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.
I call it Highway Robbery
See the switch in the above photo? It goes in our oldie but goodie 2005 Lincoln Town Car. The switch quit working. It would roll every window in the car up and down except the driver’s window which was stuck down. Stuck up might not be so bad; stuck down is. It’s hot out. We could get wet if it rains and it has been raining a lot. Also it’s noisy.
We called our favorite mechanic who recommended a glass company where he said he’d take his car if it had that problem. But they wanted $278 to replace the switch. That sounded like a lot for a job that I watched a Youtube mechanic do in 2:09 minutes so I called the dealership to see what the switch cost. He said it was $116 and change plus tax. Then I called the dealership again to see what they would charge to replace the switch. They said $197 and change plus tax. No wonder some people call them stealerships. Still, the Lincoln dealer was cheaper than the glass company.
Then I checked for the part on Amazon. Why didn’t I do that first? Long story short. I ordered the part yesterday. It arrived today. Husband Ray and son Butch replaced the switch in five minutes flat. Window works. Car is now cool, dry, quiet.
My guess is that the part I purchased from Amazon is made in China in the same plant or just down the street from the plant where the $116 part is made. What do you think?
Total cost to fix: $15.10.
We are blessed in Lawrence not to have the flooding that is occurring in Nebraska and Iowa. Nonetheless, we have had enough snow hanging around on top of the ground and rainfall usually seen only in tropical climates that our 950 foot gravel driveway is an absolute mess! It is such a mess that Ray got our car stuck in it . . . not once . . . but TWICE!
Try as he might, Ray couldn't free it from the muck. So he called AAA. The wrecker tried to back up our drive and got stuck. The driver finally managed to free the wrecker and pulled Ray partly down the drive. Ray drove to the highway, thanked the tow truck driver who drove off as Ray turned the car around and headed up the drive, this time driving on the zoysia grass bordering the drive, and got stuck AGAIN!
Called AAA once more and, because it was getting dark, a different driver brought out a wrecker the next morning. The driver parked by the road, refusing to come up the drive because he was worried he'd damage his hydraulics. Ray got his shovel and he, with a little help from the tow truck driver, dug through the grass in front of and behind the car. Then the tow truck driver put one end of a chain on our car and the other end on Guppy Rojo, Ray's little 4-wheel drive Toyota, and had Ray pull the car out backwards with his own truck. Meanwhile, the wrecker safely sat at the end of the drive.
Ray drove the car to our neighbor's who offered it a place to sit until our driveway was dry enough for Ray to repair it with Mr. Ugly, his tractor. Do you think it is odd that Ray names our vehicles? Well, I don't think it is nearly so odd as that — since we stopped driving our 1983 Cadillac Seville (I say stopped driving because, although we still own it, it hasn't been driven since 1995) — the four times we've used AAA tow it was because Ray had a vehicle stuck at our home. Once Guppy Rojo was stuck in the middle of the backyard and another time he (Guppy Rojo is a boy) had to be transported to a garage for repairs.
I'll leave it up to you. Do you think AAA should pay Guppy Rojo for the tow?
Back in the day when turquoise kitchens were popular, landlines were the only way to go. Hard to believe this turquoise wall phone hanging in our turquoise kitchen served our entire household consisting of two parents and two young sons. Later, we added an extension in the bedroom which we used primarily to answer late night wrong numbers. There were no cell phones then and it was years before we got one of those and a bag phone (remember those?).
In the days before cell phones if you had trouble on the road, you either relied on a CB radio (yep, we had one) or waited for a trooper or helpful motorist. There were also no medical alert phones or buttons. If you fell and hurt yourself, you had to hope you had the strength to crawl to the landline to call for help. My mother did that twice, calling me when she broke her hip and later when she broke her femur. The thought of her crawling to the phone in pain was almost more than I could bear and she finally gave into our pleas to get a medical alert button.
I made many mad dashes into her home after med alert personnel called me on my landline to say Mom needed help. My favorite call was from Mom herself who said, "Marsha, they keep saying I am pushing the button to say I need help, but I'm not. I can't even find it." So I drove into town and a frustrated Mom met me at her door in her electric wheelchair. It didn't take long to find the alert button. She was sitting on it.
Our current landline is connected to eight phones. The base phone on the desk in the kitchen has five walk around phones scattered throughout the house. There's a wall phone in the family room downstairs, a fax machine in the office and my favorite phone: Garfield the Cat. His eyes are closed in the photo, but when he is in use, his eyes are wide open. I will surely keep Garfield in my office even though he won't be usable as a phone just because he is so darn cute.
Because this post is about phones, I'm going to tell you my favorite phone story. Our friend Jack coveted a wooden antique wall phone, but was never able to bid high enough at auctions to buy one. Then one day he saw an auction ad in the paper that listed 30 antique phones. He was certain that, with so many phones to sell, he would surely be able to buy one.
The phones were beautiful, all 30 of them. Only one thing was lacking. Not a single phone had a receiver.
No worries. Jack figured if he bought an antique phone, he could find a receiver somewhere. But it was not to be. The same man outbid him on every phone, smirking when the auctioneer gaveled sold. There was only one item left for sale: a big unopened cardboard box. Jack didn't want to go home empty handed so, having no clue what was in it, he bought the box on the cheap. He opened it as soon as he acquired it and inside were 30 receivers for antique phones.
The man who bought all the phones looked at Jack and said, "I suppose you're going to try to hold me up on the receivers."
"Nope," said Jack.
"You're not?" the man asked in surprise.
"No," said Jack with a smile, "they're not for sale."
Perhaps someday all our landline phones will be worth some money. Just in case, I'll keep the receivers with them.
As a child, I purchased my pencils from Leo Beuerman and tried to talk to him. But Leo couldn’t hear me. He was born a crippled dwarf, had limited sight in one eye, was blind in the other and lost his hearing when he was a child. He sat in his little red cart on the sidewalk in front of various businesses in our town and supported himself by selling pencils and repairing watches.
He drove into town each day from his home in the country on a specially-designed tractor that carried his cart. My father said Leo was a mechanical genius and I believed him. I was never afraid of Leo. I doubt any child was because, despite his appearance, he wasn’t a threatening presence. We simply pointed to the pencil we wanted, gave him money and he counted out our change. He once wrote that children were his best customers. Adults, he said, turned away.
In 1998, I was on the board of our county historical society and suggested we offer the public a showing of Leo Beuerman, a 14-minute Centron Films documentary that had been nominated for an Academy Award. The showing was free, but I insisted on reservations. The museum director thought that was unnecessary, believing we’d be lucky to get more than a dozen people to watch the film. Reservations totaled 180, a standing-room-only crowd, and when people without reservations showed up, Ross Wulfkuhle, who owned and operated the 16-millimeter projector, and Trudy Travis, who wrote the script, offered to stay for a second showing.
Shortly thereafter, I wrote an article about Leo for the Kansas City Star’s STAR Magazine. If you would like to see additional photos and read more about Leo, including the serendipitous positive outcome when a ruffian jerked him out of his cart one night when he was sleeping in a service station and robbed and badly injured him, please click here.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I am not smart enough to have a smartphone. I hate owning a device that knows more than I do. This thing does everything except pop popcorn . . . or perhaps it does and I just haven’t discovered that yet.
Why am I so late to this technology? For years the hubby and I have made do with low-tech cellphones that merely made and received calls and texts because we couldn’t get a signal in our home and used said phones only on the road.
Back in the day, we had a bag phone and cells that worked in the house, but that was before we added a stone-coated, steel roof to our stone- and steel-sided home. The only way we could make calls with our cells was to stand outside on the front porch or back deck and that just isn’t practical in steamy summers or freezing winters.
The first problem I had with the smartphone was finding the power button. I didn't have a 4-year-old nearby to explain it so I consulted the manual. Later, while fooling around with the smartphone in the car, I called IT son to show I could at least make a phone call, then I couldn't figure out how to hang up. I powered off the phone and turned it back on only to receive a callback from him. Seems I had pushed enough buttons to hang up, then accidentally called him again. I asked how to end the call. Easy-peasy. You push the red phone icon to hang up. Who knew?
Son and family who gave me the phone for Christmas visited and I asked for a crash course in usage. Wow! This phone gives a heart-rate reading that looks just like an EKG and monitors the oxygen in one's blood like an oximeter. It keeps track of my steps like a pedometer and also allows me to keep track of calories, sleep and exercise.
It has a night mode that darkens the screen like our GPS. I turned it on but couldn't figure out how to turn it off because it is very difficult to read small white writing on a black screen in the daytime. Worked that out after a couple of days and only wish I could remember how I did it.
Have you ever been doing something (I was on Facebook) on your smartphone when it rang and you couldn't figure out how to answer it? IT son helped with that: "Mom it will come up at the top of your screen and you can accept or decline the call."
Someone smart thought of that idea which is a very good one. I've decided to keep playing with this phone and maybe, just maybe, I'll get smart enough to use it. Hope, they say, springs eternal.
OK, so the other woman is a cat, but Ray is smitten nonetheless. And his love is reciprocated. He pets; she purrs. That is quite a change for a feral cat who arrived on our deck last spring thin, hungry and afraid . . . very afraid. So afraid that even when Ray was holding out his hand with food she badly wanted, she wouldn’t approach him. If he attempted to move closer, she backed away.
But he persevered and finally she took food from his hand. While she accepted food, she would not allow him to touch her. But that was then. Now she delights in his touch, but still will not allow me to pet her. She may have nine lives, but she has one heart and she has given it to Ray. And he has given her the name Cupid "because she is so sweet."
Tell that to granddaughter Zoe, a certified cat charmer, who attempted to approach Cupid at a recent family gathering. Cupid reacted to her charms by jumping off the deck which is sans stairs and ten feet above the ground. Zoe was astounded. "She committed suicide!" she exclaimed in horror.
Cupid’s home base is our deck. Four jumps up one of the big cedar posts and she’s up; one long jump and she’s down. Ray has not mentioned bringing her in the house and it’s a good thing he hasn’t because that is not happening . . . not because I’m jealous of his other woman, but because she has claws! Two screens to the deck, one from the living room and one from our bedroom, are shredded to prove the effectiveness of those claws. When warm weather returns, he will re-screen them and affix clear Plexiglass to the bottom halves of the screens so she can’t repeat her destructive action.
Cupid is an outdoor cat and that is where she will stay. She comes and goes at will. The first morning she didn't greet Ray, he was sure a coyote had killed her, but she sneaked in during late afternoon like a guilty teenager who had missed curfew. In summer she sleeps on a padded chair on the deck which she hasn’t shredded (she apparently prefers screens) and in winter she sleeps in her cozy kitty house with a self-warming bed that reflects her body heat.
Cupid loves Ray so much she even bought him a Christmas gift which shows the depth of her love for him. At least I'm convinced that she would have bought it if she had a credit card and access to the Internet. So I confess to purchasing it for her. Fact is, other woman or not, I love Ray, too.
I have the best family! Even when I get a cockamamie idea to take a family photo in front of Nancy and Jim Yonally's Jayhawk tree in 30-something degree weather with a bitter wind blowing creating a 20-something chill factor, they go along with it. The fact that we aren't blue in the photo is because Nancy invited us inside to thaw out.
Seven of us braved the weather. Eight if you count our intrepid photographer and good friend to all of us. Such a good friend that Greg's kids call him Uncle Steve. Our immediate family of ten was missing three members, all of whom had good excuses: Butch's wife Linda was ill, grandson Gabe is presently in Oregon with his maternal grandfather and granddaughter Zoe is still busy with classes at Truman State.
I planned to Photoshop those three in but doing so proved beyond my capabilities. So I included them in the picture the best way I could. We plan to take another family photo at the Jayhawk tree in the Spring. If we are missing only one in that Spring photo, I can Photoshop them in (two or more, it's back to milk cartons). I am proud of my limited Photoshopping skills as evidenced in the photo below of Gabe and his friend Miriam who lives in Arequipa, Peru, but I learned it is a long tedious process and one person is all I can add with any confidence.
Gabe taught English in Arequipa part of last year and this, and plans a trip to visit Miriam and her family in January as a Christmas gift from his parents. We're doing our best to make Miriam, who is a lawyer, a Jayhawk so she can get a graduate degree at KU.
Stay tuned for the Goff Family Spring photo. Let's hope it doesn't rain. Been there, done that and it was still better than freezing.
A long time ago, I won a national contest for an editorial I wrote. How long ago? Well, in the news release of the win I was described as a “housewife,” not the now politically correct “homemaker.” It is a worthy occupation, but it has been a long time since that word alone has defined me. Oh, and Jimmy Carter was president.
What made me resurrect that long ago opinion piece is the recent Veteran’s Day recognition and a Facebook post in which I mentioned it while responding to another post. In the event you wish to read it, I have copied “Of Women and War” below.
Of Women and War
Marsha Henry Goff
President Carter’s call for registration of draft-age youths has sent chills of fear up the spine of every mother I know. Put two or more mothers together anywhere — from the bridge table to busy offices — and the topic of conversation is the same: The chances of their sons being drafted.
My friend, Darlene, says the Army will not take her son because of his football-injured knees. Betty’s son has bad eyes. Jean’s son suffers with asthma. Jody’s boy has one flat foot and she hopes it will keep him out of the service. Such physical defects, once ignored by mothers in favor of reporting their children’s academic progress or athletic prowess, suddenly are regarded as attributes.
Mothers, such as I, whose strong, healthy sons are obviously 1-A classifiable, are pitied and consoled by the others. I suspect that each of us heretofore lucky mothers wonders why her son cannot have a health problem — nothing major, mind you, just some small ailment that would keep him off the battlefield and safe in school.
We fear war because we know it. Even those of us who were very young during World War II have personal recollections of that terrible time. My father fought in Africa and Europe and our living room was dominated by a huge map of the area. Mother listened to the news on the radio and moved colored pins on the map to correspond with American and enemy positions. Every Christmas I asked Santa to bring my daddy back. Oh, I remember!
During the 1960s, my friends and I sweated out the Vietnam War with our husbands. As a wife, I worried that Ray would be sent to Vietnam. Then I worried whether, if he were, and if he were disabled, I would have enough love and strength of character to take care of him for the rest of our lives. I remember the trepidation I felt each time JFK or LBJ announced a new call-up of troops, and I recall my relief when Ray was designated III-A instead of 1-A. Yes, I remember!
Daughter, wife, mother. How vulnerable are we women at different stages of our lives. How afraid we are that our fathers, husbands, sons will be torn away from us and sent to places far from the protection of our love.
Yet we have an inner core of steel, an endurance that we can call upon when we must. I know this is so because, while going through my father’s papers after his death several years ago, I found a V-Mail letter sent to him during World War II’s darkest days by his mother. He was her only child, but she wrote a letter in which no trace of fear or doubt is evident. Her letter is one of love and pride and confidence that her son would return safely from battle.
It is a beautiful letter, one that makes me admire my grandmother’s courage. Still I pray each night that no mother ever again be obliged to write one like it — in English, or Russian, or German, or Chinese, or . . .
I have always been fascinated with chainsaw carvers, those artists who can take a big chunk of wood and turn it into a piece of art. Usually, I have watched them in Colorado carving bears, raccoons, foxes and a variety of other critters and birds. It is amazing to watch someone take a felled tree and saw it into something beautiful.
Dan Besco, dba Kansaw Carvings, is licensed to create Jayhawks, the mascot of The University of Kansas. If you have been living under a rock and aren’t aware of the bright primary colored bird, you haven’t been watching college basketball, where the mascot struts his stuff on courts throughout the USA and occasionally abroad. Big Jay has a small sidekick, Baby Jay, who may or may not be a female. However, the student inside the small costume is typically female between the height of 4’11” and 5’1”.
Besco created the Jayhawk tree from the remains of a gigantic white mulberry tree. He was commissioned to do so by Nancy Yonally who saw it as a way to honor her parents, David and Margaret Shirk. Margaret, who grew up on the land where the tree stands, lived to be 100 years old, half the age of the tree she loved.
If you would like to read the entire story I wrote for Amazing Aging and see detailed photos of the carvings, click HERE.
Nineteen years ago this month, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. October is a bad month for that diagnosis because it is Breast Cancer Awareness Month and you can’t get away from it even if you want to ... and believe me, I wanted to! Pink ribbons and pink bracelets are everywhere, newspaper articles and TV stories urge women to get mammograms and literature is handed out in churches, grocery stores and even on the street.
I do not remember the exact date I was diagnosed, nor do I remember the day I had an eight-and-a-half-hour surgery. The date I do remember is the first scheduled surgery date — October 18 — which I discarded because my father had died on that day 26 years earlier. I am not superstitious, but I knew my mother could not handle me having surgery on that date. My decision made the agonizing wait from biopsy to surgery almost a full month so, to take our minds off the upcoming operation, Ray and I traveled to the Ozarks and met four good friends there. As I wrote in my column, “Sometimes you must change your latitude to improve your attitude."
Here's the thing about me. I can be open about my life (if you have visited this website a time or two, you already know that), but I'm very private when I'm in the midst of a crisis. Only my family and two very close friends were told of my upcoming surgery. Then, when it was all over, I wrote the column and shared the experience with friends and folks I didn't even know. Think it is hard to write a humor column dealing with cancer? Think reading it would be a bummer? If you're game, click HERE and answer your own questions.
Not knowing in advance upset a few close friends who read about it in the paper. One friend who served on the United Way Board with me thought the column titled "Humor can lighten the darkest days" was a joke, although why even I would joke about such a situation is pretty far-fetched.
But I didn't stop at the column. I interviewed a couple of cancer researchers at the KU Medical Center and delved deep into everything I could find about breast cancer regarding cause and treatment. If you want to read that article, click HERE. You didn't get a chance to read it in any of the women's magazines I sent it to. It was before the Women's Health Initiative halted its study early because it concluded that the overall health risks from the estrogen/progestin combo substantially exceeded the benefits. Said women's magazines all have multiple pages of full-color ads for those very same medicines. While I understand the economics, I often wonder how many women might have been helped by the article.
By the time the study was halted, I was mad and busily writing opinion pieces on the issue which I also couldn't sell. However, the WHI study shutting down did make me want to send a four-word sentence to the women's magazines that had turned down my earlier article: I TOLD YOU SO! Click HERE if you want to read my rant entitled "Just say WHOA!"
I've given you a lot to read, but, after all it is October so I will leave you with the following thought:
I was blessed with lots of funny uncles on my mother’s side of the family. Not those kind of funny uncles … just the kind who provided great stories for me to write about. Mom had six brothers and five sisters (all but one of whom married). But the uncle that Ray and I were talking about at dinner tonight was Uncle Lloyd, the husband of my Aunt Vera and very special to us.
Uncle Lloyd was the mayor of his small Oklahoma town of about 300 people whose main street on Highway 33 was about two and a half blocks long. At various times, the town had a garage, café, movie theater, drug store, hardware store and not one, but two, grocery stores. And a bank, central to our dinner conversation about Uncle Lloyd, who was friendly and helpful to a fault. Oh, you don’t think one can be too helpful? Read on.
He had business at the bank, but noticed that a young man, parked at the curb in front of the bank, was desperately trying to start his car. Uncle Lloyd grabbed the battery cables out of his truck and asked if he could give him a jump. The man gratefully accepted and, once the car started, thanked Uncle Lloyd profusely and quickly drove away.
Uncle Lloyd returned the battery cables to his truck, retrieved his deposit and headed into the bank where he found the tellers and a couple of customers tied up on the floor. Yep, what a friendly town it is when the mayor starts the car for the man who had just robbed the bank. Helpful to a fault, right?
Does that mean you have to keep it? What about if you’re buying cat food and treats? Oh, and cat toys, too? A kitty house guaranteed to be waterproof? Even if it’s not? How about a padded cat mat that reflects the cat’s body heat and keeps the little feline toasty in the coldest weather?
I contend that Ray started it by naming the stray Cupid. “Why Cupid?” I asked. “Because she’s sweet,” he replied. Next thing I knew he was buying her cat food. So I bought her some salmon cat treats. Then I bought cat toys: a jingly plastic ball she won’t play with and a green and white furry mouse with a long tail that she also won’t play with. What does she play with? The ties on the lawn chairs. The same lawn chair she’s trying to sleep on in the photo below if I’d quit turning on the light to take her picture.
She actually went in the house for a couple of nights, but it rained and — not being waterproof although it was advertised as such — it got wet and she doesn’t trust it anymore even though I Scotchguarded it and Ray has a plastic trash bag tied around it. The lawn chairs are going back to the basement for the winter so I hope she’ll try the house again with the warming mat so I will stop worrying whether she’s too cold.
I’ve pretty much stopped worrying that she’ll get pregnant. Ray has always been confident that she’s spayed, but we thought the last stray — Miss Kitty — was pregnant, only to find out she was a neutered male. The reason I am accepting that Cupid may be spayed is because my friend Laura, noticing her damaged left ear (the point is cut off), said that many shelters pick up feral cats and spay and release them after docking an ear so they won’t mistakenly pick them up again.
One thing we do not have to worry about is that she can’t climb away from coyotes. Miss Kitty was declawed; Cupid is not. We know this because she can climb up on our stairless deck ten feet above the ground. The shredded screen from the living room doors to the deck is further evidence. Thankfully, she has yet to discover that there is another screen on the doors leading to the deck from the bedroom.
Cupid is definitely Ray’s cat. The minute he is anywhere near her she starts purring and rubbing against his legs as a signal to be petted. I think I just answered the question I started this post with. Yeah, we have to keep her.
Those who know me are aware that I do not post my political opinions on social media. Oh, I have opinions and love to express and defend them in a civil debate, but I have observed that one cannot have such a debate on social media. This post is not intended to be political, although it may be perceived as so by some, but here goes.
Not all women are liars; not all women tell the truth. Not all men are liars; not all men tell the truth. I have met a few men who are pigs and a few women who are witches. That doesn’t color my view of all men and all women. Certainly not all men are predators, nor do they defend those who are, although some women currently ranting on television appear to think so. I refer specifically to the female senator from Hawaii who told the men of this country to “Shut up and step up!” I’m guessing men in her state stepped up to vote for her. I wonder if they will next election.
A couple of decades ago when I was on our local United Way board, we visited a battered women’s shelter for allocations hearings. That was unusual because they kept the location secret (not that you can actually do that), but they required money for needed repairs they wanted us to see. The women who resided there were not in residence. Nonetheless, the men were not permitted to go upstairs where repairs were needed because, according to the shelter’s director, their very presence — even when the residents were gone — would taint the space. I do not know if the men were embarrassed, but I was embarrassed for them, so I joked, “Is this where you separate the sheep from the goats?”
This I know. Whether the allegation of sexual misconduct levied against a man is true or not, he is forever tainted by the charge. If it is true, he deserves it. If it is not, the seed is planted and his reputation is ruined.
And concern about male sexual misconduct starts early. Remember the little bespectacled 6-year-old boy who sneaked a kiss from his female classmate? He was suspended from school for his heinous action. When I mentioned to my mother’s cardiologist that I thought it was ridiculous to suspend him, she said indignantly, “If it had been my daughter, I would have killed him.” She wasn’t kidding. Of course she wouldn’t really have killed him, but her outrage was real.
I was born liberated and grew up as the eldest of four daughters in a home where our parents told us we could do anything or be anything if we worked hard enough. My lawyer father taught us to look at both sides of an issue and not to make up our minds until we had all the facts. I once wrote that our family had the same dinner table debates as the Kennedy dynasty (no servants, though). We were encouraged to state our opinions from a young age and be prepared to defend them. Mainly, we were taught fairness. And fairness doesn’t mean believing someone just because of his or her gender.
I’ve been on this particular soapbox a long time. After a long ago column titled “Let’s hear it for the boys” was published, I received email and calls from some pretty angry women, one of whom asked, “Would it be okay if girls just went away?” I said, “Of course not. After all, I am a girl.” If you would like to read the column that made her so angry, click here.
Grandson Gabe has a degree in theatre from KU so when I saw the following YouTube video of the guy on the weather channel (#fakenewseverywhere), I wanted to share it with the Gabester. We have a similar sense of humor and this is what ensued on Facebook.
Marsha Henry Goff: And the Oscar for best acting in a hurricane goes to . . . the Weather Channel! Watch behind this thespian.
Marsha Henry Goff: Hey, Gabriel Goff, perhaps you should go into weather reporting. Who needs meteorology classes? Your degree in theatre will do nicely. After all, you did win the "Best Physical Actor" award!
Gabriel Goff: Marsha Henry Goff "Well Cuomo!!! I've spent the past half hour in the horse stance that Chuck Norris-sensei taught me to keep from getting blown away by the Nature Death Force!!! I'm also having to speak in a very loud voice because if you look behind me, Florence is summoning sound barrier-breaking tornado demons all around!!! if you look out to the East Side!!! You can see Moses trying to hold the hurricane at bay with his awesome God Stick!!! And I -- OH LORD THE WATER IS GETTING RED!!! This storm is next level!!!" *dramatic death faint* End scene.
Marsha Henry Goff: Gabriel Goff O.K., forget acting. Go into script writing. You're a GENIUS!
Marsha Henry Goff: O.K., Gabriel Goff, I had to look up Cuomo in the Urban Dictionary: after rivers cuomo. used to describe nerdy indie rockers. ... Top definition. Cuomomusic ... Get a Cuomo mug for your bunkmate Yasemin.
Still don't understand it, but I know what it means. Does that mean I'm hip? Do you need to look up hip?
Gabriel Goff: Marsha Henry Goff You read too much into it. Cuomo is this guy on the news that Grandpa likes to watch. He was reporting on the storm, that's why I used his name.
Marsha Henry Goff: Gotcha, Gabriel Goff. Chris Cuomo. I know the names of all the talking heads on every network (even the long-departed old and dead ones), but somehow, I don't think that makes me hip. I always look for a deeper meaning in your writing. Like I said, GENIUS! G'nite now.
Two years ago I had the great good fortune to be assigned to write a story about Katie Sherrow for Topeka SR Magazine. Then an active and vigorous 95-year-old, in her youth as a “Rosie the Riveter” she helped win World War II by repairing planes damaged in combat. “Sometimes, as you viewed the blood stains and bullet holes, you felt very close to the war zone,” she said. She also helped build aircraft, including the Constellation — a troop carrier and the largest plane Lockheed manufactured — as well as the P-38, a fighter plane.
Katie and Pat Martin, who became fast friends while playing competitive softball as young women, have become adopted family to Ray and me. Both are active, fun-loving, kind-hearted and have the greatest senses of humor. Recently, when a repairman attempted to leave their house, he was surprised to find that the door was locked. “Yes,” said Katie with a wicked grin, “when we get a man in here, we try not to let him out.”
For years, they operated a greyhound breeding and training business on the acreage where they live outside of Topeka. Each morning before heading to their respective jobs, the women would get up at 4 a.m., muzzle the dogs and train them by allowing them to chase jackrabbits which they purchased for $5 each. Katie once shot a badger that was threatening the greyhounds in their pen. “She locked me in there with it,” Katie says, pointing to Pat. “I locked the gate so she wouldn’t go in there with the badger,” Pat explains, “I didn’t know she was already in the pen.”
Katie hasn’t changed much in the past two years, nor has Pat. They work hard and play hard, although bingo and casino visits have now taken the place of softball. “Katie the Riveter” and her friend Pat continue to live fulfilling and productive lives. We hope they live forever!
I have absolutely no idea what this squirrel is doing, but he did it for about 15 minutes. I thought perhaps he was catatonic. Then I decided he was stretching before his morning jog. I am used to seeing squirrels upside down on the bird feeder or stretching from the deck railing to the feeder, but this guy (could be a gal) held a position I had never seen before.
I checked to see if he was looking at Ray's new stray acquisition, but the cat was not in sight (did I mention Ray has named her Cupid?). The photo below is the way our squirrels normally stretch. Ray recently was watching a squirrel doing this stretch when it lost its grip and fell to the ground. Here's the thing about squirrels: they can fall or jump from great heights without hurting themselves. They can also swim. Know how we know? Because one day Ray went out to fill the bird feeder and startled a squirrel who ran across the railing to the far end of the deck and sailed far enough off the end to land in the water garden. What a photo that would have been!
Our new stray cat is a calico and unlike our last stray — Miss Kitty renamed Paul — we are confident that this cat is really a female. Why? Because I just learned that only one calico cat in 3,000 is male. It has to do with the X chromosome which determines color: females (XX) have two X chromosomes and males (XY) have only one, so a female kitty can have orange and black patches while a male can have only one of those colors.
Also, the rare male calico cat (XXY) is usually sterile, only one in 10,000 being fertile. I wish that were true for female calico cats. Ray believes this cat has been spayed because it appears to him that the hair on her belly has been shaved at some point. I'm thinking that perhaps cats' bellies always look like that. After all, we thought that Miss Kitty was pregnant only to learn that she — er, he — was a neutered male.
Another dissimilarity to Miss Kitty is that this cat (as yet unnamed) is scared and unfriendly. Miss Kitty loved to be petted and tried to get in the house every time a door opened, while this cat won't come close even if Ray is holding food she badly wants. She is either a feral cat or has been abused. I'm pretty sure her damaged ear was the result of a cat fight which makes me worry again that she might have kittens. I don't mind buying food for one cat and worrying about her, but I don't want to worry about an entire litter.
Miss Kitty was declawed and I do not think this cat is since she can climb 10 feet up to the deck. And that is my other worry. Notice the above photo of her. Then look at the photo to the right to see what she is looking at so intently. Here's the thing: Cats gotta eat . . . but they don't have to eat birds. Especially our birds. And especially when we are buying her cat food and giving her chicken (that's a bird) out of a can.
When son Greg and family gave his dad this charming little fountain, we thought the birds would love it. Not only is it pretty, but the water falling into the metal cups makes a melodious sound we enjoy when the outdoor temperature allows us to have the doors open to the deck. That hasn't happened lately with temperatures hovering near 100.
This morning, the heat was too much for the robin pictured above. He splished, splashed, ducked his entire head in the water, and shook the water off like a wet dog. He was still so wet when he left, I thought he might be too waterlogged to fly. I'm guessing he will share his experience with feathered family and friends and they'll have a pool party tomorrow. There's room for 17 and if they show up in force, I'll snap a picture of the gathering.
It's simply not fair that we have to drive to Clinton Lake to see foxes! A resident of Clinton told me this little fox pictured above was one of about four litters. She said these foxes aren't afraid of people or dogs. The dogs chase them and the foxes think it's a game.
We live in the country, but the only live fox I ever saw in our vicinity was one running across the highway. The others I saw never made it. Our house on the hill is surrounded by seven and a half acres which is plenty of room for a vixen to be producing litter after litter. Perhaps our lack of foxes is because we don't have a dog for them to play with.
Even my friend Martha, who lives in the city, has a fox frequenting her neighborhood. She complains about it. I, on the other hand, would be putting out dog food for it and Ray would likely be giving it meat scraps. He feeds the coyotes. Why not a cute little fox? I'm pretty sure he'd even name it.
We're headed out to the lake in a while so maybe I'll snap more pics. Enjoying foxes vicariously is better than not enjoying them at all!
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
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.
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.
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 ).
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.
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).