SHOTS

I read that Penicillin was invented during my lifetime. Must've been real early, because I remember those penicillin shots! The doctor came to our house (yes, I guess that was a long time ago), and if I needed a shot, he and my parents had to hold me down - all 40 pounds of me. He had big old hands with lots of black hair on them. I hated those hands!


Maybe it was then, or maybe it was at the health department, that I learned not to look at the needle. I hated the health department, too. Back then (yes, I guess I am old) I only had one smallpox shot and three polio shots. (The sugar ones came along the year after I finished my series.) But those yearly typhoid booster shots went on, and on, and on. People reminded me how lucky I was to have those wonderful vaccinations.

I was paranoid. Right after I got a typhoid shot, I started dreading the next one and built up a year's worth of fear. My cousin loved to pick on me. He was studying to be a doctor and should have been more humane, but he pulled out a needle one time and chased me into a corner of the house and laughed at me as I went ballistic.

I got brave enough to look at the needle when I was a high school graduate and had to have a blood test. I fainted.

But I conquered the fear (with a lot of divine help) and can watch the nurse draw blood without even flinching. After all these years, I still feel proud as a pumpkin, too!

NORTH AND SOUTH

There are accurate answers and there are right answers. When our daughter was about three or four, we were on an airplane. She was sitting in her dad's lap and he was entertaining her. Pretty soon I saw him point out the window on the left saying, "That's west," then the right window saying, "That's east."

They played for a while, and I heard words like "north" and "southwest." Pretty soon he decided to quiz her, knowing she had caught on. He asked her, "Now which way are we going?" Without a blink she pointed to the front of the plane and said, "That way!"

She was right!

LIMERICK

.


     Legs like a battering ram,
                            
     A lunge and a quick body slam,

                       Eyes wild with a demon,

                       Blood curdling screaming --

          

         For eardrops, cats don't give a damn!


.

SPEEDY THE GOLDFISH

Written when my daughter was 12.

I bought a goldfish for Susan four years ago, and she has changed the water in the little round fishbowl weekly. So for her birthday this year I got her one of those new-fangled aquariums. Very small - just big enough for one goldfish.

We assembled the aquarium and I found some seashells to put in it instead of the recommended gravel. The fish started turning black. Within a week, he was ready for intensive care. I took a water sample to the closest pet store, which was 1/2 hour away. I came home $30 lighter with ten capsules of medicine for the black fungus growing on the fish, two bottles of something to treat the water with, and a bag of gravel - with strict instructions to get those salt-water seashells out of the tank!

A week later, I took another water sample to the pet store. "How much do you feed this little guy?" the clerk asked. I answered, "Oh, we just throw in a pinch or two of fish food whenever we pass by the tank. The fish loves it. He practically taps on the glass when he sees us coming." The clerk said, "Well, you'll have to stop feeding him so much. One flake of food every day or two is enough."

Another week passed, and I took another water sample. The fish's fungus had cleared up and he was livelier than ever. But the water was still saturated with decaying food. "How often do you change the water?" the clerk asked. "Never!" I replied. "I bought this fancy new aquarium so Susan could stop changing the water." "No good," he said. "Your filter aerates the water, but the food still decays. You'll have to siphon a couple of inches of water out every week and add fresh water."

I came home with a plastic tube and showed Susan how to siphon water. She said she wouldn't suck fish water out of that tank for all the gold in China. So I did it. A week later I took another water sample over to the pet store. The clerk said at the rate I was going I might have the tank water freshened up in oh, say, a year. I'd better break the whole thing down and start over with fresh water. I did it last week, and the fish is lovely. I have to go to the pet store to test this new water today. Anybody want to buy a goldfish - cheap?

SIGNS, SIGNS, EVERYWHERE A SIGN

You must understand - I'm a sucker for puzzles. Not just jigsaw and Sudoku, but anything that needs figuring out. Like when I plan a big dinner. I figure out every detail and write it down (then I hide my list because people have been known to laugh at me). I plan which night to make the jello, when to put the watermelon in the fridge, when to thaw the chicken, what time to put the potatoes in the oven to bake, what time to cut down the heat and put the chicken in the oven and what time to cut it up again for the rolls, what time to put the casserole in the microwave, what time to get the pickles out, and when to take the butter out to soften.  I just love these challenges.

So it was inevitable that I would get excited about naming the signs for a program we are planning at church. My fellow committee members don't know what's coming because they don't know me too well yet! So far I have come up with more than thirty signs. YIELD for Christ was the easy one. I've heard it before. But I got some good ones:

BUS STOP - "Wait for the Lord."

WATCH FOR FALLING ROCKS - "For I am about to fall."

SLIPPERY WHEN WET - "The law of his God is in his heart; his feet do not slip"

CAFETERIA - "Taste and see that the Lord is good."

U-TURN - "Return to me and I will return to you."

Do you want to hear more? Never mind. There's no time left. I have to go make a list of places to call about a new printer and update my To-Do list.  So I'll be back to tell you another story tomorrow, as Uncle Wiggily says, "if the rooster doesn't crow and wake me up before I have time to put a clean dress on the lollypop so it can go to school."

HAPPY’S OBIT

In the ‘60s, there was a vacant desk near the door, and my dog Happy slept under it much of the time. At that time, Ruth Wells was writing for the paper, and in her column, entitled “Well! Well! Wells,” she wrote the following obituary when Happy died:

“The Times Office will never be the same. Happy is dead! Happy was Margaret’s pet dog, but she was also much more than that. About press time, Happy was usually at the office. She came to the front door and gently let her presence be known. Always entering like a lady, she came in to the ‘run of the shop.’ After making the rounds to see just what everyone was doing, she usually stretched out to take a nap in the hall, the most out-of-the way place she could find. Nor did she desert, no matter how late the midnight oil was burned. I hope there is a newspaper shop in the Happy Hunting Ground. If so Happy is at the front door, taking a nap and standing guard at the same time.”

My sister and brother-in-law's dog TG went to the Happy Hunting Ground today. TG stands for TGIF, and we called her "Teej." She, like Happy, gently let her presence be known. She'd walk over to you to be petted, never licking you or jumping on you. Her tail was a little dangerous, but you got used to that. She didn't exactly "beg" at the table, but you knew she was waiting. Although she survived many family cats in her lifetime, she did have a problem the day they brought home a life size concrete dog and put it on the front porch. But she learned to live with him, too.

I'm sure Teej and Happy have met by now in the Happy Hunting Ground and are running around like puppies again!

Suth'n Tawkin'

When I lived in Wisconsin, I could genuinely say, "When I speak, people listen." Unfortunately, it was because of my Southern drawl, not my wisdom. I'd be paying my bill at the grocery store and if I said anything - just one word - everyone around turned to stare at me. I felt like an alien!

Then we took a trip to St. Louis. At a gas station, someone saw our license plate and asked, "Where in Wisconsin are you from?" I told him, "Green Lake,” but he looked at me kind of funny, like I had some 'splainin' to do. So I'd say, "I talk funny because I'm really from North Carolina."

We went on to Alabama. A waitress there asked, "Can I take yawls'es order?" Right on! Yesss! I let my barriers down and started slurring vowels and stretching syllables, and soon forgot I had ever been a vocal misfit.

Driving back to Wisconsin, we stopped at a hotel in Kentucky. Warm air and leafy trees made me feel I was still in the South. I ordered a drink at the bar, then headed for the pool. Later, my husband ordered a drink at the same bar and the bartender said to him, "Your wife was in here a few minutes ago." The vacation was over. We were a pair of vocal misfits again.

TEMPTATION

My Bible study book says, "Temptation distracts us from being what we are meant to be in God's eyes." Yep.

I think I am meant to be part of our church - a contributing member of a group of awesome people. So when there's a church picnic (I love picnics) you'd think I'd remember it! Nope. I had a garage sale instead.

I also believe I am meant to be a writer. So when our website is getting designed, not only do I push aside my sewing group (awesome people at church I want to get to know better), but I also skip writing this blog for a few days. Missing rungs on my ladder to fame.

Maybe I'll learn to face those temptations head-on one day, recognize them as what they are - distractions - and quit taking the bait! But, as Lane Olinghouse said, "Those who flee temptation generally leave a forwarding address."

And if you want to find out who Lane Olinghouse is, stay tuned. I'm still trying to find out myself! So I'll leave you with a quote from good old Uncle Wiggily, who said, "Next, if the gum drop doesn't fall down stairs and break the lollypop's stick, I'll tell you about Sammie and the eggs" - or in this case, Lane Olinghouse.

MOVING

(This was written in Green Lake, WI, in 1988.)

Yes we're moving again. We just got here three years ago and I'm just now becoming familiar with this state and town. Now here we go to St. Louis. Did you know that Wisconsin has some of the lowest car insurance rates in the country?!

Moving means having a garage sale AND an open house. Now you tell me - how in the world can I do both? I'll clean out the closets first, then I'll find a place for the junk (magically) until the garage sale, then I'll clean up and get ready for the open house.

Meanwhile, I have to go to St. Louis again to look at the school systems, house hunt, work out a new budget, and make decisions about insurance. And as if my life weren't complicated enough, I had to buy TWO new sets of tires last week, plus shocks. (The car's shocks, not mine!)

As school draws to a close, our children look forward to summer camp. How in the world am I going to get one child to a Wisconsin camp in June and one child to an Ohio camp in July, when I don't know when I'll be in Wisconsin and when I'll be in Missouri?

If we move to an apartment in Missouri temporarily, there's the family dog to consider. Perhaps I can lose him at the garage sale, or at least en route between camps or something.

GARAGE SALE

I went to bed Friday night wondering if I should participate in the neighborhood garage sale Saturday morning beginning at 7 a.m. I had some furniture in the garage to sell, but did I have anything else? Before midnight I had thought of at least twenty more items I could part with, so at 5:30 I dragged George out of bed to help move furniture from the garage to the sidewalk. He kept fussing, "Let's just call Good Will and give it away."

Not being one to take the easy way out, I proceeded with my project and hauled about twenty loads of stuff out of the attic, through the house and garage, and down the driveway. Thank goodness it was all downhill! By 6:30 I was filthy & sweaty, and the crow I was beginning to eat wasn't so good either.

George, sweetheart that he is, insisted on sticking this out and stayed with me on the driveway all morning. But he was still fussing about the furniture not being worth a dime. I said it was worth at least $100 for each piece. He bartered me down to $100 for the two large ones and $50 for the two small ones. Long story short, by the end of the sale, I was down to "Make me an offer." George knew to keep his mouth shut.

Our neighbor took pity on us old folks and helped us haul it back into the garage at noon, at which point I was filthy and sweaty again. We made $38.50, and it took me two showers, the loss of a chance to sleep late on Saturday morning, missing a church picnic, and sore muscles. But it was worth it (I justified to myself) because I got some good photos of the furniture so I can sell it on Craigs List.

We've got a new follower!  Thanks to everyone for following my blog.

RAKING HAY

(This story was written as told by a great story teller, my father-in-law George W. Clark. This took place at a dairy between Garner and Raleigh.)


Some things it looks like you can do, but it doesn't work out that way.

When I was in about the eight grade, I was working for Dr. Lawrence's dairy. Dr. Ben J. Lawrence was a well known doctor in Raleigh and one of the best surgeons I reckon there was at that time in North Carolina. He had the dairy, I think, as more of a hobby than anything else.

Tom Jones was the farm manager. We called him "Uncle Tom." It required putting up a lot of silage and a lot of hay to tend to all the dairy cattle. We had to do that in addition to milking and feeding them.

We were raking hay one day in what they called the "lower farm." It was down below Garner, and the dairy was between Garner and Raleigh. We had mowed down a 15- or 20-acre field of hay. Back then we stacked it instead of bailing it. We had an old mule-drawn hay rake with two wheels. It was about ten feet wide. It had a series of prongs that let down against the ground, and when you started raking hay you'd rake it until those prongs filled up with hay. Then you'd hit a latch on the side of your seat for those prongs to raise up. They'd raise up and dump that roll of hay, and then it would go back down. You'd go on another little ways and it would fill up with hay, and you'd dump it. That's the way you raked the hay up. Then you'd come along and load it on the wagon and carry it to a stack.

On this particular day, it went to clouding up. The terriblest thing that could happen would be for it to rain on freshly mown hay. We hadn't stacked any of it yet. About that time, Dr. Lawrence showed up in his '38 Ford Touring Car. He was sort of fidgety about the clouds. His son Ben Boy had come with him that time. Ben very seldom ever came with him.

We had a colored [Pop's word, not mine! He considered it to be a respectful connotation.] fellow up there raking the hay. It was a slow process. The old mule didn't walk too fast. Dr. Lawrence was just as fidgety as a cat on a hot tin roof. He was just all over the place. He had a walking stick. He didn't need the walking stick to walk with, but he had that stick. That was something special for men of importance back in those days, to have a walking stick whether they needed it or not.

He was walking all around there with that stick and slinging it in the air, carrying on and gesturing. Things just weren't going fast enough to suit the Doc. So he finally told Tom Jones, "Uncle Tom," he says, "unhook that mule from that hay rake and let's hook it to the Doc's car. We'll get this hay raked on up!"

Well, he got the thing hooked to the car. He took the old colored man off the rake, put the rake behind the car, and put his boy Ben up there on back to operate the rake. Well, that boy didn't know a thing about operating a rake, but he was up there anyhow. And of course the Doc was going about ten times faster than that old mule would go. And he was looking backward near about every breath. He took out around that dang field, and he was looking back, and every breath now he says, "Dump, Son! Dump! Dump! Dump, Son!"

Ben couldn't hit that latch fast enough. And some of the times it would gather so much hay up under those prongs that the rear wheels of the rake would climb off the ground. The Doc was running so fast we could hear him all over the field, "Dump, Son, Dump! Dump! Dump! Dump!"

He got around the field and got back up to where the wagon was that we were going to load the hay on. And Ben Boy says, "Daddy, you get up here and let me drive. I can't dump this thing. You get up here."

Ben Boy went to driving the car and Doc got on the rake. He had that walking cane, and he wore that split tail white coat that doctors wear, you know. Ben Boy took off with him around that field - and he went a whole lot faster than the Doc had! That hay rake went to filling up with hay, and Dr. Lawrence couldn't dump it fast enough. He was up there just carrying on.

From about the second or third time he dumped it, from there on around the whole field, the wheels of the rake never touched the ground. He went to hollering, "Stop, Son! Stop! Stop! You're going to kill the old Doctor! Stop!" He was running so fast that that split tail coat was straightened out with the wind behind him. There wasn't anything but a little old biddy iron seat to sit in, and he was holding on to the side of that thing. He'd given up trying to dump it. "Ooooooo, Son! Stop! Stop! You're going to kill the old Doctor! Stop! Stop!"

When they got back around there to the wagon, the Doc said, "U- U- U- Uncle Tom!" He said, "U- u- u- unhook the rake from back of the Doctor's car. I see now it ain't gonna work. Y'all go ahead and rake the hay with the mule. Me and Ben Boy's going to go to Raleigh." And they got in the car and left.

Of course, we did our own thing about raking and stacking the hay.

PRETTY HOUSE FOR SALE

(This house was in Green Lake, WI, in 1988.)


We just put our house on the market [please remember - this is a story from 1988! We're not moving!] and I've turned into a housekeeping fanatic. "Lunatic" might be a better word. I've cleaned, I've scrubbed, I've painted the purple bathroom, I've cleaned out closets. Last week the realtor said, "Someone wants to see your house today," and I went into fifth gear with broom, vacuum, and mop, after which my son Fred walked on the carpet with muddy shoes.

Then there's the yard. I sure wish the house had sold when there was snow covering the ground. Now I have to keep the yard as clean and neat as the inside of the house. Fred goes behind me replacing sticks and rocks where he wants them, repairing his forts for his G.I.Joes. I use the hose to water the grass seeds. Fred uses it to make an ocean in my terraced planter.

Maybe it will sell before June, but I think I had better move Fred out ahead of time!

VALENTINE'S DAY AT SCHOOL

(This is dedicated to my grown son, Fred, whom I did not kill.)


Last Thursday night I had to take my son Fred to the store to buy carnations. At school, the kids order carnations for their friends for Valentine's Day. I had lent him the money two days in a row - and still no carnations. Driving home, I said, "We'll have to find a box to put the flowers in so they won't get broken at school tomorrow."

"Box!" he cried. "I just remembered! I have to make a valentine box for the party tomorrow!"

"I'm not turning back for construction paper, "I said, thinking of the cookies I still had to cut out and bake. Fred's bedtime was an hour away. I sent him off to do his homework. When I was taking the cookies out of the oven, I heard my husband's frustrated voice: "Your mother knows how to do this creative stuff. Maybe she can figure out how to make a truck out of a box." Fred wanted a semi for a valentine box. I postponed cleaning up the kitchen.

With plumber's tape and scissors, Fred and I assembled a semi that was three feet long and a foot high and covered it with typing paper and tissue paper. It looked pretty good. I said, "Now you have the valentine box ready, so everyone will have something to put their valentine in."

Fred said, "Everyone's bringing a box. It's a contest."

Fred went to the kitchen and saw the as yet un-iced cookies and said, "I'm supposed to bring cupcakes."

I said, "Tough turkey."

Next morning I showed Fred the seventeen valentine shaped cookies - for sixteen students and the teacher. Fred said, "What about Miss Z?"

"Who's Miss Z?" Apparently, Fred had two teachers now. Someone would go without a cookie. I had a feeling it wouldn't be Fred.

Fred said, "I have to take my skateboard to school today. Can you drive me?"

Sure. I had to get the semi there, anyway. Into the car we packed two skateboards (don't ask), a semi, a box of flowers, sixteen valentines, seventeen cookies, a bag of candy, and, of course, school books. I helped carry the stuff in, and as I left, he ran out calling, "Mom! Can you bring me a pop? I forgot we were supposed to bring our own pops for the party." But I didn't hear him.

I hope someone shared a pop with him at that party.

SWEET THIRTEEN

(This is dedicated to my grown daughter, Susan, whom I did not kill.)

My 13-year-old daughter is a dingbat. One morning this week, as I made her bag lunch, she walked through the kitchen asking, "Where is my shoe?"

"Shoe"? I asked. I looked down and, sure enough, she wore two socks and one shoe. I knew I would get a battery of insults if I suggested that it was probably within three feet of where she found the one she was wearing. So I tried to reword it and asked, "Where was that shoe?"

She returned to her source, searched, reappeared, and said, "It's not there. Where is it?"  I regretted having to tell her that the revelation had not come to me during her absence. But I did agree to make her toast while she continued searching.

As I buttered her toast, she arrived, fully shod - and wearing my sweater. She asked (a little after the fact, if you ask me) if she could wear it today, and I said "NO!" It was then that she flipped out.  In the first place, I was mean and selfish. And in the second place, I hadn't done the laundry. And, thirdly, I hadn't ironed her shirt from the last laundry day (which was really my shirt).  She stormed back to her room, fussing and slamming drawers. I could hear this from the kitchen. Then I heard her in my bedroom complaining loudly (not quite yelling) to her dad, "Mom hasn't done the laundry!"

I tried to stay cool, sitting down to eat breakfast and hoping my husband was properly defending me. I resisted the temptation to bite the bait and go for her throat. 

Pretty soon, she entered the kitchen buttoning a wrinkled shirt. I asked, "Why don't you wear the clean sweater you wore last night?"

"It doesn't match these jeans! I would never wear that sweater with these jeans!" I must have been insane to suggest it.

The school bus came. I held the door open and watched Susan buzz through the house in search of her coat, then bolt out the door. I slammed it with a few choice words.

My husband peeked around the corner looking perplexed. I laughed. "She's thirteen." I looked at a note she had left for me the day before. It said, "Love, Suzi," with a big heart drawn around it. My heart warmed. However, I did not retract the Mother's Curse: "I hope you grow up and have a daughter who acts just like you do!"

FRESH VEGETABLES

I've been slack the last couple of days putting new stories on this blog. It's this crazy website stuff! I finally got a million pictures uploaded Monday - and they found them yesterday. My fault, though. I was supposed to let them know I uploaded them. This whole thing is a learning process - or more like "trial and error"!


Of course, going to the Farmers' Market and cooking fresh vegetables also delayed my muse. Had tomato sandwiches for breakfast today and yesterday. (That worm didn't eat too much.) I got cantaloupe, watermelon, peaches, corn, green beans, peas, cucumbers, and tomatoes. This for two people! Not sure how we're going to eat all of them before they rot. Or how our digestive systems are going to recover!

Got to get busy. I smell those spare ribs getting done!

WEBSITE CRAZIES

Six years in business and we're on our third website. Why? Just masochists, I guess.

The first was when we were "Window Graphics." It was just George and me back then, and he let me handle the details. I worked with the webmaster, and it turned out great. Then we moved and our kids joined the business, and we commenced to create a new website. How many Clarks does it take to screw up a website?!

We hired a web designer. Poor guy didn't have a chance working with a family with three stubbornly opinionated arguers. George, our level headed leader, stayed out of it. The result was a website none of us liked. Except George. I don't remember why now.

Six months ago, Fred (the son in this sometimes dysfunctional mom-and-pop business) spent days, nights, and weekends learning to get into the website and make the changes we wanted. It went well for a while, but he ran into problems. Too many cooks in the kitchen again.

We recently hired a large company to design us a new website. They will give us instructions so we will have the capability of changing our pictures and adding pages to the website ourselves. They say it will be "easy." Hmmmm. Our daughter Susan picked the layout. Fred threw up his hands. George continued to observe quietly. I'm in charge. (And if you believe that, well….)

Wanna know how this turns out? As Howard Garis said in one of his Uncle Wiggily stories, "Well you shall have it if the alarm clock will stop ringing its bell and making the back steps run to the front door."

KIDS ON THEIR OWN

KIDS ON THEIR OWN


(A story I wrote when the kids were small.)

I left the house at 6:30 Wednesday morning for a meeting. My husband was out of town. That meant the kids were on their own - and they weren't even out of bed yet.

When I returned, they were standing at the mailbox waiting for the bus, with their coats on and their books and lunch bags in their hands. Boy was I proud.

I pulled into the garage and walked up the driveway to kiss them goodbye. The two frowns that met me would have frightened away a lion. One was mad because I had taken the other shopping yesterday. We talked and (hopefully) got things straightened out.

I hugged them goodbye and caught a whiff of the Italian beef I had bought for their lunch sandwiches. "Good," I thought. "They found it."

We heard the bus coming, and I got shooed away. It wasn't as if I was in my pajamas or something. Why would it embarrass them for me to be standing there when the bus stopped? I sometimes don't understand the workings of the adolescent mind. In fact, I never understand!

I started to head back to the house, then circled back just so I could hear them scream and see them frantically wave their arms for me to "Go back! Go back!" After harassing them about three times, I went back into the house laughing.

In the kitchen I put down my car keys. There on the counter were the remains of two slices of pie - one pizza and one cherry. PIZZA! CHERRY PIE! For breakfast?

I suppose I'll never know what was really in those lunch bags.

LAWYER'S POCKETS

(Story told by my brother-in-law.)

Early on in our marriage, we went to visit the in-laws. As the women were catching up on their talking, my mother-in-law's lawyer friend said, "Let's get out of here." Relief! We drove around a while, then landed at a restaurant. Very upscale. The type you didn't enter without a suit or sports coat - which we obviously weren't wearing! I'm thinking, "Does this guy think I'm loaded or something?" He told me to get one of the jackets out of the trunk. Fortunately, we were about the same size.

After dinner, good old big spender lawyer friend stood up, said he was going to the restroom and told me to get the tab! There I was, abandoned with only my credit card. Heck, it would probably be maxed out at this place! I thought of how mad my wife was going to be when she found out her grocery budget was spent in a fancy restaurant because of her mother's lawyer friend! I noticed I was breaking out in a sweat in his nice coat. Served him right!

Then he said, "Oh. Just check the pockets." Sure enough, there was money in every pocket in the coat. Plenty of it! I kept finding more and more of it.  The waiter just stood there with his mouth gaping.

I left a disproportionally generous tip!