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Please click on Posts by Topic in navigation to read postings and columns about the many humorous (in retrospect) events encountered by my family, friends and me. The above drawings by son Greg (way over qualified for that task) illustrated a couple of my books. You may click on each to enlarge if you wish to see more detail. And, yes, I really did hit an owl on the highway and unknowingly drive all over town with him hanging from the grille.
Julius and Carolyn Leary are restoring their Victorian home built in 1870 to its former grandeur.
Writers do not write for money alone. The best perk of my profession is the opportunity to interview and write about interesting people . . . or several interesting people in the same family. Ray’s and my classmate, Ralph Leary, is the fifth generation of Learys who have owned and/or lived in the beautiful Victorian home his great-great-grandfather built in 1870 south of Lawrence. Ralph and his wife, Leila, were once held hostage there by a couple of convicts, making it the most memorable event to ever take place in the house. “By far!” adds Ralph. Julius Leary, the current owner and grandson of Ralph Leary, and his wife Carolyn are determined to restore the house to its former beauty. They've made a good start and they have created an eighth generation with Julius, Jr. and Jennifer. If you would like to read the story I wrote for Lawrence Magazine and see some great photos of the family and the house, please click on this link: https://issuu.com/sunflower_publishing/docs/lm18su/40
L to R: Sammi, Ray, Marsha, Greg, Val, Gabe, Linda, B.J. and Butch. (I just noticed I'm still the shortest person in the photo. I think next time I'll wear stilettos.)
A year ago last March when I talked the entire family into dressing in Jayhawk garb and posing for a picture under a limb on Ray’s and my favorite hiking trail at Mary’s Lake, I had visions of taking seasonal photos every three months. Silly me! It took over a year to get everyone back there and even then we were missing granddaughter Zoe because she was taking a friend, returning home to Vietnam for the summer, to the airport .
In the last photo, Ray was wearing sunglasses while the rest of us were not, so I thought it would be fun to take a photo with everyone wearing sunglasses. It almost worked. I took the precaution of bringing extra sunglasses in case anyone forgot to bring them. Greg, however, said his glasses darkened in the sun . . . and they do, but you have to be in the sun, not on a shady trail. Steve Jones, Greg’s buddy since high school and everyone’s friend (Greg and Val’s kids call him Uncle Steve), was a good sport and took the photo as he did last time. Then he took another photo on our deck — where we had gathered for a cookout celebrating Ray's and Sammi's birthdays — so Zoe could be in a picture. Problem is, Butch, Linda and B.J. are missing in that one. 
Ray, Gabe, Greg, Marsha, Val, Zoe (no longer missing) and Sammi.
I was ready to apologize (NOT!) to granddaughter Sammi, who attended the University of Missouri at Columbia and now attends UMKC, for wearing the T-shirt that says Defeating Missouri since 1854. But, guess what? She turned up in the very same T-shirt. Here’s proof.
I may keep trying to get everyone together periodically for a family picture at the Mary’s Lake trail. Perhaps we can arrange to take one in the snow where we are all wearing Santa hats. What a Christmas card that would make! Stay tuned.
 Not our marsupial with her load of passengers, but it might have been had Ray carried a camera.
Ray rises before the sun while I, owl that I am, still sleep. Only rarely do I envy his lark status. One of those times was when he drove his truck down our long drive to retrieve our newspaper. He still cannot talk about the incident — a pre-dawn possum encounter — without laughing.
A mama possum giving her babies a ride started to cross our drive and did a quick U-turn when his truck's headlights hit her. "The two little possums walking beside her were okay," Ray says, "but the ones clinging to her back were thrown off and rolled all over the place like little furry softballs." Fortunately, Ray avoided hitting any of the little possums. It would have broken his heart to kill one because he likes possums. Why? Because possums kill and eat snakes (they are impervious to the bite of venomous snakes) and they are such fastidious groomers that they kill 95% of the ticks that try to suck their blood. What's not to like? At Clinton Lake, where we often drive and frequently walk, we became used to seeing a possum who palled around with a gimpy-legged raccoon. I don't remember naming the raccoon, but we dubbed the marsupial Possum Doble (clearly the fault of too much viewing of dancers performing the paso doble on Dancing with the Stars ).  This possum is not dead, just curled into a fetal position and pretending to be.
Have you ever seen a possum play dead? They do a good job of it and that is where the term "playing possum" comes from. I recently met my friend Linda at the Big Biscuit for breakfast and she told me an interesting possum story regarding the possum's ability to do that.
Linda has a dearly beloved female Lab and a doggie door in the kitchen so the dog can go in and out at will. One day, Linda noticed a possum walking around in her kitchen (I suspect you don't have to be very observant to notice a possum in the house). The possum was removed. A few weeks later, it happened again. The third time a marsupial entered the house, the mystery was solved because the possum, playing dead, came through the doggie door in the soft jaws of the Lab. "She didn't want to hurt him," Linda explained, "she just wanted to play with him." Any dogs around our home belong to our neighbors and we enjoy them vicariously. Definitely no doggie doors in our house. As much as we like possums, we want them to stay outside the house.
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Shell and shell.
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Deer track (we saw many which may explain the shotgun shell).
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We left this evidence of our time on the mud-cracked beach. It's just our form of "Kilroy was here."
Late in the afternoon, we found the overgrown path we had taken to the beach and were glad that Ray had marked the entrance with a screwdriver or we might still be trying to find it. Guppy Rojo was certainly a sight for sore eyes and tired feet.
Guppy Rojo waiting patiently for our return.
Tomorrow we may try to walk in the other direction . . . and then again . . .
Ray's Guppy Rojo really is beloved. If you don't believe me, you may click HERE to read "Husband maintains lifelong relationship with cars," a column in which Ray's love for Guppy Rojo is oh so evident.
Call me Huckleberry
That little tree-covered spot way out in the lake is our goal.
Have you ever yearned to do something for a long time and then, when you finally did, it exceeded your expectations? I had that experience a few days ago and it was fantastic! Clinton Lake, a reservoir with a surface area of 7,000 acres, where Ray and I frequently walk, has a small, round, tree-covered island far out in the lake. (Click on photos for larger images.) Last year, when I realized the drought had lowered the lake so much that we likely could access the island by walking to it, I began telling Ray that the Huckleberry Finn side of me would like to explore it.
He seemed cool to the idea until the other day when he suggested we give it a shot. We began our trek to the island via a path atop a breakwater that was clogged with weeds, brush and thorny trees. Huckleberry might have put up with that without complaint, but not I, so we exited down a pile of big rocks to a wide strip of land that is usually covered with water. I snapped photos of the remnants of human habitation (the lake covers many farmsteads): the crumbling foundation of a house or barn, an auto gas tank, tractor tires and pipes sticking out of the ground (I found one when I tripped over it).
He seemed cool to the idea until the other day when he suggested we give it a shot. We began our trek to the island via a path atop a breakwater that was clogged with weeds, brush and thorny trees. Huckleberry might have put up with that without complaint, but not I, so we exited down a pile of big rocks to a wide strip of land that is usually covered with water. I snapped photos of the remnants of human habitation (the lake covers many farmsteads): the crumbling foundation of a house or barn, an auto gas tank, tractor tires and pipes sticking out of the ground (I found one when I tripped over it).
I have more close-up photos than I'll ever need of iridescent clam shells and long-dead fish with empty eye-sockets. We were thrilled to see dozens of pelicans ranged along the perimeter of our little beach. I took many photos of them, forgetting to change the macro setting — terrific for taking close-ups of dead fish — on my camera. You'll just have to imagine how great this pelican photo would be were it in focus.
I suspect the whisky bottle I photographed was abandoned by a previous visitor (we saw footprint evidence) to the strip of land leading to the island. We dubbed one visitor Bigfoot after I fitted my Croc into his footprint in the soft dirt. But Ray and I had that land and island all to ourselves that beautiful unseasonably warm day (imagine 72 degrees on a Kansas November day).
Ray poses at the east end of the small island with the nearly 2-mile long dam in the background.
I photo-graphed Ray with a lure he found and pelican and goose feathers he picked up. I would have asked him why he picked up the feathers, but I was afraid he'd question why I have photos of a dozen dead fish.
We explored the island and the land leading to it long enough to sate my spirit of adventure. As we walked the long way around the breakwater back to our car, we passed a beaver lodge (I know that's what it was because the beaver exited as we neared it and swam away from us). And, yes, I also snapped a photo of him (or her, hard to tell), but he is just a small black dot in a really big lake. That is because I wanted to be sure he wouldn't return to his lodge and decide to bite me with those big, scary teeth that can chew down trees. I'm pretty sure Huckleberry wouldn't have been scared of a beaver, but then Huckleberry wasn't a girl, was he?
Proud as a peacock about our
family turkeys
Thanksgiving, with family gathered around the table, is a great time to learn about your ancestry … especially if your family, like mine once did, boasts a resident genealogist. Our family relied on our late sister Bette to tell us about the peacocks and turkeys roosting in our family tree. Ancestor turkeys, in my opinion, are far more interesting than ancestor peacocks.
Granddad Josh sans still.
Without Bette’s research, we would never have known why Great-grandad Joshua Henry left the hills of Somerset County, Pennsylvania in 1879 to travel by train to Kansas, with Grandpa Marsh a baby on his knee. The family’s sudden departure was caused by a dispute over stills (one of them Grandad’s). Threats were made, shots were fired and Grandad decided there was one too many bootleggers in them thar hills. I think that Grandad, a Civil War veteran, must have regarded bootleggers a much scarier foe than Johnny Reb.
Bette surprised all of us by reporting that Moses and Susan Johnson, Mom’s grandparents — along with Mom’s mother, aunts and uncles — were listed on the Dawes Commission rolls, showing them to be part American Indian. We were excited to discover we had the blood of Choctaw, Cherokee and Creek running through our veins, but disappointed to learn that our Indian heritage didn’t include oil rights.
In a photo Bette gave me, Great-grandma Susan’s left hand — missing two fingers — is prominently displayed on a table. She easily could have hidden the mutilation, but didn’t. Good for her! We would love to know how she lost her fingers, but that is knowledge we likely will never have.
Further, Bette learned that we have Huron (Mohawk) blood on Dad’s side of the family. No oil rights there, either. My late father never knew about the American Indian blood or we would have heard about it. He greatly admired Indians like Cochise, Chief Joseph, Sequoyah, Sacagawea and others … so much so that my sisters and I wanted to be Indians when playing Cowboys and Indians. Shortly before he died, Dad was attempting to learn the Sioux language to complement the German, French, Italian, Hebrew and Arabic languages which he spoke.
According to Bette, our family tree includes many peacocks, among them: William the Conqueror, Catherine the Great and Captain John Johnson. Also, Eystien the Noisy. (I don’t know who he is, but husband Ray says it figures I’d be related to someone with a name like that.)
Are you impressed yet? No? How about Anne Boleyn? Although the issue of Anne having a sixth finger on her right hand is still debated, Bette thought that’s why granddaughter Zoe was born with six fingers on each hand. A surgeon’s scalpel took care of Zoe’s extra fingers, which was way better than the body part poor Anne lost when Henry VIII found a new love.
When I asked Bette if we were related to any currently living peacocks, she named Dick Cheney as a distant relative. Attaining the office of vice-president certainly qualifies him as a peacock, but shooting a friend while hunting may signify he’s a turkey. The fact is most of us are a combination of peacock and turkey.
I recently read that Barack Obama, Sarah Palin, George Bush and Rush Limbaugh share a common ancestor. And there’s the rub: you can’t pick your ancestors. I’m sure most of those people would rather not claim relationship to one another.
My own knowledge of ancestors goes back only four generations: parents, grandparents, great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents. They are relatives I have known personally or, in the case of my greats and great-greats, through the writings they left. Those are the ancestors I love and care about.
My late cousin Patsy eschewed turtlenecks and asserted that we must have had a horse thief in our family who met justice at the end of a rope. If so, Bette never found him.
This year, I invite your family to join mine in a new Thanksgiving tradition: Celebrate your family turkeys!
Bette surprised all of us by reporting that Moses and Susan Johnson, Mom’s grandparents — along with Mom’s mother, aunts and uncles — were listed on the Dawes Commission rolls, showing them to be part American Indian. We were excited to discover we had the blood of Choctaw, Cherokee and Creek running through our veins, but disappointed to learn that our Indian heritage didn’t include oil rights.
In a photo Bette gave me, Great-grandma Susan’s left hand — missing two fingers — is prominently displayed on a table. She easily could have hidden the mutilation, but didn’t. Good for her! We would love to know how she lost her fingers, but that is knowledge we likely will never have.
Further, Bette learned that we have Huron (Mohawk) blood on Dad’s side of the family. No oil rights there, either. My late father never knew about the American Indian blood or we would have heard about it. He greatly admired Indians like Cochise, Chief Joseph, Sequoyah, Sacagawea and others … so much so that my sisters and I wanted to be Indians when playing Cowboys and Indians. Shortly before he died, Dad was attempting to learn the Sioux language to complement the German, French, Italian, Hebrew and Arabic languages which he spoke.
According to Bette, our family tree includes many peacocks, among them: William the Conqueror, Catherine the Great and Captain John Johnson. Also, Eystien the Noisy. (I don’t know who he is, but husband Ray says it figures I’d be related to someone with a name like that.)
Are you impressed yet? No? How about Anne Boleyn? Although the issue of Anne having a sixth finger on her right hand is still debated, Bette thought that’s why granddaughter Zoe was born with six fingers on each hand. A surgeon’s scalpel took care of Zoe’s extra fingers, which was way better than the body part poor Anne lost when Henry VIII found a new love.
When I asked Bette if we were related to any currently living peacocks, she named Dick Cheney as a distant relative. Attaining the office of vice-president certainly qualifies him as a peacock, but shooting a friend while hunting may signify he’s a turkey. The fact is most of us are a combination of peacock and turkey.
I recently read that Barack Obama, Sarah Palin, George Bush and Rush Limbaugh share a common ancestor. And there’s the rub: you can’t pick your ancestors. I’m sure most of those people would rather not claim relationship to one another.
My own knowledge of ancestors goes back only four generations: parents, grandparents, great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents. They are relatives I have known personally or, in the case of my greats and great-greats, through the writings they left. Those are the ancestors I love and care about.
My late cousin Patsy eschewed turtlenecks and asserted that we must have had a horse thief in our family who met justice at the end of a rope. If so, Bette never found him.
This year, I invite your family to join mine in a new Thanksgiving tradition: Celebrate your family turkeys!
VOTE — It’s the American
thing to do!
Old photo, but I still have the hat.
I descend from a long line of politically active citizens. My great-great-grandmother, Mary Hammond Sly, was active in the Women Suffrage movement. In her journal she wrote that a woman from her church asked her to "bake a chicken pie toward feeding the people on election day."
A few days later she wrote that if her minister was "too conscientious to vote for Women Suffrage, the church may bake its own chicken pie."
My father served our city as councilman and city commissioner and our state as a legislator. Back in the days when lawyers were prohibited from advertising (now those were the days), many new lawyers publicized their names by running for public office. While that wasn’t Dad’s primary reason — he already was a dedicated public servant — he may have thought a little extra name recognition wouldn’t hurt.
I’m glad campaigns then weren’t as vicious as they are now. Today’s ads make me wonder why all politicians aren’t in jail. The most negative thing that happened in Dad’s race was a flyer distributed by his opponent, a long-time incumbent, which implored the public not to vote for Dad because "we don’t want lawyers making our laws."
At a pre-election meeting sponsored by the League of Women Voters, my always courteous father approached his opponent, held out his hand, and said, "May the best man win."
"That’ll be me," his opponent replied as he turned away. When the rural vote reported first, putting Dad well behind his opponent, he graciously conceded the election. But his concession was premature. The city vote came in strong for Dad and he won!
Gotta go. We’re headed to the township fire station where we vote, then we’re going out for Chinese, after which we’ll celebrate our patriotism with a blizzard at DQ. We do not count calories on Election Day.
Click HERE if you’d like to read my column on elections: "Frogs, sacrificial lambs make strange political bedfellows."
And, if you're still game, click HERE for "Elections are meaner than they used to be."
A few days later she wrote that if her minister was "too conscientious to vote for Women Suffrage, the church may bake its own chicken pie."
My father served our city as councilman and city commissioner and our state as a legislator. Back in the days when lawyers were prohibited from advertising (now those were the days), many new lawyers publicized their names by running for public office. While that wasn’t Dad’s primary reason — he already was a dedicated public servant — he may have thought a little extra name recognition wouldn’t hurt.
I’m glad campaigns then weren’t as vicious as they are now. Today’s ads make me wonder why all politicians aren’t in jail. The most negative thing that happened in Dad’s race was a flyer distributed by his opponent, a long-time incumbent, which implored the public not to vote for Dad because "we don’t want lawyers making our laws."
At a pre-election meeting sponsored by the League of Women Voters, my always courteous father approached his opponent, held out his hand, and said, "May the best man win."
"That’ll be me," his opponent replied as he turned away. When the rural vote reported first, putting Dad well behind his opponent, he graciously conceded the election. But his concession was premature. The city vote came in strong for Dad and he won!
Gotta go. We’re headed to the township fire station where we vote, then we’re going out for Chinese, after which we’ll celebrate our patriotism with a blizzard at DQ. We do not count calories on Election Day.
Click HERE if you’d like to read my column on elections: "Frogs, sacrificial lambs make strange political bedfellows."
And, if you're still game, click HERE for "Elections are meaner than they used to be."
Backwards is not the way
to fall down stairs
If you had looked down these stairs the other night, you would have seen me lying crumpled at the bottom. Trust me: it is never a good idea to put it in reverse on stairs when you notice you’ve left a bedroom light on
. . . especially if you’re carrying a laundry basket full of clothes. (Click on photo for larger image.)
My brain didn’t keep track of my feet so I thought I was on the bottom tread, but, no, I was three or four stairs up. When I stepped back with my left foot, expecting to step on tile, I found only air, giving me time to scream loudly in anticipation of hurting myself. I landed on my left hip, hit my head on the door and somehow managed to injure my left foot and right wrist.
As I lay there taking stock of what hurt and what didn’t, I could hear Ray’s boots upstairs racing through the house as he hollered, "WHERE ARE YOU?"
When he finally found me, he said, "Let’s get you to the emergency room." I declined because, as it turns out, I wasn’t really hurt at all — No osteoporosis for me! — except for my pride. I suffered a little residual soreness, but not enough to stop us from walking our daily two miles the next morning.
This makes the second time I’ve tumbled down those stairs, the first time a decade or so ago when I was rushing down to open the back door for Ray to bring in a piece of antique furniture we’d just purchased. At the top of the stairs, I dropped my purse, decided it was prudent to check to make sure I wouldn’t tangle my foot in its strap and missed the first step entirely. I only had time to think "This is gonna hurt!" and make a grab at a spindle about half-way down which caused my only injury: a sprained thumb.
As a child, I lived with perpetual skinned knees, the result of my tomboy lifestyle. As an adult, I’ve only skinned my knee once (and tore my meniscus at the same time) when I tripped over a curb while running to take a photo at Yellowstone Park. I learned then that I needn’t have hurried because the bubbling spring could be relied on to stay put. My recent fall down the stairs taught me that, since I’m not equipped with backup mirrors, I should not go down backwards. So I won’t . . . anymore.
. . . especially if you’re carrying a laundry basket full of clothes. (Click on photo for larger image.)
My brain didn’t keep track of my feet so I thought I was on the bottom tread, but, no, I was three or four stairs up. When I stepped back with my left foot, expecting to step on tile, I found only air, giving me time to scream loudly in anticipation of hurting myself. I landed on my left hip, hit my head on the door and somehow managed to injure my left foot and right wrist.
As I lay there taking stock of what hurt and what didn’t, I could hear Ray’s boots upstairs racing through the house as he hollered, "WHERE ARE YOU?"
When he finally found me, he said, "Let’s get you to the emergency room." I declined because, as it turns out, I wasn’t really hurt at all — No osteoporosis for me! — except for my pride. I suffered a little residual soreness, but not enough to stop us from walking our daily two miles the next morning.
This makes the second time I’ve tumbled down those stairs, the first time a decade or so ago when I was rushing down to open the back door for Ray to bring in a piece of antique furniture we’d just purchased. At the top of the stairs, I dropped my purse, decided it was prudent to check to make sure I wouldn’t tangle my foot in its strap and missed the first step entirely. I only had time to think "This is gonna hurt!" and make a grab at a spindle about half-way down which caused my only injury: a sprained thumb.
As a child, I lived with perpetual skinned knees, the result of my tomboy lifestyle. As an adult, I’ve only skinned my knee once (and tore my meniscus at the same time) when I tripped over a curb while running to take a photo at Yellowstone Park. I learned then that I needn’t have hurried because the bubbling spring could be relied on to stay put. My recent fall down the stairs taught me that, since I’m not equipped with backup mirrors, I should not go down backwards. So I won’t . . . anymore.
Pheasants and peacocks, both
birds -- but not always!
In Autumn, my lawyer/politician father loved to hunt pheasants. He hunted with several groups of men, including a band of brothers, self-described as Missouri hillbillies, whose tendency to get into brawls kept Dad busy trying to keep them out of jail. We knew and liked all of the brothers and Dad said he learned more about biology and botany from them, unschooled as they were, than he ever learned in college courses.
Dad was on a hunting trip to Western Kansas with a group of businessmen and our female household was quiet that evening as we awaited his return. Mom was taking a bath, my sisters Lesta and Bette were in their bedroom and Vicki, a toddler, was sound asleep. I was alone in the living room, sitting on the couch doing my homework, when a loud knock at the door startled me.
We never knew when we answered the door whether we’d greet a US Senator asking for Dad’s support or a client who needed fast legal help. This time it was the third oldest of the band of brothers who I knew had also been pheasant hunting, though not with Dad. The man was obviously drunk and sobbing when I invited him to come in and sit down. "What’s the matter?" I asked as soothingly as a 14-year-old could.
"My wife has been unfaithful!" he blurted.
"Oh, no," I replied, denying the possibility.
"Yes," he cried, "when I left to go hunting I had five peacocks and now I only have three."
"You mean pheasants," I corrected.
Dad was on a hunting trip to Western Kansas with a group of businessmen and our female household was quiet that evening as we awaited his return. Mom was taking a bath, my sisters Lesta and Bette were in their bedroom and Vicki, a toddler, was sound asleep. I was alone in the living room, sitting on the couch doing my homework, when a loud knock at the door startled me.
We never knew when we answered the door whether we’d greet a US Senator asking for Dad’s support or a client who needed fast legal help. This time it was the third oldest of the band of brothers who I knew had also been pheasant hunting, though not with Dad. The man was obviously drunk and sobbing when I invited him to come in and sit down. "What’s the matter?" I asked as soothingly as a 14-year-old could.
"My wife has been unfaithful!" he blurted.
"Oh, no," I replied, denying the possibility.
"Yes," he cried, "when I left to go hunting I had five peacocks and now I only have three."
"You mean pheasants," I corrected.
"No, peacocks."
"Pheasants," I repeated, and looked up to notice Lesta standing in the archway to the kitchen. A year younger, and supposedly a year more innocent than I, Lesta’s eyes were as round as saucers and her mouth formed a capital O. It was then I realized that he did indeed mean peacocks . . . the kind that my sisters and I once found in Dad’s dresser drawer and tried to blow up, thinking they were white balloons.
At this point, Mom, freshly bathed and dressed, entered the living room and the man, still crying, turned to her to spill his marital woes. But, first, he motioned to Lesta and me, saying protectively: "You girls get out of here. You shouldn’t hear this."
"Pheasants," I repeated, and looked up to notice Lesta standing in the archway to the kitchen. A year younger, and supposedly a year more innocent than I, Lesta’s eyes were as round as saucers and her mouth formed a capital O. It was then I realized that he did indeed mean peacocks . . . the kind that my sisters and I once found in Dad’s dresser drawer and tried to blow up, thinking they were white balloons.
At this point, Mom, freshly bathed and dressed, entered the living room and the man, still crying, turned to her to spill his marital woes. But, first, he motioned to Lesta and me, saying protectively: "You girls get out of here. You shouldn’t hear this."
October's bright blue weather
The photo I snapped of this month’s colorful drive down our hillside causes me to believe that Helen Hunt Jackson said it best: Love loveth best of all the year October’s bright blue weather. I suspect it is the brilliant colors of the foliage that make the blue of the sky appear so intense.
Autumn was my father’s favorite season, but whether it was because of the vivid ever-changing colors or the advent of pheasant season remains in question. Likely it was both. Every afternoon after school I’d fly with him in his little plane over the hills north of town because he wanted to see how much the colors of trees had changed overnight. Sweet memories! I’ll bet you have some of your own, like jumping in a pile of leaves, carving a jack-o'-lantern or watching a high school football game on a crisp Autumn evening. I hope you glory in those memories and thoroughly enjoy this beautiful season.
Autumn was my father’s favorite season, but whether it was because of the vivid ever-changing colors or the advent of pheasant season remains in question. Likely it was both. Every afternoon after school I’d fly with him in his little plane over the hills north of town because he wanted to see how much the colors of trees had changed overnight. Sweet memories! I’ll bet you have some of your own, like jumping in a pile of leaves, carving a jack-o'-lantern or watching a high school football game on a crisp Autumn evening. I hope you glory in those memories and thoroughly enjoy this beautiful season.
Buddy the Tripawd
and other dogs
Regis loves living at the lake campground.
Regis loves living at the lake campground
One of the best things about walking at the lake most mornings are the dogs we encounter. Early last spring when the campground opened, we met this little cutie named Regis, owned by Sam, a volunteer, and his wife, Kathy. Today, as I snapped this photo, they were preparing their motorhome for the long trip home. (Click on photo for larger image.)
While I love dogs, I tend to be a coward around canines I don’t know by name. Being chased by a nameless growling Rottweiler with big scary teeth will do that to you. But dogs at the lake must be leashed, allowing me to brave even the fiercest looking and loudest barking dog . . . unless, of course, I can’t see a restraint. "Whoa!" I exclaimed to Ray, cowering behind him, "Is that dog loose?"
Turned out the big black Lab was loose and headed our way, but his owner quickly grabbed him and brought him over to politely introduce him to us as "Junior, who really likes people." Since we qualify as people, that meant he liked us and greeted us each morning with a big sloppy grin as long as he camped at the lake.
Buddy the Tripawd was loose the other day, but that was okay because we know him. We met Buddy, missing his back left leg to his hip, and his mom, missing one of her front legs, earlier this summer. I remember asking their owner if the dogs were Pointers. He said they weren’t, but they certainly look like my dad’s Pointer hunting dogs.
One of the best things about walking at the lake most mornings are the dogs we encounter. Early last spring when the campground opened, we met this little cutie named Regis, owned by Sam, a volunteer, and his wife, Kathy. Today, as I snapped this photo, they were preparing their motorhome for the long trip home. (Click on photo for larger image.)
While I love dogs, I tend to be a coward around canines I don’t know by name. Being chased by a nameless growling Rottweiler with big scary teeth will do that to you. But dogs at the lake must be leashed, allowing me to brave even the fiercest looking and loudest barking dog . . . unless, of course, I can’t see a restraint. "Whoa!" I exclaimed to Ray, cowering behind him, "Is that dog loose?"
Turned out the big black Lab was loose and headed our way, but his owner quickly grabbed him and brought him over to politely introduce him to us as "Junior, who really likes people." Since we qualify as people, that meant he liked us and greeted us each morning with a big sloppy grin as long as he camped at the lake.
Buddy the Tripawd was loose the other day, but that was okay because we know him. We met Buddy, missing his back left leg to his hip, and his mom, missing one of her front legs, earlier this summer. I remember asking their owner if the dogs were Pointers. He said they weren’t, but they certainly look like my dad’s Pointer hunting dogs.
If I had a dollar for every dog I have seen heist his leg at a tree this summer, I’d be well off. Easy for a dog with two back legs to do. It would be easy for Buddy, too, if he approached a tree from the right where he needn’t even heist his non-existent leg. But, no, Buddy moved up to a tree and heisted his left back leg to do his business (see illustration at right). "How’d he DO that?" I asked. "He doesn’t have a leg to stand on."
"He must be balancing on his front legs," Ray said.
"That," I agreed, "or he’s got the world’s strongest back muscles!"
Buddy’s owner appeared at his motorcoach door. "Is he bothering you?" he asked.
"No," I replied, "but he just baptized a tree by raising his LEFT leg!"
"I know. I think I ought to videotape him doing that and send it to America’s Funniest Videos."
I can’t wait to see Buddy on AFV. I’ll bet he wins the $100,000 prize.
"He must be balancing on his front legs," Ray said.
"That," I agreed, "or he’s got the world’s strongest back muscles!"
Buddy’s owner appeared at his motorcoach door. "Is he bothering you?" he asked.
"No," I replied, "but he just baptized a tree by raising his LEFT leg!"
"I know. I think I ought to videotape him doing that and send it to America’s Funniest Videos."
I can’t wait to see Buddy on AFV. I’ll bet he wins the $100,000 prize.
Lucy's "Gratitude Attitude"
I am really bad at guessing people’s age. Are you? How old do you think the woman in the photograph is?
This photo of Lucy, my late father’s older cousin, was taken in 2005 when she was 97 years old. Last Friday, Ray and I drove to Sabetha, Kansas, where we attended her graveside service. If you are quicker at math than I, you have already figured out that Lucy was 104.
Because Lucy lived in Colorado, we expected very few people would attend her service. Boy, were we wrong! And here’s the kicker: last May, Lucy traveled over 600 miles to Sabetha to attend her 86th high school reunion. Her daughter and granddaughter drove her around the small town in a car decorated with signs: CHEERLEADER! MY 86th HIGH SCH00L REUNION! At a reunion she attended several years previously, similar signs left observers awestruck. Many were overheard exclaiming, "What? That can’t be right!"
I shouldn’t have been surprised that so many people attended her service. Life wasn’t always easy for her. She was widowed as a young housewife and went to work to support herself and her daughter. But Lucy’s lifelong motto was "Gratitude Attitude" and she lit up every room she entered. She bowled on leagues well into her late 90s and visited the casinos well beyond that.
Most fitting, at her service, four Sabetha High School students — dressed as football player, soccer player, cheerleader and jeans-clad student — sang the school song for the alumna who, in addition to being a cheerleader, instituted the Pep Squad and helped initiate the school song still in use.
Here’s to Lucy and her long productive life!
This photo of Lucy, my late father’s older cousin, was taken in 2005 when she was 97 years old. Last Friday, Ray and I drove to Sabetha, Kansas, where we attended her graveside service. If you are quicker at math than I, you have already figured out that Lucy was 104.
Because Lucy lived in Colorado, we expected very few people would attend her service. Boy, were we wrong! And here’s the kicker: last May, Lucy traveled over 600 miles to Sabetha to attend her 86th high school reunion. Her daughter and granddaughter drove her around the small town in a car decorated with signs: CHEERLEADER! MY 86th HIGH SCH00L REUNION! At a reunion she attended several years previously, similar signs left observers awestruck. Many were overheard exclaiming, "What? That can’t be right!"
I shouldn’t have been surprised that so many people attended her service. Life wasn’t always easy for her. She was widowed as a young housewife and went to work to support herself and her daughter. But Lucy’s lifelong motto was "Gratitude Attitude" and she lit up every room she entered. She bowled on leagues well into her late 90s and visited the casinos well beyond that.
Most fitting, at her service, four Sabetha High School students — dressed as football player, soccer player, cheerleader and jeans-clad student — sang the school song for the alumna who, in addition to being a cheerleader, instituted the Pep Squad and helped initiate the school song still in use.
Here’s to Lucy and her long productive life!
Meeting cousins and making
waffles in Guthrie, Oklahoma
Mike, Ray, Marsha, Nancy, Picture Crasher (we have no idea who this woman is) and Naoma (Mike's wife). Sadly, both Mike and Nancy are deceased
(we don't know about the Picture Crasher.)
My mother was the youngest of 12 highly prolific children of Jacob and Maud Shellhammer (who were obviously pretty prolific themselves). Consequently, I have SIX cousins born the same year as I. Ray and I recently caught up with two of them in Guthrie, the Oklahoma town where Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise filmed portions of the movie Rainman — including one of my favorite scenes where Hoffman stops in the middle of crossing the street when the light DON’T WALK begins flashing.
I have such great childhood memories of Nancy and Mike. When my family visited Grandma and Grandpa in Coyle, Nancy’s home in the country was where I stayed so we could go down to the creek and try to find quicksand. As adventuresome as that sounds, I’m not sure we ever found anything but boggy ground, but WE thought it was quicksand.
As preteens, I stayed busy scaring myself reading Mike’sTales of the Crypt comic books, while Mike and my sister Lesta practiced one-upsmanship. I remember the time Mike dropped a water balloon on Lesta from his perch high in a tree. Lesta retaliated by smashing a ripe banana on his head. It took a while before he got revenge by locking her in the little pantry off Aunt Vera’s kitchen, then shooting a hose at her through the small window. Sure, Lesta, the pantry and kitchen floor were all water-logged, but Mike’s retaliation was so creative we talked about it for years.
While having dinner with my cousins at a restaurant was the best thing about our recent trip, the second best thing was the great complimentary hot breakfast at our motel. I LOVE those automatic flip waffle makers. I filled the paper measuring cup with batter and poured it into the waffle maker. When I lowered the lid and flipped the appliance to begin the cooking process, it quickly became apparent that I had used too much batter. As the tray underneath began filling with batter, I decided someone had substituted larger cups. Just then I noticed that the drips from the machine were starting to cook, looking like cave stalactites. When the beep signaled my waffle was ready and I flipped it over to remove it to the plate, the stalactites became stalagmites.
Photo illustration of my weird waffle.
A female traveler fixing a bowl of Cheerios stared in amused wonder at my waffle. When I learned that she was returning to Dallas from her 100-year-old mother’s funeral in Nebraska, I empathized and told her about my mother’s funeral. "I’d tell you how my family handles tragedy with humor," I said, "but you might think I’m weird."
"I thought you were weird," she said with conviction, "as soon as I saw your waffle."
Click HERE if you would like to read "Sometimes grins are hard to come by," the article about my family using humor to cope with tragedy.
"I thought you were weird," she said with conviction, "as soon as I saw your waffle."
Click HERE if you would like to read "Sometimes grins are hard to come by," the article about my family using humor to cope with tragedy.
Humor may make
sorrow bearable
Steve's ashes ride to Topeka in a cupholder.
When a loved one dies, there is so much to do that time seems to rush by in a blur. Operating on little sleep and incoming relatives, I tend to get slap-happy. Such was the case when husband Ray and I traveled to Topeka on behalf of our sister Bette’s siblings to settle her remaining expenses at the crematorium and cemetery.
Riding in our car’s cupholder was a small decorative personal urn that sister Vicki had purchased to hold some of her husband Steve’s ashes, then decided not to use. His ashes are in a larger urn, a portion of which were sent into Earth orbit when SpaceX’s Falcon 9 rocket blasted off from Florida last May. (You may read a story about Steve’s posthumous astronaut experience by clicking on Articles in the above navigation bar.)
Vicki, Ray and I were unsuccessful in our attempts to open the urn so we delivered it to the crematorium and asked the gentleman there to place some of Bette’s ashes in it for her daughter Sheli. He couldn’t open it either and said, "I believe something is in here."
"No," I replied confidently, "Vicki decided not to use it."
He shook the urn and we could hear that something (or someone, apparently Steve) was indeed inside. "It’s been filled and sealed," the gentleman said solemnly.
As we drove to the adjacent cemetery, I called Vicki and totally lost it when she answered and I tried to tell her that Steve’s ashes were in the little urn. Because I was simultaneously laughing and crying, it took three tries for her to understand me when I gasped, "We j-j-just gave S-s-steve a ride to T-t-topeka!"
It didn’t help that Ray commented, "He thinks his trip into space was much more exciting."
"He w-w-wants to go to the m-m-mall," I stammered.
"And Schlotsky’s," added Ray.
At home, Vicki was doubled over with laughter. "I gave away my husband?" she asked.
The small urn now has a place of honor next to the large urn on Vicki’s mantle and she purchased a small (and happily empty) urn for Bette’s ashes which Sheli now has.
Note: Not every family handles tragedy the way our family does, but it seems to work for us. Click HERE if you want to read "Sometimes grins are hard to come by," a column about how humor helped us deal with the tragedy of our mother’s passing.
_______________________
I much prefer to write the light and humorous articles you are accustomed to reading on this website, but life isn't always funny. I wish it was. On Thursday, August 9, my sister Vicki phoned to inform me that our sister Bette had died. I am sure that in the coming days our tears will be tempered by laughter as Lesta, Vicki and I remember our sister's irrepressible sense of humor and loving manner. This article is:
Riding in our car’s cupholder was a small decorative personal urn that sister Vicki had purchased to hold some of her husband Steve’s ashes, then decided not to use. His ashes are in a larger urn, a portion of which were sent into Earth orbit when SpaceX’s Falcon 9 rocket blasted off from Florida last May. (You may read a story about Steve’s posthumous astronaut experience by clicking on Articles in the above navigation bar.)
Vicki, Ray and I were unsuccessful in our attempts to open the urn so we delivered it to the crematorium and asked the gentleman there to place some of Bette’s ashes in it for her daughter Sheli. He couldn’t open it either and said, "I believe something is in here."
"No," I replied confidently, "Vicki decided not to use it."
He shook the urn and we could hear that something (or someone, apparently Steve) was indeed inside. "It’s been filled and sealed," the gentleman said solemnly.
As we drove to the adjacent cemetery, I called Vicki and totally lost it when she answered and I tried to tell her that Steve’s ashes were in the little urn. Because I was simultaneously laughing and crying, it took three tries for her to understand me when I gasped, "We j-j-just gave S-s-steve a ride to T-t-topeka!"
It didn’t help that Ray commented, "He thinks his trip into space was much more exciting."
"He w-w-wants to go to the m-m-mall," I stammered.
"And Schlotsky’s," added Ray.
At home, Vicki was doubled over with laughter. "I gave away my husband?" she asked.
The small urn now has a place of honor next to the large urn on Vicki’s mantle and she purchased a small (and happily empty) urn for Bette’s ashes which Sheli now has.
Note: Not every family handles tragedy the way our family does, but it seems to work for us. Click HERE if you want to read "Sometimes grins are hard to come by," a column about how humor helped us deal with the tragedy of our mother’s passing.
_______________________
I much prefer to write the light and humorous articles you are accustomed to reading on this website, but life isn't always funny. I wish it was. On Thursday, August 9, my sister Vicki phoned to inform me that our sister Bette had died. I am sure that in the coming days our tears will be tempered by laughter as Lesta, Vicki and I remember our sister's irrepressible sense of humor and loving manner. This article is:
In Memory of Bette
Bette June Henry Mallonee Hulser
Bette loved Facebook! It provided an outlet from her self-imposed isolation during the many years she cared for her son who succumbed to MS two and a half years ago. Bette gave up a challenging, well-paying job and turned her home into a hospital as Mike's illness progressed. We watched in amazement as she learned to feed him through a stomach tube and suction his breathing tube. And she did it all without any sign of resentment or self-pity.
Last Thursday afternoon Bette posted these words on her Facebook page.
Never take your loved ones
for granted because you never
know when their hearts will stop
beating, and you won't have
a chance to say goodbye.
Then she lay down to take a nap before dinner. It was a nap from which she didn't awaken. I remember the simple prayer we recited each night as children:
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
I like to think He did exactly that.
Note: Click HERE if you would like to read “For the Love of Mike,” a column about Bette and her son.
Last Thursday afternoon Bette posted these words on her Facebook page.
Never take your loved ones
for granted because you never
know when their hearts will stop
beating, and you won't have
a chance to say goodbye.
Then she lay down to take a nap before dinner. It was a nap from which she didn't awaken. I remember the simple prayer we recited each night as children:
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
I like to think He did exactly that.
Note: Click HERE if you would like to read “For the Love of Mike,” a column about Bette and her son.
The saga of Shaky Pig
During this morning’s walk, I noticed some small pink and white flowers and asked husband Ray to identify them. "Oh, that’s bindweed," he said, causing me to immediately think of Shaky Pig.
Long ago, when the boys were little and Ray’s parents were phasing out of farming and livestock, Ray decided to supplement our income by raising pigs in one of his folks’ vacated barns. He purchased six bred gilts (first-time mama pigs) and waited for piglets to arrive.
Unbeknownst to us, the bred gilts had a disease called lepto which causes pregnant pigs to abort or — if they carry to term — their babies, few in number, are stillborn or often non-viable. Ray expected litters of twelve, the number of teats on his soon-to-be mama pigs, and was hugely disappointed when they began delivering litters of three to five.
Long ago, when the boys were little and Ray’s parents were phasing out of farming and livestock, Ray decided to supplement our income by raising pigs in one of his folks’ vacated barns. He purchased six bred gilts (first-time mama pigs) and waited for piglets to arrive.
Unbeknownst to us, the bred gilts had a disease called lepto which causes pregnant pigs to abort or — if they carry to term — their babies, few in number, are stillborn or often non-viable. Ray expected litters of twelve, the number of teats on his soon-to-be mama pigs, and was hugely disappointed when they began delivering litters of three to five.
Ray feeds Chet Similac from a bottle.
One of the non-viable pigs, dubbed Chet, moved to our suburban home, drank Similac, ate corn chips, pushed my red shoe across the floor and became viable indeed. (Click on photo for larger image.) Poor Shaky Pig, neurologically injured shortly after birth when his mother laid on him, stayed at the farm. The veterinarian advised Ray to dispose of Shaky Pig and not waste food on him, but Ray refused, saying he couldn’t kill any animal that was trying to live by eating.
And Shaky Pig ate everything in sight, including bindweed. Given his tremor, Ray said Shaky Pig looked like a mowing machine, his head moving right to left, as he munched on his preferred bindweed.
Ray kept Shaky Pig through three more breeding seasons and didn’t sell him until — deciding the pig business wasn’t as profitable as anticipated — he sold all his pigs. When Ray took Shaky Pig to the sale barn, the pig had trouble getting from the truck’s tailgate to the loading chute. Trying to help him, Ray put his hand on Shaky Pig’s bottom to give him a boost and inadvertently ran his middle finger up Shaky Pig’s . . . uh . . . well, you know.
As Ray looked in dismay at his soiled finger, the sale barn owner shoved the consignment document toward him and handed him a pen. When Ray signed the paper and tried to return the pen, the man took one look at it and said, "No, that’s okay, you can keep it."
Shaky Pig sold for 75 cents — not per pound — total. I hope whoever bought him kept him for a pet and allowed him to eat all the bindweed he wanted.
And Shaky Pig ate everything in sight, including bindweed. Given his tremor, Ray said Shaky Pig looked like a mowing machine, his head moving right to left, as he munched on his preferred bindweed.
Ray kept Shaky Pig through three more breeding seasons and didn’t sell him until — deciding the pig business wasn’t as profitable as anticipated — he sold all his pigs. When Ray took Shaky Pig to the sale barn, the pig had trouble getting from the truck’s tailgate to the loading chute. Trying to help him, Ray put his hand on Shaky Pig’s bottom to give him a boost and inadvertently ran his middle finger up Shaky Pig’s . . . uh . . . well, you know.
As Ray looked in dismay at his soiled finger, the sale barn owner shoved the consignment document toward him and handed him a pen. When Ray signed the paper and tried to return the pen, the man took one look at it and said, "No, that’s okay, you can keep it."
Shaky Pig sold for 75 cents — not per pound — total. I hope whoever bought him kept him for a pet and allowed him to eat all the bindweed he wanted.
The night the closet fell
Night before last, about 2 a.m., a loud crash and a series of smaller ones awakened us. Husband Ray thought it was thunder. I was sure something had fallen. We searched the main floor of the house, seeing nothing amiss, until I opened the door of the walk-in closet. What a mess! (Click on photos for larger images.)
One side of five shelves had given way, spilling the contents of the top two shelves into the middle of the floor and crushing clothes on the bottom three shelves, as well as the blouses and short jackets hanging on the rod below.
There would have been no problem had the top two shelves contained clothing instead of an eclectic mix of heavy, breakable treasures. So, I’m wondering, what was the final weighty straw that caused the collapse? Was it the Jayhawk bobblehead? Or perhaps the iron I bought when Ray and I first married that I keep purely for sentimental reasons. I suspect that the heaviest item — and therefore the likeliest cause of the disaster — is the can of old coins that sat on the top shelf. It couldn’t possibly be the feather-weight plastic pump that blows up my exercise ball. Or the shoebox of empty jewelry boxes. The sack of Happy Birthday balloons weighed nearly nothing and certainly didn’t cause the nighttime havoc.
One side of five shelves had given way, spilling the contents of the top two shelves into the middle of the floor and crushing clothes on the bottom three shelves, as well as the blouses and short jackets hanging on the rod below.
There would have been no problem had the top two shelves contained clothing instead of an eclectic mix of heavy, breakable treasures. So, I’m wondering, what was the final weighty straw that caused the collapse? Was it the Jayhawk bobblehead? Or perhaps the iron I bought when Ray and I first married that I keep purely for sentimental reasons. I suspect that the heaviest item — and therefore the likeliest cause of the disaster — is the can of old coins that sat on the top shelf. It couldn’t possibly be the feather-weight plastic pump that blows up my exercise ball. Or the shoebox of empty jewelry boxes. The sack of Happy Birthday balloons weighed nearly nothing and certainly didn’t cause the nighttime havoc.
A few items awaiting placement on the newly-repaired closet shelves.
I was surprised by some items I picked up from the floor; many of which I had forgotten we owned . . . like the traveler’s alarm for use on hotel doors that I bought in a rash moment because it was on sale. And what is up with that Coke bottle? Why did I have that on the top shelf? Then there is that stupid neti pot I used one time to rinse my sinuses. I haven’t a clue why I thought that was a good idea, but I shelved the neti pot long before I read about two people who used tap water in theirs and died from the "brain-eating" amoeba Naegleria fowleri which enters the body through the nose
By early afternoon, Ray had the shelves back in place, secured by multiple toggle bolts, and I had reloaded the shelves with everything that hadn’t broken in the fall. Now I only have to worry about the 15 shelves and four drawers that are affixed to the other walls in the closet. I can’t speak for Ray, but, as for me, the next time something goes bump in the night, I hope it’s "goulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties." Wouldn’t take nearly so long to clean up!
Note: Click HERE to read my column about previous household repairs . . . including a toilet that had the potential to explode.
Note: Click HERE to read my column about previous household repairs . . . including a toilet that had the potential to explode.
Pretty red toenails: good on
a woman, but bad on a man
Last night, I used up all my miracles and persuaded husband Ray to massage my tired little feet. It was then — as he sat on the couch and I reclined on it with my feet in his lap — that he complimented my prettily painted toenails. Why, I wonder, did it take him so long to notice them when my natural state around the house is barefoot and, when I am shod, my summer shoes of choice are sandals?
"Would you like me to paint yours?" I asked. When he hastily declined my offer, I told him about the time my father scheduled a trip to Roaring River in Southwestern Missouri with some of his fishing buddies. They were leaving in the wee hours of the morning and Dad decided to snatch a few hours of sleep on the couch so he wouldn’t awaken Mom when he left.
As he snored away, Mom took the opportunity to paint his toenails bright red. He might have noticed the adornment had he turned on the light when his buddies came to pick him up. But, no, he pulled on his socks in the dark and hustled out to the car. After their four hour drive, the men stood along the river bank at dawn, waiting for the sound of the siren that announced the start of trout fishing. It was then that one man suggested they take off their boots and socks.
No one was more surprised than Dad to see his fire-engine red toenails. He was even more surprised when his buddies, acting as one, picked him up and threw him into the river. I have always believed it was a good thing that Mom was safely 225 miles away and that, by the time Dad returned, his clothes were dry and he was able to laugh about her joke.
Did he retaliate with a joke on her? It took years, but you bet he did!
When traveling by air,
timing is everything!
Have you ever checked your tickets while you and your husband were driving 60 miles to the airport and noticed that your flight was an hour earlier than you thought? Or been standing in a long security check line and heard last call for boarding for your flight? Don’t you just hate that?
Our $10/each early bird status on Southwest Airlines did us no good when we were the last two people to board … even though we shunned the cheaper satellite parking and left our car in the expensive center parking lot. We made our way down the aisle to the back of the plane. Only middle seats were left. I have nothing against middle seats (that’s where I’m always parked) as long as Ray is beside me . . . because it is absolutely essential that I have a death grip on him during takeoffs and landings.
Turning around, we walked to the front of the plane where two men occupied aisle and window seats at the bulkhead. We must have looked pitiful, because, without our asking, the man at the window stood up and graciously relinquished his seat. I could have kissed him!
The only other time we almost missed a plane was on the last leg of a flight returning from Cancun with sister Lesta and brother-in-law Dick. We had a bit of a dust-up with security in Mexico when they unpacked my new embroidered tote filled with protectively wrapped purchases because they were curious about a souvenir at the very bottom. I blame the little guy resting on the tote in the above photo. (Click on photo for larger image.) Once the guard examined the small stone jaguar I had purchased in Tulum, he astonished Dick by following Ray’s admonition to carefully repack the tote in the same order.
We breezed through customs in Houston, flew to Chicago where we had three hours to wait until our flight to Kansas City. Dick and Lesta weren’t flying to California until the next day so we accepted their invitation to wait in their hotel room instead of at the airport. Near time to board the bus back to O’Hare, Ray — the only one among us who hadn’t been a victim of Montezuma during our two weeks in Mexico — learned that he hadn’t escaped the emperor’s revenge after all.
I frantically pounded on the bathroom door, exclaiming, "The bus is LEAVING!"
And Ray replied, "I . . . DON’T . . . CARE!"
A second bus took us to the airport with minutes to spare. We hurried to our gate where security agents decided they, too, needed to look at the jaguar at the bottom of my tote. Once they examined him, they left repacking up to me. I tossed my treasures in the tote and we took off running. Out of breath, we boarded our plane, found our seats, buckled in and were airborne.
Later, we speculated why my jaguar sparked so much interest from both Mexican and American security agents. I thought they may have suspected I was smuggling an artifact, but a law enforcement friend guessed that they believed I had drugs concealed in him. You would think security agents would recognize that I was too much of a goody-two-shoes to do either. However, I’ve never met a smuggler so perhaps they all look like me.
Click HERE if you would like to read a column about my first commercial airline flight.
Our $10/each early bird status on Southwest Airlines did us no good when we were the last two people to board … even though we shunned the cheaper satellite parking and left our car in the expensive center parking lot. We made our way down the aisle to the back of the plane. Only middle seats were left. I have nothing against middle seats (that’s where I’m always parked) as long as Ray is beside me . . . because it is absolutely essential that I have a death grip on him during takeoffs and landings.
Turning around, we walked to the front of the plane where two men occupied aisle and window seats at the bulkhead. We must have looked pitiful, because, without our asking, the man at the window stood up and graciously relinquished his seat. I could have kissed him!
The only other time we almost missed a plane was on the last leg of a flight returning from Cancun with sister Lesta and brother-in-law Dick. We had a bit of a dust-up with security in Mexico when they unpacked my new embroidered tote filled with protectively wrapped purchases because they were curious about a souvenir at the very bottom. I blame the little guy resting on the tote in the above photo. (Click on photo for larger image.) Once the guard examined the small stone jaguar I had purchased in Tulum, he astonished Dick by following Ray’s admonition to carefully repack the tote in the same order.
We breezed through customs in Houston, flew to Chicago where we had three hours to wait until our flight to Kansas City. Dick and Lesta weren’t flying to California until the next day so we accepted their invitation to wait in their hotel room instead of at the airport. Near time to board the bus back to O’Hare, Ray — the only one among us who hadn’t been a victim of Montezuma during our two weeks in Mexico — learned that he hadn’t escaped the emperor’s revenge after all.
I frantically pounded on the bathroom door, exclaiming, "The bus is LEAVING!"
And Ray replied, "I . . . DON’T . . . CARE!"
A second bus took us to the airport with minutes to spare. We hurried to our gate where security agents decided they, too, needed to look at the jaguar at the bottom of my tote. Once they examined him, they left repacking up to me. I tossed my treasures in the tote and we took off running. Out of breath, we boarded our plane, found our seats, buckled in and were airborne.
Later, we speculated why my jaguar sparked so much interest from both Mexican and American security agents. I thought they may have suspected I was smuggling an artifact, but a law enforcement friend guessed that they believed I had drugs concealed in him. You would think security agents would recognize that I was too much of a goody-two-shoes to do either. However, I’ve never met a smuggler so perhaps they all look like me.
Click HERE if you would like to read a column about my first commercial airline flight.
For 15 years, I wrote a humor column titled Jest for Grins for my local Lawrence, Kansas Journal-World
newspaper.While I stay busy with speaking engagements, writing articles and books and serving as editor and primary writer of a newspaper for a non-profit agency, I really miss writing about the funny things life throws my way. This website allows me to do that.
I freely admit to being a control freak who wants to do things on my own, but my good friend Ruth has been a tremendous help to me. I kept trying to make this website perfect before publishing, but finally decided that was like waiting to have children until you can afford them: it will never happen. So here it is; you'll get to watch it improve.
If you develop into a frequent Jest for Grins visitor, you'll quickly become familiar with my usual cast of characters: husband Ray, sons Ray, Jr. (aka Butch) and Greg, daughters-in-law Linda and Valerie, grandchildren B.J., Gabe, Sammi and Zoe, sisters Lesta, Bette and Vicki, as well as a host of family and friends (not one of whom is boring). If the topic has the potential to be embarrassing to them, be assured that they read it and gave it their OK (otherwise, sister Lesta has threatened to sue me).
Marsha
newspaper.While I stay busy with speaking engagements, writing articles and books and serving as editor and primary writer of a newspaper for a non-profit agency, I really miss writing about the funny things life throws my way. This website allows me to do that.
I freely admit to being a control freak who wants to do things on my own, but my good friend Ruth has been a tremendous help to me. I kept trying to make this website perfect before publishing, but finally decided that was like waiting to have children until you can afford them: it will never happen. So here it is; you'll get to watch it improve.
If you develop into a frequent Jest for Grins visitor, you'll quickly become familiar with my usual cast of characters: husband Ray, sons Ray, Jr. (aka Butch) and Greg, daughters-in-law Linda and Valerie, grandchildren B.J., Gabe, Sammi and Zoe, sisters Lesta, Bette and Vicki, as well as a host of family and friends (not one of whom is boring). If the topic has the potential to be embarrassing to them, be assured that they read it and gave it their OK (otherwise, sister Lesta has threatened to sue me).
Marsha