It was one of those moments when my daughter and her husband wished there had been a camera rolling. From their bed, they watched TV while the kids watched TV in the other room.
Suddenly, the bedroom door flew open and banged against the wall. Three-year-old Greg, undoubtedly destined to be an actor, stood there and piped, “What are you guys doing in here? Making snuggies?”
Later, his mother told me of the incident and Greg, hearing us laugh, jumped out of bed, ran down the hall to his parent’s bedroom, and repeated his door slamming performance four more times!
Worst Present- Email to my Daughter
Hey Martha,
The mirror was the worst Christmas present I ever got. I took it into the bathroom where the sun was streaming through the window and looked for the stray black hair I always get on my chin. I couldn’t see well enough, so I turned the mirror to the magnifying side.
What a shock! All kinds of new things showed up. I wondered about the brown spot on my cheek that I hadn’t seen before. Red streaks and puffiness lurked under both eyes and one eyelid sagged.
Further investigation revealed blotchy, dry skin and the stray hair. No, not one hair, but several which I quickly extracted with my dandy tweezers. Next, my eyes focused on my unruly hair that insisted on sticking out at the sides.
When I revealed my findings to the family, I was surprised at their response.
You know how Jimi likes to tease. He said, “Oh, I almost said something but decided against it.”
Not to be outdone, Holly piped, “Grandma, I tried to fix a paper bag to put over your head, but I couldn’t get the eye holes just right.”
Janet called Christmas Day and said she had phoned Dan after we left there on Thanksgiving and asked about me He said, ‘She looks great but has a little trouble getting up and down.’ I was feeling pretty good about myself until the mirror fessed up. Oh, well, I’ll have to hang tough. Of course, I’m joking. The mirror is great. I can see EVERYTHING. Thanks a million.
Love,
Mom
The mirror was the worst Christmas present I ever got. I took it into the bathroom where the sun was streaming through the window and looked for the stray black hair I always get on my chin. I couldn’t see well enough, so I turned the mirror to the magnifying side.
What a shock! All kinds of new things showed up. I wondered about the brown spot on my cheek that I hadn’t seen before. Red streaks and puffiness lurked under both eyes and one eyelid sagged.
Further investigation revealed blotchy, dry skin and the stray hair. No, not one hair, but several which I quickly extracted with my dandy tweezers. Next, my eyes focused on my unruly hair that insisted on sticking out at the sides.
When I revealed my findings to the family, I was surprised at their response.
You know how Jimi likes to tease. He said, “Oh, I almost said something but decided against it.”
Not to be outdone, Holly piped, “Grandma, I tried to fix a paper bag to put over your head, but I couldn’t get the eye holes just right.”
Janet called Christmas Day and said she had phoned Dan after we left there on Thanksgiving and asked about me He said, ‘She looks great but has a little trouble getting up and down.’ I was feeling pretty good about myself until the mirror fessed up. Oh, well, I’ll have to hang tough. Of course, I’m joking. The mirror is great. I can see EVERYTHING. Thanks a million.
Love,
Mom
Tale of Woe
It was a stressful time in my life. My husband was seriously ill, and two of our kids were using illegal drugs. Raising seven teen-agers had proven to be tougher than I had anticipated.
When a friend asked how I was doing, my pent-up fears and frustrations came spilling out in a torrent of words like a bucket dumping water. My friend listened and nodded sympathetically. Finishing my tale of woe, I said, “I think I’m on the nerve of a vergous breakdown.”
My friend, trying to keep a straight face, answered, “Maybe you are!”
When a friend asked how I was doing, my pent-up fears and frustrations came spilling out in a torrent of words like a bucket dumping water. My friend listened and nodded sympathetically. Finishing my tale of woe, I said, “I think I’m on the nerve of a vergous breakdown.”
My friend, trying to keep a straight face, answered, “Maybe you are!”
The Old Buck Sheep
In the 1870’s my great grandfather, William Smith, had an old buck sheep that had knocked over everyone in the family. The sheep chased Clara, his daughter, and fortunately, ran on past her when she stumbled and fell. William’s wife, Sarah, wanted her husband to get rid of the sheep after she had a run-in with the mean thing, but William said he couldn’t get anything for him and wasn’t going to give him away.
This particular sheep could buck without backing up to get a start. He would keep going ahead, bucking at every step.
One day, another daughter, Jen, had to carry a pail of milk out of the barnyard. She managed to lift it over the fence, then started to run for the gate. She had a stick in one hand when she saw the sheep coming. She tried to get the triangle behind the open gate and had the stick raised, ready to strike, but she blacked out.
When she regained consciousness, her shaker bonnet was in one spot and her switch in another. There wasn’t an animal in sight. She finally got back into the barn and when the family asked where she had been, she answered, “A person could be killed outside and you’d never know it.”
Another daughter, Maggie, was carrying two buckets of milk one day when the nasty old sheep got after her. She ran for the fence and was bumped at every step so that all the milk had spilled by the time she reached it.
The children got into the habit of running through the barnyard, and if their father didn’t meet them to chase the sheep away, they could climb up on the lower half of the cow stable door.
When the sheep finally knocked Father over the woodpile he was so sore he couldn’t walk upstairs. He was so angry, he said, “I’ll sell him if I only get 50 cents.”
His wife said, “It’s too bad that the old sheep didn’t strike father first."
This particular sheep could buck without backing up to get a start. He would keep going ahead, bucking at every step.
One day, another daughter, Jen, had to carry a pail of milk out of the barnyard. She managed to lift it over the fence, then started to run for the gate. She had a stick in one hand when she saw the sheep coming. She tried to get the triangle behind the open gate and had the stick raised, ready to strike, but she blacked out.
When she regained consciousness, her shaker bonnet was in one spot and her switch in another. There wasn’t an animal in sight. She finally got back into the barn and when the family asked where she had been, she answered, “A person could be killed outside and you’d never know it.”
Another daughter, Maggie, was carrying two buckets of milk one day when the nasty old sheep got after her. She ran for the fence and was bumped at every step so that all the milk had spilled by the time she reached it.
The children got into the habit of running through the barnyard, and if their father didn’t meet them to chase the sheep away, they could climb up on the lower half of the cow stable door.
When the sheep finally knocked Father over the woodpile he was so sore he couldn’t walk upstairs. He was so angry, he said, “I’ll sell him if I only get 50 cents.”
His wife said, “It’s too bad that the old sheep didn’t strike father first."
Our Senior Moment
My husband of fifty-two years waited for me in the driver’s seat of our car, the motor already running. I hurried from the house and climbed in beside him. Because he had forgotten his wallet once before, I asked, “Did you remember to bring your wallet?”
“Oh, no. I forgot. I’ll go back and get it,” he said, getting out of the car. He started toward the house and felt his pockets. Flinging out his arms, he looked back at me. “I don’t have my keys.”
Grabbing my own keys, I got out and told him I would get his wallet and keys. “You better wait in the car since the motor is running,” I said.
He agreed. In the house, I quickly found the wallet but not the keys. Then I said to myself, How did he start the car without his keys?”
As I walked down the sidewalk toward the car, I could see my husband’s embarrassed grin through the windshield. I couldn’t rib him much because it was a senior moment for me too. We couldn’t stop laughing.
“Oh, no. I forgot. I’ll go back and get it,” he said, getting out of the car. He started toward the house and felt his pockets. Flinging out his arms, he looked back at me. “I don’t have my keys.”
Grabbing my own keys, I got out and told him I would get his wallet and keys. “You better wait in the car since the motor is running,” I said.
He agreed. In the house, I quickly found the wallet but not the keys. Then I said to myself, How did he start the car without his keys?”
As I walked down the sidewalk toward the car, I could see my husband’s embarrassed grin through the windshield. I couldn’t rib him much because it was a senior moment for me too. We couldn’t stop laughing.
A True Story About a Hair Trigger Rifle
Jim Smith, a 77-year-old retiree of Oroville, California, recalls growing up during the 40’s in Pleasanton, a small California town where nothing much happened, but if it did, everyone heard about it. Jim says that at age fourteen he had a frightening experience that had the town buzzing and left an imprint on his brain forever.
After borrowing a 22 rifle and being warned about its hair-trigger, he had begged his father to let him go target shooting with some friends the next day. They would only be going to the Sewer Farm, he said. The Sewer Farm, a stinky place abounding with tall weeds and mud hens, beckoned to a boy looking for some fun on a summer day.
Jim says his father explained the dangers of inexperienced and unsupervised shooting and refused to let him go, so he went on to bed. He fretted about how to tell the boys because his family, like many others, didn’t have a phone.
The next morning after his father left for work, Jim eased the screen door open and crept onto the big front porch with the borrowed rifle at his side. Knowing his mother was busy canning tomatoes he decided to go to the Sewer Farm and be back before she missed him. She was used to him spending hours in the fields behind the house and playing ball at the Elementary School across the street. Some days he wouldn’t come home until he was hungry.
He scampered down to the main road, pausing once to look back. Good. All was quiet in the two-story house on the hill. His mother hadn’t seen him. Continuing on his way, he spotted the 1932 Chevrolet flatbed pickup at the foot of the hill with all his friends stuffed inside. Jim says his heart fluttered with excitement. He handed the rifle to Ben, climbed into the flatbed, and the pickup started down the country road.
In a few minutes, the Chevrolet pulled over and parked next to the Sewer Farm. The boys jumped from the flatbed to the ground, Ben still holding the rifle.
Hearing a loud gunshot close to his ear, Jim says he turned around, ready to yell at Ben for shooting the rifle so close to everyone, then he saw blood shooting out of his own mouth. In one horrifying moment, he realized he had been shot in the head.
The boys turned in unison and stared at Jim, their mouths open. Steve shouted that Jim had been shot and another boy reported that blood was shooting out Jim’s neck.
Dazed, Jim heard Ben wail, “I didn’t even have my finger on the trigger. It went off all by itself when I jumped down!”
Steve ordered, “Get back in the truck. We’ve got to get him to the doctor!”
With shrieks, moans, and scared faces, the boys quickly climbed back into the flatbed, and Ben helped Jim into the cab of the truck. Steve made a screeching U-turn and the pickup sped back down Main Street.
Ben plugged his finger into the hole in Jim’s neck, but the blood spilled out of Jim’s mouth, onto the floor and seat.
“It keeps coming!” Ben screamed.
Fear gripped Jim as he choked on his own blood and shook uncontrollably Thinking he might die, he looked at Steve and gasped, “Tell my Mom.”
“I will,” Steve promised. In a few minutes the pickup skidded to a stop in front of the doctor’s office. Jim says his family and Steve filled him in later on what happened next. After the boys lifted Jim out of the car, Steve raced back to the Smith house on the hill. He bounded up the porch steps and shouted through the screen door, at Jim’s sister, “Jim got shot in the head!”
Jim’s mother raced from the kitchen, her face stricken with horror. “Is he dead?” she shrieked.
Steve said, “He’s still alive. Come on. I’ll take you to the doctor’s office.”
Jim’s mother ran down the porch steps behind Steve and attempted to jump into the pickup. Before she had completely seated herself, Steve, in his haste, prematurely started the engine, causing her to lose her balance. Slipping on the bloody seat prevented her from catching herself and she fell to the ground. In a heartbeat though, she sprang to her feet and heaved herself back into the front seat, slamming the door behind her.
Jim’s sister, her eyes wide, watched the unbelievable scene from the porch and screamed, “Mama!”
Back at the doctor’s office, Jim saw his mother rush in, looking like she had been rolled in blood and tomato juice and peppered with dirt. When the doctor put his hand on her shoulder and assured her that he would be all right, Jim felt immense relief. Up to that moment, he had his doubts.
Today, many years later, having faint scars on his cheek and neck to prove the accident really happened, Jim looks back on this horrible day and marvels that he survived being shot in the head without having any lasting complications and able to raise a family.
How was Jim able to survive? He says the bullet entered his neck under the jawbone, nicked his tongue, and lodged in the opposite cheek. Weeks after the accident, Jim complained of a knot in his jaw. X-rays revealed a tooth that had been knocked on its side during the accident. The removal of the tooth marked the end of a terrible but miraculous event.
Is there a moral to this story? Jim says, “You bet there is. First, you need training before handling any gun. Second, if your gun has a hair-trigger, think twice before using it. Third, carry your gun with the barrel pointed toward the ground, away from people. Fourth, listen to those who know more than you do. I wish I had listened to my dad."
Jim chuckles. “One good thing came out of it though. I get to see the expressions on my grandchildren’s faces when I tell them my story.”
After borrowing a 22 rifle and being warned about its hair-trigger, he had begged his father to let him go target shooting with some friends the next day. They would only be going to the Sewer Farm, he said. The Sewer Farm, a stinky place abounding with tall weeds and mud hens, beckoned to a boy looking for some fun on a summer day.
Jim says his father explained the dangers of inexperienced and unsupervised shooting and refused to let him go, so he went on to bed. He fretted about how to tell the boys because his family, like many others, didn’t have a phone.
The next morning after his father left for work, Jim eased the screen door open and crept onto the big front porch with the borrowed rifle at his side. Knowing his mother was busy canning tomatoes he decided to go to the Sewer Farm and be back before she missed him. She was used to him spending hours in the fields behind the house and playing ball at the Elementary School across the street. Some days he wouldn’t come home until he was hungry.
He scampered down to the main road, pausing once to look back. Good. All was quiet in the two-story house on the hill. His mother hadn’t seen him. Continuing on his way, he spotted the 1932 Chevrolet flatbed pickup at the foot of the hill with all his friends stuffed inside. Jim says his heart fluttered with excitement. He handed the rifle to Ben, climbed into the flatbed, and the pickup started down the country road.
In a few minutes, the Chevrolet pulled over and parked next to the Sewer Farm. The boys jumped from the flatbed to the ground, Ben still holding the rifle.
Hearing a loud gunshot close to his ear, Jim says he turned around, ready to yell at Ben for shooting the rifle so close to everyone, then he saw blood shooting out of his own mouth. In one horrifying moment, he realized he had been shot in the head.
The boys turned in unison and stared at Jim, their mouths open. Steve shouted that Jim had been shot and another boy reported that blood was shooting out Jim’s neck.
Dazed, Jim heard Ben wail, “I didn’t even have my finger on the trigger. It went off all by itself when I jumped down!”
Steve ordered, “Get back in the truck. We’ve got to get him to the doctor!”
With shrieks, moans, and scared faces, the boys quickly climbed back into the flatbed, and Ben helped Jim into the cab of the truck. Steve made a screeching U-turn and the pickup sped back down Main Street.
Ben plugged his finger into the hole in Jim’s neck, but the blood spilled out of Jim’s mouth, onto the floor and seat.
“It keeps coming!” Ben screamed.
Fear gripped Jim as he choked on his own blood and shook uncontrollably Thinking he might die, he looked at Steve and gasped, “Tell my Mom.”
“I will,” Steve promised. In a few minutes the pickup skidded to a stop in front of the doctor’s office. Jim says his family and Steve filled him in later on what happened next. After the boys lifted Jim out of the car, Steve raced back to the Smith house on the hill. He bounded up the porch steps and shouted through the screen door, at Jim’s sister, “Jim got shot in the head!”
Jim’s mother raced from the kitchen, her face stricken with horror. “Is he dead?” she shrieked.
Steve said, “He’s still alive. Come on. I’ll take you to the doctor’s office.”
Jim’s mother ran down the porch steps behind Steve and attempted to jump into the pickup. Before she had completely seated herself, Steve, in his haste, prematurely started the engine, causing her to lose her balance. Slipping on the bloody seat prevented her from catching herself and she fell to the ground. In a heartbeat though, she sprang to her feet and heaved herself back into the front seat, slamming the door behind her.
Jim’s sister, her eyes wide, watched the unbelievable scene from the porch and screamed, “Mama!”
Back at the doctor’s office, Jim saw his mother rush in, looking like she had been rolled in blood and tomato juice and peppered with dirt. When the doctor put his hand on her shoulder and assured her that he would be all right, Jim felt immense relief. Up to that moment, he had his doubts.
Today, many years later, having faint scars on his cheek and neck to prove the accident really happened, Jim looks back on this horrible day and marvels that he survived being shot in the head without having any lasting complications and able to raise a family.
How was Jim able to survive? He says the bullet entered his neck under the jawbone, nicked his tongue, and lodged in the opposite cheek. Weeks after the accident, Jim complained of a knot in his jaw. X-rays revealed a tooth that had been knocked on its side during the accident. The removal of the tooth marked the end of a terrible but miraculous event.
Is there a moral to this story? Jim says, “You bet there is. First, you need training before handling any gun. Second, if your gun has a hair-trigger, think twice before using it. Third, carry your gun with the barrel pointed toward the ground, away from people. Fourth, listen to those who know more than you do. I wish I had listened to my dad."
Jim chuckles. “One good thing came out of it though. I get to see the expressions on my grandchildren’s faces when I tell them my story.”
Pitch White
My five-year-old grandson, Greg, put his tanned arm next to his mother’s and said, “Mama, your arm is pitch white!”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)