpose or for convenience. Did grandma intentionally place that wall picture in photo as a subliminal statement? Was it there to serve as a continual reminder of our roots?

If you look closely, you may be able to recognize the picture. In the upper left, hanging on the wall almost looking out at the handsome newlyweds is a picture of Minnie Pearl. I realize that some of you reading this who are under 50 and in possession of most of your teeth may have never heard of Minnie Pearl. She was a standup comic, a down home version of Kathy Griffin or Paula Poundstone. I can hear Jeff Foxworthy now, "If you have a picture of Minne Pearl hanging in your living room..."

That is our pedigree. As a cherished member of the family, Minnie Pearl, the “Queen of the Grand Ole Opry” occupied a prominent place in my grandparent’s home. That explains a lot.

Football - the Game of Life

Since the new season of the NFL began last night, I felt this old video from The Onion would be approriate. When I was a lad, there was a cheesy LP record called "The Game of Life," using football as a metaphor for real life (my, how original!) By the way, I am reminded how ancient I am. I have lived through records (45, 78, and 33 1/3 rpm's), 8 track tapes, cassettes, CD's and now Ipod's. Anyway, this is a great parody.

 

Correction

I was remonstrated today regarding my earlier post. In the scientific survey previously mentioned, 30% of those polled (ie. Bethanie) said that they would try the chocolate covered bacon again. I regret the dissemination of misinformation, however disgusting that may turn out to be. It should be noted, however, the the majority of those polled (my wife and I) still consider chocolate covered bacon to be yucky.

In my opinion, it may be a left-wing plot to corrupt the morals of today's youth. What's more American than bacon?  What says "I'm a patriot" better than fried bacon strips across a double cheeseburger or carefully placed beside eggs and home fries? Wake up America!

Observations From the County Fair

I have spent several hours at the Canfield Fair, the largest county fair in the state. By some reports, it is larger than the state fair. There are many reasons to visit the fair. Mine had to do with business and with a promise made to a grandchild who apparently did not get enough of deep-fried whatever and spleen-dislocating rides at Kennywood this summer.


Of course, one of the major reasons to attend any county fair is the opportunity to gawk at the strange people who always show up. For those who like to gawk, the fair is a target rich environment (thanks, Jim for the phrase). So, in the spirit of my very first post on this blog, I want to submit my observations from this year’s Canfield Fair (my observations in no way reflect the opinion of the Canfield Fair board, the city of Canfield, Canfield Township, the police and fire departments, the 4 H clubs, or various and sundry livestock exhibited, and sold only to be slaughtered and consumed by hungry carnivores).

• So how many bits of metal could one place in his lip before it begins to generate its own magnetic field? Just wondering.

• Who was the rocket scientist that came up with the idea of chocolate covered bacon? Really? Bacon needs no improvement, but if it did, chocolate is not the answer. I know this is true, because a scientific poll was taken in which 3 people who tried it thought it was disgusting. I was one of those included in the survey, as was my wife and our friend Bethanie who forced it on us (“force” may be a strong word, but what else do you call a triple-dog-dare)?

• Here is an aside on the bacon comment. As wife and I were having dinner, we sat near a couple from Pittsburgh. I began to regale them with the story of the chocolate covered bacon, and they did me a story better. It seems they were travelling in Northwest PA, when they saw an ice cream stand that advertized 40 flavors. One of them was “candied bacon” (my wife was there and she will vouch for this. I may lie from time to time, but she doesn’t). So the man ordered it – not a sample or a single scoop mind you, but a double scoop in a waffle cone! I immediately sensed a problem here. If you were to want to taste ice cream, say with liver, would you order the largest they had? Anyway, he told his wife, “You know, I did not think that those 2 things would taste good together, and I was right.” I didn’t ask if he ate the whole thing. As you can tell, there are so many layers to this conversation that it could be its own post some day.

• If the guy who guesses your weight stands there perplexed and scratching his head when he sees you, then don’t you think that you might ought to pass on that second round of deep-fried Moon Pies?

• Please tell me you didn’t pay good money for those jeans with rips and holes. If I would have tried to wear something like that, my mom would have plastered them with so many iron-on patches that the legs would be too stiff to move. Note to mom: it didn’t really make a difference that you ironed them on from the inside. They still looked like patches. I still got made fun of.

• What about the kid with the hat. How can I describe this hat? Words fail me – no, scratch that – the words have not yet been invented. The hat was a hideous mix of a babushka, Indian headdress, skull cap, and afghan. Speaking to his friend on his cell phone, he says, “I’ll wave my hand so you can see me.” Wave his hand? How about saying, “Find the hat?”

• I am sure that this guy wanted everyone to think he was from Texas, but who comes from Texas to the Canfield Fair in Ohio, for cryin out loud? Did he ride his horse up the interstate? He had a black cowboy hat, cowboy jeans and shirt, cowboy boots, and a cowboy belt buckle wide enough to interfere with the live TV feed from the local newscasts. His Texas drawl was so thick that you needed an interpreter. But, I really think he was some frustrated cowboy from the East side who began to talk like a cowboy when he dressed like one. Give me a break! There is nothing more ridiculous than a guy from Youngstown acting like he just came in from the Ponderosa.

• And finally, I know that this will reveal my “oldness,” but, what’s with the really short shorts the girls are wearing nowadays? Come on, they are shorter than the underwear that grandma used to hang out on the clothes line (which was such a site that local zoning inspectors showed up every wash day). I know I will never get this, but why wear shorts so short they are nearly obscene and then bundle up with a hoodie when you get cold? Simple physics would tell you that there are more square inches exposed than covered. How does that keep you warm?

So, next year, why not come to the Fair? If you do, bring a notebook. You will want to take notes.

Confessions, Part 3

Mom


My mother has been gone for 4 years now, and I miss her a lot. She was a devoted mother and wife and saw these roles as her most important calling in life. I will be forever grateful to God for a mother who sacrificed for her family.

Mom was the next-to-youngest of 4 children and the only daughter in the family. She and grandma were at the same time as close as mother and daughter could be and intense rivals for the attention of the rest of the family. When grandma died, mom had no rivals.

Though born in Ohio and having spent most of her life there, she was proud to claim the title of “country girl.” We never lived on a farm or even in the country, but, by virtue of the DNA that ordered our genetics, we were “down-home” people. In mom’s world, there were but 2 kinds of people: down-home people and “not our kind of people.” Down home people were those who were always welcome at your house and would welcome you in their house, even if unannounced. No visit would conclude unless food was exchanged. Adults would be lost in conversation about the major events of the day: “I can’t believe Sister Skinner would wear that new dress and sashay in front of the deacons like that.” Down Home people knew what was important.

Mom was fiercely defensive of her heritage and determined to raise her kids as down home kids. In later years, our favorite TV shows were The Beverly Hillbillies and Hee Haw. This was not entertainment in our home, it was indoctrination. These were not comedies; they were dramatic series or documentaries. We knew people like Elie May, Cousin Jethro, Junior Samples and Grandpa Jones.

The other class of people was those who were “not our kind of people.” This was a neat category in which were placed all sorts of ethnic and racial groups. Mostly, however, this group consisted of those who shared 3 major characteristics: they had stayed in school past the 8th grade, they had no experience with outhouses or chamber pots, and they were in possession of most of their teeth. Growing up, the only adult in my family that had all his teeth was my dad. Mom, grandma, grandpa, and my uncles (not to mention the aforementioned aunts in the previous post) all had dentures. Note: this was on my mother’s side of the family. My relatives on my father’s side of the family for the most part, did possess most of their teeth. However, our social interaction with that side of the family was severely limited by mother’s decree. The proximity of dad’s homestead to the West Virginia State Mental Hospital may have had something to do with mom insuring that we keep a safe distance from that part of the family.

The hardest thing that mom ever had to deal with was when I brought home the girl who was later to become my wife. Lois was from another city; her parents were college graduates, they had their teeth; they were not “our kind of people!”

Confessions, Part 2

1963 Ford Falcon

Vacations


Our family vacations consisted of pilgrimages to southwestern Kentucky to visit my mother’s family. We weren’t sure about dad’s family in West Virginia, but we heard that his dad was born in the same town that housed the state mental hospital. Somehow, a visit there held little attraction (according to my wife, this little bit of information explains a lot).

We once took a trip from Ohio to Kentucky in my grandfather’s 1963 Ford Falcon. He bought it brand new and loved that car. He would say, “I’m a Ford man.” I don’t recall that my dad accompanied us on the trip. He was either working or volunteered his seat to one of the kids. His selflessness knew no bounds. In this car, was loaded my grandfather, my grandmother (a large woman) my mother, and 3 children. The Falcon had no air conditioning (a luxury in 63), and mom and grandpa were chain smokers. But wait, there’s more…

On the trip (which my siblings and I called “The Bataan March, Part 2”), was another passenger. My grandmother insisted that we take their little dog, a Chihuahua mix named “Jigger” (this too, is absolutely true. My brother and sister will corroborate this). The dog got his name from my grandmother who, upon seeing him for the 1st time, remarked, “Why, he ain’t no bigger than a jigger.” It was years before I knew what a jigger was and I will guarantee that if Rena (grandma’s name, short for Vorena and pronounced “Reener”) ever swilled ‘shine, she didn’t measure it in ounces.

So, there we were: 3 adults, 3 kids aged 12, 10, and 8, and Jigger in what would be considered today a subcompact car by Avis & Hertz, on a 12 hour drive to southwest Kentucky. I could make that drive today in considerably less time, but I would not have to contend with 3 kids, grandma, and Jigger.

I blame this trip in general and Jigger in particular for my dislike of pets. This creature gave new meaning to the word obnoxious. First of all, to take a dog on a long trip like this was ridiculous. Come to think of it, to take a kid on trip like this was ridiculous. But, the idea of taking a Chihuahua rose to new heights of insanity. (I realize that I may offend Chihuahua owners with this, but I doubt if any of them read this blog. In fact, I don’t think anyone reads this blog, but it feeds my narcissism). The creature was so hyper that all he wanted to do was run around and bark. With all of us greased up and stuffed into the Falcon, there was no room for him to run, so he just barked and peed. To this day, when I hear a Chihuahua bark, I instinctively lift my feet from the floor.

When we visited Kentucky, Uncle Willie (no kidding), who was married to aunt Georgie, would don a mask and frighten the Yankee kids by becoming the boogey-man. However, in Kentucky there was no “boogey-man. He was “the booger man.” I guess “booger” means something completely different in northern folklore.

We were Yankee kids – or as our cousins called us “uppity” – and though we were not upwardly mobile, we did have indoor plumbing. Not so the family in Kentucky. One could write a book on the logic of outhouse design, and the ones we saw were diverse and intriguing. The standard 2 – holer had a small and large hole. Was it one size for adults and one for children? The more elaborate “privies” had 4 holers. I do not understand 4 holes unless it was a twisted variation of the ever present plaque, “The family that prays together stays together.” Our more well-to-do relatives actually had toilet seats affixed to the openings.

For nighttime use, there was the “chamber pot.” When one rose in the night to use the chamber pot, all modesty was lost. “The pot” was tucked away under the bed and it was expected to be used beside the bed and then replaced. In no time, we learned how it got its other name; the “Thunder Mug.” While on vacation, it was the responsibility of the oldest of the Yankee kids to empty the pot each morning so it could be ready for the next evening. This was my initiation into “down home” culture. There are definite draw backs in being the oldest.

As we drove around, mom would regale us with bits of history relevant to our family line. “I used to pick huckleberries in that field,” she would report. While the excitement was still heavy in the air, she would then say, “Uncle Willie would take me to pick paw-paws over there.”

If the vacation wasn’t enough, we had the return to trip to look forward to. Picture the 3 kids, 3 adults, endless cigarette smoke, and Jigger. But the return trip had added benefits that made the long hours simply fly past. The adults – particularly mom and grandma – would spend the entire trip constructively critiquing each of the families we visited.

Grandma: “I’ll Suwannee, Ivy’s put on 30 pounds since I last saw her.”

Mom: “And you know those kids of Noah’s (mom’s cousin pronounced “No-ee”) done forgot where they come from. They are too uppity for their own good.”

Grandma: “And what the #$@@&% does Charlie and Dulce (no clue, but I promise it’s true. Call my brother) think they’re going to do with all those $%&&#* cows, pardon my French!

Confessions

Jeff Foxworthy has made the equivalent of the GDP of a small nation poking fun at “rednecks.” He describes a redneck as one who has an uninhibited lack of sophistication (or something to that effect). Don Burleson  describes a true redneck as one who “does not feel the need to impress people with the outward trappings of superficial wealth and a real Redneck is perfectly comfortable in an Armani suit or a stained t-shirt.”


Now, I don’t know if I am a real redneck or if I am just passing. It is true that my father’s father was born in West Virginia and my mother’s parents were both born in Kentucky. Perhaps my fascination for Wal-Mart reveals some repressed issues about my heritage. However, I am sharing these vignettes about my family, perhaps as a way of dealing with the past; perhaps as a way of facing my personal demons. So, this will be my attempt at a serial. I will post these confessions over the next few days as my own personal catharsis.

Note: unlike other things that may have appeared on this blog, these are all actually true stories. Ask my sister, she’ll tell you…

Also note: I had my wife read this and she said, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, “Yeah, it’s funny.” I was hoping for more but, as she reminded me, she has heard all of this before.

Grandma:

My grandmother dipped snuff. Not so uncommon, but she had a special brand that was available only in Kentucky (or at least not available in Ohio where we lived) and they came in tumblers that she used later as beverage glasses. I think it was called Broughton’s. Every time some family member visited Kentucky, grandma had them bring back several cases.

Grandma made the best sweet tea. Maybe it was the hint of Broughton’s in the glasses.

We had a special spit-jar for grandma to use when she visited us (I realize that “spit-jar” is much too indelicate. If the term offends you, please substitute “expectoration receptacle”).In case of emergencies she carried a prescription bottle (secondary expectoration receptacle) in her purse that could be used in more discreet situations. The SER was used in the car on the way to church, and I swear she used it during the sermon.

Grandma never cussed. She was a God-fearing woman. Instead, one of her favorite expression was “I’ll Suwannee.” Now, I have no idea what this means. I know there is a Sewanee Tennessee, but I have no information that would shed light on its expletive value. It was fun hearing grandma when she was perplexed utter a confused, “Well I’ll Suwannee!”

As I said, grandma never cussed. She was, however, very proficient in French. I know this because each time she would utter a word that I had never heard before, she would say, “Pardon my French.” My mother likewise became quite good at French. When, however, I began to pick up some French words, I was introduced to subtle nuances of Ivory Soap on the back of the palette.

Grandma’s sisters (my mom’s aunts) also dipped snuff. They lived in Kentucky and only came to Ohio for brief visits. There were 3 that I knew well – Georgia (pronounced Georgie), Beatrice (pronounced Beat) and Ivy. Of the 3, Aunt Ivy was an artist with her chew. She could hold a dip of snuff in her mouth and eat at the same time. I was made painfully aware of this talent when we visited them one summer and I was positioned across the table from her at dinner. That image is seared into my brain and still makes me queasy.

Strange but True?

This was sent in an email by a friend. I don't know if it is exactly true, but the more you get to know people, the more believable this becomes. Enjoy (and thanks to MJ).


Recently, when I went to McDonald's I saw on the menu that you could have an order of 6, 9 or 12 Chicken McNuggets. I asked for a half dozen nuggets.

'We don't have half dozen nuggets,' said the teenager at the counter.

'You don't?' I replied.

'We only have six, nine, or twelve,' was the reply.

'So I can't order a half dozen nuggets, but I can order six?'

'That's right.'

So I shook my head and ordered six McNuggets (Unbelievable but sadly true...)

TWO

I was checking out at the local Walmart with just a few items and the lady behind me put her things on the belt close to mine. I picked up one of those "dividers" that they keep by the cash register and placed it between our things so they wouldn't get mixed.

After the girl had scanned all of my items, she picked up the divider, looking it all over for the bar code so she could scan it. Not finding the bar code, she said to me, 'Do you know how much this is?' I said to her "I've changed my mind; I don't think I'll buy that today."

She said 'OK,' and I paid her for the things and left. She had no clue to what had just happened.

THREE

A woman at work was seen putting a credit card into her floppy drive and pulling it out very quickly. When I inquired as to what she was doing, she said she was shopping on the Internet and they kept asking for a credit card number, so she was using the ATM 'thingy.' (keep shuddering!!)

FOUR

I recently saw a distraught young lady weeping beside her car. 'Do you need some help?' I asked.

She replied, 'I knew I should have replaced the battery to this remote door unlocker. Now I can't get into my car. Do you think they (pointing to a distant convenience store) would have a battery to fit this?'

'Hmmm, I don't know. Do you have an alarm, too?' I asked.

'No, just this remote thingy,' she answered, handing it and the car keys to me. As I took the key and manually unlocked the door, I replied, 'Why don't you drive over there and check about the batteries. It's a long walk....' (PLEASE just lay down before you hurt yourself !!!)

FIVE

Several years ago, we had an Intern who was none too swift. One day she was typing and turned to a secretary and said, 'I'm almost out of typing paper. What do I do?' 'Just use paper from the photocopier', the secretary told her. With that, the intern took her last remaining blank piece of paper, put it on the photocopier and proceeded to make five 'blank' copies. (Brunette, by the way!!)

SIX

A mother calls 911 very worried asking the dispatcher if she needs to take her kid to the emergency room, the kid had eaten ants. The dispatcher tells her to give the kid some Benadryl and he should be fine. The mother says, 'I just gave him some ant killer......'

Dispatcher: 'Rush him in to emergency!'