Where Have All The Tricks Gone?

Unfortunately, I'm part of the generation that witnessed the birth of political correctness. The generations before me were too busy fighting wars and surviving depressions to entertain the luxury of whining whenever someone expressed a negative thought. They sucked it up and moved on, folks today want to whine everything into conformity. This is the result of giving kids trophies for being losers- they think they should always be made to feel good and if something makes them feel bad about themselves it should be done away with. We have bred a nation of weaklings. I'm glad this isn't the generation that had to stand up to Hitler- hash tags wouldn't have won the Second World War.

You could get away with a lot more funny business back then. Sometimes this wasn't a good thing, but for the most part I think it was. People could be funny without fear, men could compliment women and kids could take peanut butter to school. Let's look at Halloween as an historic example of a time when people could be incorrect and get away with it.

Halloween used to be more fun- and safe; kids could run the streets without the fear of ending up on the back of a milk carton. Nobody complained about this or that costume hurting someone's feelings. People were mature enough to understand that if so and so dressed up in an offensive costume then that was their own bad taste. It didn't hurt anybody, it was just unpleasant, but hey, so are a lot of things- deal with it. So they dealt with it. People appreciated freedom much more and would not consider taking it away from someone due to a tacky error in judgment around the holiday season. Especially if alcohol had been involved.

People also understood the concept of Halloween more clearly. When people go trick or treating they ring your bell or knock on your door and say, "Trick or treat." We seem to have forgotten that this gives us options. We don't have to mechanically hand out expensive chocolates to kids that ride bikes through our flowers the other eleven months out of the year. We can strike back. And that is just what somebody did.

The following is an absolutely true story.

My grandparents knew a man in the small town they lived in. This man felt kids were generally a pain in the neck and decided to have some fun at their expense. Halloween night comes around and he's ready at the door with their treats.

Ding dong! "Trick or treat!" the kids demanded, excited about getting free candy from a person they cared nothing about.

"Hi kids! Here you go, here's your treats!" he said with a big grin, plopping the homemade goodness into their bags. "Some for you ... and some for you ... and for you." He made deposits into each child's bag, taking pleasure in their horrified faces with each scoop. Plop ... plop.

"Mashed potatoes?!" one of them cried out in alarm.

"Yes! Mashed potatoes!" he agreed. "What's wrong, you don't like mashed potatoes?"

This guy could be part of the reason parents do go trick of treating with their kids, now that I think about it. Sure, there are creeps out there who dress like clowns; and worse, if that's possible. But who wants to pay for child therapy because some loose screw dumped mashed potatoes all over their kid's Halloween candy? Of course, no one got therapy back then, you were told, "That's life," and you soon learned that that was life and you'd better get used to it. I'm starting to wonder if this guy wasn't performing a public service.

But; because parents rarely went trick or treating with their children back in those days, he was able to keep it going. This probably lasted until the kids got word around that night: "Stay away from mashed potato guy." But he clearly had his fun at their expense, no one called the ACLU, people moved on with their lives and another year passed.

Kids forget, kids move, kids get older, but the roster of kids in a neighborhood is constantly changing. And so, the next Halloween, kids came to his house.

Ding dong! "Trick or treat!"

"Hi kids! Here you go, here's your treats!" he said smiling, just like the year before. Plop, plop, plop went the treats into the bags held by excited faces. Faces which quickly turned downcast as they witnessed the abomination being tossed in with their precious candy.

"Broccoli?!"

"What's the matter, you don't like broccoli?"

That was it, his house was marked as the house to never go to again. Ever. His house was also never vandalized or toilet papered. Who would dare desecrate an asylum? You never knew when the crazy person would come out and chase you down.

 (Probably not the actual house)

The following year the kids were all avoiding his house. He had to call out to some of them to get them to come to the door.

"We're not coming to your house! You give out broccoli!" they hollered back in disgust.

"No kids! No broccoli, no mashed potatoes! I've got good treats for you this year! Come look, I've got ice cream!" His argument was persuasive.

"Ice cream!" they shouted, running toward his house. They crowded around the door, holding their bags open in anticipation of an ice cream sandwich of maybe a fudge bar.

Plop, plop went the ice cream into the bags. Drippy, runny scoops of ice cream right out of a container splatted into bags of candy with a gratuitous chuckle. The original Good Humor Man.

"Oh man!" they groaned retreating from his house. "You're crazy!"

And maybe he was. Or maybe he just had a great sense of humor. I never met the guy and I like him. I think I still have time for a trip to the produce department before the kids start coming to my door.

I Really Am A Materialistic Jerk

Back in 2006 my grandparents flew my wife and I out to New York State to bless us with a new car. Our little clunkers had been nickel-and-diming us for years and we had no savings. They wanted to buy us a car so we could set a little money aside and not have to constantly live paycheck to paycheck. I was flabbergasted; It’s not every day you get a phone call like that. Before I knew it we were off to New York to get our new car.

My wife is Mexican and had never been to Nueva York. She fell in love with the trees. It was fall and the leaves were changing. My grandmother thought it was funny that my wife wanted to pick up and keep every leaf she saw; red ones, yellow ones. In Tucson, we are used to dirt, rocks and cactus; it was a welcome change to see colorful plants that don’t fight back.

 A picture from Syracuse.com shows how beautiful New York is in the fall

Unfortunately, the time in New York was kept short due to us having to be back to work. We took a long weekend and burned rubber from New York to Arizona, driving about 16 hours per day. Thanks for the new car guys, bye!

We drove away in a 2007, Jewel Red, Chevy Impala. Buying the car had been a mind-blowing whirlwind. We were only in town a few hours, maybe a day, when Grandma asked if we had any cars in mind. We left to check the local lots and quickly found the little beauty we now own, shining in the sun. Grandpa, who we all called Uncle Kurt; which is another story I'll explain another time, stopped the car and my wife and I got out to check the price. I was thinking there was probably no way this was going to happen. We quoted the price to him and he announced, “That’s in our range!” And that was pretty much it, less than an hour later I was the bewildered owner of a new car.

The trip back was uneventful except for a few things, like almost getting killed and my wife having strange medical issues. We managed to make it to Erie, Pennsylvania and eat lunch at a lakeside restaurant, when my wife suddenly developed a rash. Lumps and bumps broke out all over her body and she began to itch like crazy. She took a Benadryl and that was the last I heard from my wife for 12 hours. As she sat drooling and snoring in the passenger seat I admired the beautiful Pennsylvania countryside, wishing she were awake to enjoy it with me. As the trip progressed she developed swelling in the legs from sitting too long. You could make a dent in her ankle flesh and it would just stay there. Besides being creepy, it’s also dangerous; we had to keep her hydrated and get her legs up as often as possible all the way home.

I’ll get to the almost dying in a minute. First I want to tell you about the most disgusting motel in all of America. After driving for 16 hours we were in Illinois, it was close to two in the morning and I needed to stop before I fell asleep at the wheel. When what to our wandering eyes should appear, the 5 Star Motel. I looked online and found a picture of the actual sign. It looked a lot more foreboding at 2 a.m., here it looks like a cheerful example of Americana.

If I were wealthy I would consider buying the place just to demolish it. Being poor, I can only consider a late night arson attempt. After paying, we went to our room. We opened the door and an odor lunged out to assault us. My wife used to smoke, I asked her to light up just to try and kill the stench. It didn't work.

We turned on the lights to get a better look at our little oasis. Remember orange shag carpeting? If you didn't live it, you can get a look at a disgusting, matted, threadbare version of it here. This carpet was installed back in the 1960s or 70s and had never been shampooed. Trust me, the tests came back and this is a fact. It was trampled flat, but you could see the outlines of various pieces of furniture that had once stood in different places in the room and had been moved. The carpet was festooned with patterns of orange squares and rectangles from the ghosts of dressers past, mixed with intriguing black splotches and stains. I think I could almost make out a faint, thirty-year-old outline of a body from a crime scene.

The walls were covered in ancient, and cheap, wood paneling that was popular during the era of The Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour. Old, forgotten thermostats- yes, plural- that no longer functioned adorned the walls. I’d never seen a cast iron thermostat before. On one wall, a three inch screw protruded from the paneling for no obvious reason. Their version of a coat rack? I mean, you wouldn't dare to call yourself 5 Star without a coat rack, screw ... thing, for your guests convenience.

The lamps had cracks and holes in the shades, but surprisingly they worked. It would’ve been better if they hadn’t. The beds were covered with cigarette-burned blankets and comforters that, upon looking at them, didn't give us any comfort. The stains on these will not be discussed here except to say that there were plenty of them. The only thing that could improve the overall appearance of this room, short of demolishing it, would be blindness.

The bathroom wasn’t that bad; I considered sleeping in there, but it was too small for both of us and the cockroaches and that would not have been fair to my wife or the roaches. I’m sure even the roaches would not have appreciated being kicked out of their cozy bathroom to crawl around in the filthy bedroom. Keeping our clothes on, we lay on the creaking bed and gravity pulled us down to meet in the sagging center. Obviously, the mattress was as old as the carpet, maybe older. This may have been mental, but as we lay there in the dark, gagging on the noxious stench, we began to feel … things … crawling on us.

“Are you itching?” I asked her.

“Uh-huh, this is disgusting.”

As I said, my wife is from Mexico, and once lived in a little one room house with a dirt floor. I’ve been homeless and lived in a tent at one point in my life. So it’s not like we are picky people, we just want to be able to breathe and not catch something terminal from the sheets when we lodge somewhere.

As if all this wasn’t enough, the room next to ours must’ve held the boilers or heaters or some kind of plumbing because suddenly deep groanings, clankings, gurglings, and other sounds associated with medieval torture devices, started penetrating through the walls.

That was the last straw, I decided to brave exhaustion and drive to the next motel, campground or Walmart parking lot if necessary. I had reached a point where falling asleep on the interstate would have been an acceptable alternative to staying at this motel. I went in to get our money back and upon stating my many and varied reasons why, the mild mannered lady made the confusing statement, “Well, it’s clean, it’s just old.”

My jaw hung open in disbelief; I actually felt sorry for her just then. I’d hate to see this lady’s house if she thought that was clean. I guess if you vacuum a decades-old stain then it technically becomes a “clean” stain in her world; it no longer has fresh dirt on top of it. Just like all the blanket stains were “clean” stains. Maybe she was blessed with the blindness I spoke of earlier.

We drove on to the next town and mercifully got some sleep.

I did mention the almost dying right? Even though you would think I was referring to the motel, something even more life-threatening happened after driving through New Mexico all day. New Mexico is a weird place; the state motto is The Land of Enchantment. They are the home of Roswell, enormously long interstate speed traps and the world's first atomic bomb detonation. Alamogordo landfill was the site supposedly chosen by Atari to bury any existing copies of their biggest flop of a game: E.T., a rumor that was proven true by a group of nerds dedicated enough to track it down and uncover them. You can read about it here: Alamogordo Landfill

New Mexico has a strange vibe to it; you feel it when you enter the state. I think this is from the brainwaves of the all artists and pseudo-spiritual people that live there affecting the atmosphere in a way that you can literally feel. Kind of like the non-existent bugs we felt crawling on our skin at the 5 Star Motel. Wait, now I'm starting to sound like I'm from New Mexico. Moving on...

We were just getting near to Arizona when the weather turned foul. The sky got dark and it started raining, nothing too bad, but then my wife motioned out her window.

“Is that a tornado?” she asked, nonchalantly.

I glanced that way and saw some low clouds, but no tornado, “I don’t see one,” I replied.

Just then hail began hitting the car; small, pea sized clumps of ice. It started slowly.

“Oh, man!” I said. “I hope this doesn’t damage the car!”

It began to hail harder, so I pulled over. Then it got harder and faster. It picked up in speed and intensity until we were enveloped in a deafening roar of hail the likes of which I have never experienced before or since.

It was so loud, my wife was crying and screaming something to me, but I couldn’t hear her over the tremendous noise of thousands of hailstones hitting the steel and glass of our new car. I was afraid the windshield would shatter at any second.

To my shame I have to admit that I was more concerned for the new car than I was for our lives. I was praying to God that the car wouldn’t be damaged; we still hadn’t insured it because of the time frame of the trip and thinking that nothing could possibly happen on the way home. Boy, were we wrong.

The monumental roar of the hail continued for what seemed like a full minute, then stopped. On the car’s dashboard thermometer the outside temperature had dropped from the 80s down to the 40s in that short period of time.

I stepped from the car into a vast icebox. As far as I could see there were inches of hailstones covering the ground. Vapor from the ice wafted lazily into the air. It was, as they say in New Mexico, enchanting. I looked at the car. The pretty car we had left New York with now looked like a jewel red golf ball; dents covered the entire top of the hood, roof and trunk. At least the glass all around was intact; a miracle actually, not one piece of glass or plastic light was damaged. I ventured over to check on another car that had ended up in the ditch while my wife called 911. The people in the car were okay and were waiting on a wrecker to arrive.

When I got back to the golf ball my wife told me that the 911 operator said a tornado was in the area and we needed to leave as quickly as possible. A little late to the party, but thanks, 911 lady.

Our agent wouldn’t cover the damage since we hadn’t gotten the car covered yet, and we had just called him that day inquiring about setting it up, go figure. Mercifully, Uncle Kurt paid for the repairs.

The car has been a blessing. There were times when I thought it might not be, but it hasn’t sucked our money away like the old cars did. It’s only recently needed a new battery, along with the regular oil changes. and has enabled us to save some money.

Now, if I can just remember to pray for what’s important.

The Huber Ridge Riot

Do you remember what it was like to be in 5th grade? I'll bet most of you can name your best friend from 5th grade and you probably remember the name of the teacher you had a crush on. I had the world's most beautiful teacher; Miss Ontrop. Miss Ontrop bore a strong resemblance to Wonder Woman; she had the same hourglass figure and the same dark hair- 1980s hair. I miss the women’s hair styles of the 1970s and 80s; the women's hairstyles back then looked feminine and elegant. My memory could be skewed considering I was a hormone-fueled, pubescent boy, but the nostalgic part of me feels that feathering needs to make a comeback.

I met my best friend in 5th grade and we have been lifelong friends ever since. We have shared many adventures and crazy times together, as well as a love for Miss Ontrop, but the story I want to share today was a real riot.


Back when I attended Huber Ridge Elementary, a school lunch was thirty-five cents; forty-five if you wanted an extra milk. You didn’t get all the choices kids get now: a la carte, salad bar, balanced meal, vegan, paleo, lactose intolerant, low-carb, etc. You got a faded-green, Melmac, prison tray with little square depressions to plop the food into and something that usually resembled food served on it.

Most of the time the food was in a recognizable shape: pizzas, hamburgers, or maybe chili, with tater tots and a dessert; and I’m sure there were vegetables. Vegetables, the bane of children worldwide, are the easiest part of school lunch to forget about. There was corn, I know, and I seem to remember Lima beans; which I actually like, but we usually didn't give the vegetables much thought, they were ignored and we tossed them in the trash can. There was one notable exception which I'll be getting to in a moment.

Miss Ontrop would line us all up for lunch and we would obediently march down to the cafeteria, pass through the line, get our tray and our milks and sit down for a typical 5th grade lunch of verbal abuse, potty language, taunting and needling. The teasing got so bad once that I distinctly remember another boy telling me, "Oh yeah, well you live across the street from Frankenstein!" The shame and horror of such an address! The only reason I remember this verbal assault is the fact that my best friend and I were laughing so hard about it we were crying. The poor kid ended up feeling ashamed at his own choice of criticism. People paint hardened criminals in a bad light, but they're nothing compared to kids. Children fool people with their cute faces and angelic smiles, when in reality they are merciless barbarians; eager to step on the necks of the vanquished.

One day in particular we came out of the line and were walking to our tables when we saw it, right there on our trays. It looked unearthly. It was square. It was gray. It was purple. It was gray and purple. It jiggled and appeared to contain ... vegetables! It had a translucent quality, enabling you to catch glimpses of cabbage, onions, carrots and other violations of the Children’s Ingredient Convention trapped within its quivering structure. Someone; probably the lunch lady, but it could’ve been one of those secret, NSA, black ops groups, had tried to get one over on us by combining Knox gelatin with vegetables. It was obviously a twisted attempt to fool us into eating something healthy. The red cabbage had stained the bottom half of our portions purple, which then gently faded to clear gelatin at the tops of the little squares, giving them a gruesome and decidedly unappetizing appearance.

Being a cook, I have since noticed that a trend of that era was to make Jello molds of practically everything and call it a Jello salad, the irony of which is not lost on vegans. I wouldn't eat this now as an adult that likes vegetables and I find it hard to believe that someone seriously offered this monstrosity to children, but yeah, it happened.

I can only imagine the lunch lady was thinking, "Oh, they’ll love this!" She was excited that she could finally use the recipe she got from Moonbeam at Woodstock and thought it would be a huge hit with the kids. Unfortunately for her, this was before drug testing or she may have been stopped during the hiring process and avoided being tagged as The Evil Jello Lady for the rest of her life.

Fifth graders are not only a merciless lot, they are also prone to mob mentality when under extreme stress. Like being faced with food from Planet X. I don’t know who started it, but somebody said, “Boo Jello!” Then another kid said it; and another; and another, and soon it was like being at a Cleveland Browns game when the ref blows the call, minus the profanity.

“Boo Jello! ... Boo Jello! ... Boo Jello!” A chorus of more than one hundred voices cried out in unison. Our teachers had the stone faced look of prison guards during a riot at Attica. My friend, Joel and I were at that awkward age when boys can crack up about practically anything and this was even funnier than being told Frankenstein was your neighbor. We were laughing hysterically, others were laughing and chanting. Some kids began rhythmically banging their trays on the table. Teachers were getting furious. It was one of those great moments of education that public schools are known for.

This went on for several minutes until Miss Ontrop opened up a can of Wonder Woman and started yelling at us all to shut up. In her full fury, her voice easily rose over the din of several classes of kids gathered in the lunch room and combined with the ferocious look on her enraged face we all fell silent. Finally under control, we were marched back to our classroom and politely informed, “WE DON’T YELL IN THE CAFETERIA WHEN WE DON’T LIKE THE FOOD! THAT WAS OUTRAGEOUS!!!” This was the only time I saw Miss Ontrop’s face turn such a dark red, the veins popping out on her forehead with spit flying out of her mouth, and I’m glad; murderous rage takes the luster off of the boyhood crush.


We were threatened that our parents would hear about this, but I don’t think they ever did. At least I don’t remember any punishment or even a conversation with my parents about it. That seems odd, but knowing my parents they would’ve wondered why on earth they were feeding us experimental food anyway. Then the embarrassing topic might have arisen as to why the teachers couldn’t control a group of young kids and before you knew it, the public school system would have had to start explaining itself. Our public school system is having a lot of problems lately. All those public schools closing in your area? You can probably trace it back to some Jello that was served back in 1979.

The 1980s- Old School Meets New Fangled

The 1980s were a great time to grow up. It was the era of baseball and bicycles, Atari and computers; a mixture of old and new as history collided with the future. For better or worse, we would have to wait and see, but all these new gizmos held such promise. Mostly, they promised to make our lives easier and more efficient. I doubt anyone envisioned people sitting around in their underwear eating cheese doodles and surfing Facebook as the ultimate goal of modern technology, yet here we are.

There was a time in the late 1970s and early 80s when groups of people would gather at someone's house to watch in amazement as two white lines tried to contain a moving square on a TV screen. Simple blips and bloops were the soundtrack to this first home video game: Pong. People didn't even have to be playing, they were content to merely sit and watch, astounded by the new technology available to them and the world. The Pong console was quickly surpassed by the Atari 2600 and a song dedicated to Space Invaders, one of Atari's most popular games, got regular airplay. Technology had instigated not only an industrial revolution, but a cultural one as well.

We stayed up all night playing Berserk, Breakout, Kaboom!, Missile Command and Donkey Kong on my Atari. My best friend spent hours memorizing the patterns of Pac Man so he could get the high score at the arcade. Looking back, it’s all so primitive now; pixelated images on a screen that held our attention for hours at a time while we guzzled Pepsi and scarfed pizza. Modern games have the look of a highly produced film and are nearly impossible to control if you’re from my generation- unless you’re willing to spend hours reading the instruction manual that comes with each new release. My son makes me look like a bush leager whenever we play a game together. He takes great delight in carving my electronic avatar into numerous pieces with his lightsaber or shooting me from a hidden location before I can even say, “How do I move forward?”

I can beat him at Madden, maybe … sometimes. I’d like to see his face if I broke out with the old vibrating football I had as a kid. “C’mon son, let’s play! What’s that look for? Yes, I really used to play with this for hours; your dad is even more lame than you thought. You see, what you do is,  you try and complete a pass by sticking the little foam ball on the quarterback’s hand and then flicking it down the field toward your receiver. If you hit him, you've completed the pass, but you’ll never hit him in a million years so just run every play." As kids playing the game, we would line up all our guys on offense and defense and then turn the game on and watch the little dudes vibrate around and never get anywhere. This was marketed as being fun. "Countless hours of family fun," was the catchphrase used in commercials of the day, obviously targeting imbeciles. Actually, it was only fun when you would turn up the game until the neighbors could feel their own floor vibrating and the teams were jolted off the field. That was fun!

Imagine the reaction if you took away a kid's PSP and gave him an old, handheld electronic football game. “Okay; get ready for this unbridled excitement, you move these little red dashes around and that’s football. Don’t look at me in that tone of voice; I’m serious, and with this one you can run and pass.” Even with the wonderful, new technology of our day we still had to use our imaginations and pretend that we were playing football. There were no touchdown dances for our little red lights on the screen. And it was still addicting. Electronics had found their way into our minds and hearts even in their most primitive forms.

Speaking of primitive, my friend got a Vic 20 for Christmas the year they came out. Remember the Vic, with 20 K of RAM? The Wonder Computer of the 1980s? William Shatner used to advertise it on TV. It was the first  computer to ever sell one million units. The stuff of Science Fiction had become reality in our homes. As an optional expansion pack you could buy a little plug in; a peripheral, they were called, and add another 2K of extra RAM memory. Here's a commercial I found on Youtube:

Hey, we all have to start somewhere; right? Without these humble, 20 K beginnings you wouldn't be reading this now. It was only a dream to one day save up and get the Commodore 64, with; you guessed it, 64 powerful K of RAM.

K, that’s funny isn’t it; K, as in kilobyte? Then, before you knew it, Megabytes took over the memory world and now it’s all about the Gigs. They say the Eagle Moon Lander had about as much memory as a modern cell phone. And I read that fact back when most of us had flip phones, not the portable computers we carry around now. It seems scary going all the way to the moon with computing power so feeble you can't even post about it on Facebook.

We would stay up for hours programming the Vic 20 only to get a syntax error. Syntax is an ancient Greek word that translates to: waste of time. We endured for eight hours, painstakingly typing basic language gibberish, only to get that reward on the screen at 2 AM. Let that be a lesson to all you kids out there. When your parents tell you not to stay up all night it's because they know that only bad things happen after midnight; things like drug overdoses and syntax errors. And even then we were pretty sure the big payoff would’ve only been; wait for it … one dot shooting a dot at another dot in a game called Hunt the Wumpus. I’m not making this up and I wish I were. I wish I could say I wasn't that gullible as a kid to spend eight hours grasping at such a feeble dream, but back then it was all new and exciting. The blurb for programming Hunt the Wumpus sucked us in, the description sounded incredible; something about seeking out mythical creatures in the bowels of the earth with only your courage, bow and arrow and sword by your side. We never got it to work, but I found out five minutes ago- thanks Google- that Hunt the Wumpus was actually a text based game. It didn't have graphics, you just answered questions about choices you could make by typing them in and hitting enter. Meaning we would have programmed a pathetic version of a Choose Your Own Adventure book. We could have saved time and just read an actual Choose Your Own Adventure book and enjoyed ourselves a lot more.

Now how is this for irony? We could have read a Choose Your Own Adventure Book called Supercomputer:

The plus side to this would have been reading stories about computer programs that actually worked.

 

The Vic did have lots of cool sound effects, like bombs dropping and explosions that could be programmed with a countdown timer to work as an alarm clock. The effects could also be programmed to run on a continuous loop by adding a command to return to the first line of programming and start reading all over again. One time this was programmed into a Vic 20 on display in a store by some teenagers looking to harass and annoy everyone within a 100 foot radius; one of the first cyber attacks in history. Those goofs walked away laughing while a sales manager tried desperately to figure out what had happened to their computer. We also did this once when planning on waking up early for some stupid reason- probably to get an early start at programming Hunt the Wumpus. The Vic worked perfectly that time. The countdown timer reached zero and we were abruptly awakened to the sound of the German blitzkrieg, bombs dropping, explosions, alarms going off, all on a repeating loop which; at five in the morning, after finally drifting off at two, no one remembered how to stop. Joel came to the rescue with the tried and true American method of getting something to work properly, be it a TV, a radio or anything electronic: he bashed the crap out of the keyboard until it stopped. Smash, smash, smash, smash! Ah ... silence. No one considered unplugging it. Surprisingly, the Vic still worked fine after that, but one thing I wonder to this day; why did the Vic 20 have function keys? I don’t even use the ones on my computer now except to hit them by accident and wonder how to reverse whatever it was I just did. If we were smart, we would have programmed two function keys for the alarm; one for snooze and one for stop.

Another computerized toy I really loved was my Big Trak, a programmable vehicle that could go forward and back, left and right and fire a red light "laser" with sound effects. My uncle came for a visit and we spent hours programming it to go on a long journey down a hall, around several corners, through the kitchen and back into the living room to a strip of tape we had stuck to the carpet as our start and finish line. I also had the trailer that was sold separately. You could haul things around and it could be programmed to dump them out wherever you wanted.  As I'm typing this, I realize that this is a really great toy. Bring these back, I want one again. Just think of all the sandwiches wives could make and send to their husbands with one of these. I'm kidding ladies, calm down. My wife can't even cook so it would definitely be me sending the sandwiches to her, but what a cool way to do it!

We were also a generation that still enjoyed non-electronic toys like army men, basketballs and BB guns. My mother would never dream of letting me get a BB gun, but thankfully my friend got one; a nice one too, the American Classic. It looks lethal, but only shoots BBs. It's something Democrats would definitely try to ban because it's scary looking and Republicans would want as required curriculum in schools. The American Classic is a handgun model that you can still purchase, you pump it to compress air for firing the BBs. Once we were bored sitting in Joel’s room, shooting BBs at a drawing of our science teacher, a perfectly normal thing for teen boys to be doing if your science teacher is a tyrannical hag. He left the room to answer the phone or something and I took over the target practice. A few minutes later he comes in looking shocked. “Man, I can hear that all the way downstairs!” he said. “How many times are you pumping that thing?”

“Ten,” I proudly announced. “Why?”

“I was only pumping it once! Ten times is for maximum power,” he declared nervously, digging back into his closet behind our target. There, under the cardboard box and the pile of clothes behind our helpless target, were several BB holes in the drywall.

"Oops, sorry! I didn’t know. Powerful, isn’t it?"

Maybe the moms and the Democrats have a point? Nah...

The American Classic Pellet Gun

There were also some weird toys back in the 80s. Remember Stretch Armstrong? He was a rubber, muscle-bound doll that you pulled on, stretched and tied into various knots. What were people thinking? Maybe this was an attempt at getting kids to exercise by subterfuge. How long could something like this possibly hold a kids attention? I probably spent more time playing with the box it came in. Plastic army men could be burned and blown up with firecrackers, Big Traks could run them over, even Slinkys could hold your attention with nothing more than a staircase or a stack of books. What did this thing offer more than a minute's amusement? The only thing intriguing about Stretch Armstrong was wondering what was inside of him. I always was tempted to cut it open and find out; probably some cancer causing hydraulic fluid. If anyone knows, leave a comment.

 

Out of all the things we had to amuse ourselves with back then, even considering all the new technology that changed our lives and the world, I still think the best toys we had were sticks and rocks. We would all gather in the woods wearing army jackets and camouflage, form teams and launch full-scale wars against each other throwing spears, rocks and chunks of wood. Occasionally the odd BB gun would be involved, but it was usually all organic material; the original Green Party Movement. Nothing beats outdoor activity: being chased by an enemy combatant, jumping over streams, laughing and shouting while getting pummeled by sticks. Some things are just better without electricity.

Action-Packed Boredom

I'm glad I grew up in a suburb with both woods and shopping malls as opposed to the city or the country; in Westerville we got the best of both worlds minus the gangs and the smell of cow poop. I have many good memories of spending time in the woods, walking all over town with friends, going to the school football games, hanging out at the bowling alley. It sometimes seemed boring while I was living it, but I wouldn’t trade those times for anything. Sometimes our abject, teen boredom would cause us to do crazy things; resulting in the makings of a good story for years to come. Other times we would end up wandering our way into a stupid situation that; if we survived, would make for a funny story later.

Take for example the Pits of Hell; as we affectionately called them. No, not the real pits of hell, but a gravel distribution business; complete with huge piles of rocks and a gravel elevator. It was a bleak and mysterious place. I don't ever recall seeing people working there; it always sat quiet, as if deserted, but consistently had mountains of dirt and rock at the ready. I never knew the real name of the company, but it was somewhere you could go to buy clean fill dirt and gravel, located on a flat, desolate plain near the railroad tracks. 

Everyone should have some wooded railroad tracks to hang out around when they're kids. We practically lived at the ones by our house. You could go jump off the trestle into Alum Creek, hang out in the surrounding woods smoking your first cigarettes, climb trees, go fishing, and flatten coins on the tracks when trains came by.

The Pits of Hell were right off the tracks next to the I-270 outerbelt. The tracks ran under the 270 bridges, another favorite hangout for bored, angst ridden kids with cans of spray paint. If you got off the tracks near the bridges and headed west into the Pits there were huge mounds of dirt piled high for sale near the entrance. You would continue walking between the dirt piles and enter onto a flat, lifeless piece of land that stretched for about a half of a mile before reaching some woods.

One day, after Joel and I had spent most of the morning wandering around in those woods to escape the boredom that was always hot on our heels, we ended up emerging from the trees at the edge of the dirt flat with the intention of heading across the plain toward the bridges.

A storm was brewing overhead, and fast. Knowing it’s not smart to be in such an open area in a thunderstorm, we thought we could hurry across the plain before it struck and find shelter under the bridges. As usual, we were wrong.

Almost immediately after emerging from the woods and into the open the rain began. We picked up the pace. The normally dry, dirt plain was rapidly turning into a sticky field of mud. Back in those days everybody wore jeans with a comb in their back pocket, flannel shirts and hiking boots. The hiking boots began doing a marvelous job of picking the sticky, Ohio clay up off the ground and holding onto it.

The sky darkened as the storm got more intense, it was really turning into a downpour. Lightning flashed all around us and deafening thunder exploded overhead as we trudged through the mud, terrified now of getting electrocuted. We had no choice but to keep going for the safety of the bridges, the woods would be just as dangerous with all the tree roots under foot. We had a long way to go.

As the rain continued the mud became ridiculous. I’ve never seen mud like this before or since. With each step more and more clay would adhere to our boots, making walking nearly impossible and running completely out of the question. Before long we had accumulated huge clumps of mud on the bottom of each foot that had to weigh at least twenty pounds apiece. With chunks of mud the size of basketballs adhering to our feet each step became a chore. We would kick the mud off and scrape at it the best we could, only to have just as much back on our boots within two to three steps.

The rain and lightning continued. Now we were getting tired. If you don’t believe me, try strapping a sandbag to each of your feet and go for a walk, you’ll see what I mean. We were actually taller because of the inches of mud stuck under the soles of our boots. We stopped and huddled next to the tallest objects in the field; the piles of dirt and gravel, as we got near to them, just to rest.

Of course; being complete goofballs, we were scared silly, but still cracking jokes and laughing at the ridiculousness of our situation. I specifically remember Joel yelling dramatically, “Were gonna die man!” and both of us laughing hysterically. We were always able to find the humor in terrifying situations; I've come to believe these are some of the best laughs you can ever have.

Drenched, we finally made it to the bridges without being struck by lightning and spent several minutes scraping off our platform mud soles while laughing about the whole ordeal.

***

Another example of boredom-turned-stupid took place one winter. We were wandering around looking for trouble and there it was, sitting in a parking lot. The day was cloudy and cold with snow on the ground. As we walked we could see our breath. We chatted and made the usual jokes when suddenly the clouds parted, the sun briefly came out and we heard an angelic chorus. Sunbeams shone down from the heavens to illuminate the previously unattainable dream of any teenage boy.

There in the Kroger parking lot it sat: a car bash, a whack a wreck, whatever cute little nickname you want to give it, it was our opportunity to pay a small fee to smash a car with a sledge hammer.

We raced across the lot like boys possessed, huge smiles breaking out on our young faces. Money was no object at this point, it could’ve cost hundreds of dollars and we would’ve shelled out our last dime. Two women sat huddled in a cold car next to the wreck, the marooned victims of whatever fundraiser it was for, forced to sit there all day and collect the money of any unsuspecting fools who happened by. Us, for example.

We couldn’t give them our money fast enough. Cash exchanged hands and I was given a sledge hammer and told to wear some goggles and a hard hat. Joel; to his credit, was at least too cool to wear the hat, whereas I; in my geekdom, eagerly donned them all and looked all the more like the dork that I was. The hat was too small and stood high on my head and only added to my already goofy look; appropriate for the fool that had just handed over his last dollar.

That’s when the clouds slammed shut, the singing stopped and reality snapped back into focus. As I looked the wreck over for a choice area to smash away to my heart’s content, I realized that all the glass was already broken. Everything down to the turn signals was already gone. There was nothing fun or cool about this all of a sudden. I inspected every square inch of the car looking for an undented section of sheet metal and found none. Glumly, I swung the sledge against the wreck doing minimal damage to an already ruined area. “Whunk!”

That was it. That was all the fun we got out of it. Three whunks apiece. No satisfying smashing of glass or crushing of quarter panels. Just a whunk as we hit an already demolished car. I hope those ladies felt guilty taking our money, but I can’t really blame them, we were the dopes who ran up to do it. I can still remember how surprised they looked when we came dashing up waving our money at them. They probably figured no one else would come by in the freezing weather and they were stuck there until their fundraiser was over, when along comes Dumb and Dumber.

“Well, that was stupid,” we agreed as we walked away, bored.

There's No Eye In Team, But There's One In Pain

I've been sitting at home with a painful knee injury. One day- I don't remember specifically which day, as they are all blending into a blur of writing and sleeping- I decided to take a personal inventory and ask myself, "How else can I make my life miserable?" Since I'm limited in my mobility I didn't have many options to consider. I can't exercise or do anything that would be considered strenuous, other than become a vegetarian, but bacon is one of my few remaining pleasures in life so that's out of the question. I don't have dental insurance either, so; while getting my teeth examined, drilled or removed would add considerably to my misery, that dream is also far out of reach.

Then I remembered that I have optical coverage through the VA. That's it; I realized, I can go to the eye doctor. For some reason we forget how miserable it can be to go to the eye doctor for an exam until we are actually sitting in the chair. This latest trip was filled with discomfort from the moment I walked into the waiting room.

I made my appointment and when the day arrived I hobbled into the waiting room and went to the desk to check in. There were three people behind the counter laughing and talking like it was a holiday office party- one that I clearly wasn't invited to judging by how well they were ignoring me. I was the only person in line and was surprised that I was being so completely ignored while there were three people working; one of which could have at least said, "We'll be with you in a moment."

"Look at my crutches," I was thinking. "Take pity and check me in so I can go sit down." My Jedi mind trick failed miserably and I stood there for several minutes waiting for someone to acknowledge my presence. A line of five more veterans formed behind me while the clerks sipped champagne and regaled each other with tales of making other people wait for no obvious reason other than their own self-absorption.

I should mention here that, while I sincerely love this VA Medical Center and the top-notch care they provide, the service from the desk at the optical clinic is always lacking. They never answer the phone when you try to call and make an appointment. NEVER. In the past I've had to go through what is known as a Patient Advocate to get me through to the people partying at the desk. I think the Patient Advocate disguised himself as the pizza man and when he got there with their order he told them to answer the phone. That was the only time I've ever gotten through to them via telephone in fifteen years. Being injured was actually a blessing in this case because I was off from work and already at the VA when I made my appointment in person a couple weeks before.

Finally, a girl reluctantly called me forward and asked for my check-in information. She did this with all the warmth of a Popsicle; I'm pretty sure we never even made eye contact. "Have a seat sir and they'll call you in a minute. Next!" she called to the person behind me, an elderly war vet.

She asked him in a loud voice, "Sir, did you try using the kiosk to check in?" while pointing toward a computer terminal installed against a wall, off to one side of the waiting room. He looked around bewildered; he was from an era in which people dealt with people, not machines. We all looked at the computer; the entire waiting room of forty people glanced at it. It was located in a place where it could be easily overlooked or I might have used it myself and not had to lean on my crutches for five minutes.

"It's for your convenience," she announced in the same loud voice.

"Or for your convenience," I muttered, taking a seat. If they moved the kiosk over to the desk where people would notice it, we could get rid of at least two of the three people that had been ignoring us inconvenient morons waiting in line to be helped. I know who would go first.

The TV was on, but it was mounted to a wall with no remaining chairs facing it; they were all occupied. I took a seat pointed away from it and tried to turn around enough to watch, but soon gave up with a sigh; it was too uncomfortable. Normally I wouldn't care about watching TV, but I wanted something to pass the time in the waiting room and the magazines weren't an option.

I don't consider myself a germaphobe, I'll drink out of a public fountain, I'll use public restrooms- something my wife will avoid to the point of her extreme discomfort and the discomfort of those around her being forced to listen to her pleas to hurry and get home. But I've recently developed a deep disgust for waiting room magazines. My skin crawls thinking about all the sick and disease-ridden people that have held a waiting room magazine. I imagine myself contracting some incurable disease like Leprosy, or at the very least, Cooties, from a water damaged issue of House and Garden. I avoid them like the Plague.

So I waited patiently until my name was called. I also accidentally discovered where the expression "waiting patiently" originated. It was obviously derived from hospital patients that have to sit around and wait whether they like it or not; hence, waiting "patiently."

My name was called and I crutched it into the exam room. The doctor was a young kid; a nice enough guy, but I really start to feel old when my doctors would look more at home in a performance of High School Musical than in a medical office. Sitting down he asked me all the routine questions, had me read some lines off the chart with my glasses on and then the real exam began. He pulled the lens machine over toward my face and cleaned it off before having me place my head against it. I always have a problem with that initial reading of the first line they show you when you're looking through the machine. "Can you read this line please?" they ask. "Um, let's see now, P or maybe it's an F, V, A, D or maybe an O and some kind of squiggly thing, maybe a K or an E?"

"Perfect," he said. They always say this. It must be an attempt to comfort you so you don't realize you are going blind; they don't want people in the waiting room to hear you start weeping. How could that have been perfect? I had to guess at three of them. Two out of five ain't bad? I hope this average isn't considered perfect in other areas of the medical profession. Would a surgeon losing three out of five patients on the operating table declare that a victory? "Perfect, and I can still get in a round of golf at the club."

The thing is, they trick you. The first time looking through the machine they don't use your current prescription. It's as if they want to make sure you haven't experienced a medical miracle and suddenly have perfect eyesight since taking off your glasses five seconds ago. Then they'll flip the lenses around until it is your prescription and have you read it again. When you get them all right this time they act as if you have them to thank for this vast improvement. Maybe we could skip the initial fear mongering and get right to the part where we check my vision with the right lenses in place?

Then comes the part where they try and make improvements to your prescription for you and they keep flipping the lenses around. "Which is better, one or two?" You don't want to get this wrong. Suddenly there is all this pressure to have the right answer when most of the time you can't tell if there is any difference at all.

"Um- one. I think. Can you do it again?"

"One or two."

"Two?" I hope.

"Three or four?"

"Three?" maybe.

"Five or six?"

Long pause.

He flips them again, "Five or six?" he repeats in a singsong voice.

"Umm, Six?"

"Seven or eight?"

By this point I don't care if there's a difference, my self esteem has already been destroyed by indecision. I make a decision quickly to try and regain a sense of assurance, "Eight."

"And nine or ten?"

"Ten," I declare firmly, finally taking charge of my life.

"Perfect," he says. "Now we're going to take a quick look inside your eye with an industrial laser that will melt your optic nerve and burn a hole through the back of your head."

Okay, he didn't say that, but he should have; there needs to be more honesty and transparency in the optical field. What he did say was he was going to take a quick look at my eye with a light. This is the part of the exam where they shine a light into your eye to look at how healthy your eyeball is. If someone ever comes up with a better way to do this they will never have to work again. I; for one, would also be happy to reward them with never having to pay taxes again and a private island in the Caribbean. This is such a painful experience for me that it's difficult to put it into words. I think what really happens is that they first blind you with the light and then they jam an ice pick into your eye. 

"Look riiight here at the tip of my ear," he says, pointing, while looking through some high tech binoculars and focusing the beam of light off of a mirror and into my eye. It isn't a natural thing to keep your eye open with a bright light shining in it. I try valiantly to obey, my eye trying it's best to squint itself shut while I try to force it to stay open through a superhuman act of will. My whole body tenses and I clench my fists as the light stings it's way through my pupil.

"You have to hold your eye open," he tells me.

"I'm trying."

"Here," he says, reaching for my eye and causing me to flinch, "let me help you." He uses his thumb and forefinger to hold my eye open while he directs the super-heated beam of plasma energy through my eyeball and into my brain, causing my eye to water and instinctively want to blink. I force myself to stare at the light as long a possible and then I can't take it anymore; I have to pull away and blink and rub my eyes. The doctor seems upset that I've interrupted the fun time he was having.

"It's okay," he says, sounding exasperated, "go ahead and blink."

I force my head to go back into the machine so I can get this procedure over with. After a few more minutes of intense suffering, it's done. But I have to do it again.

"Okay now we're going to put some drops in your eyes to dilate them and have you come back in in about twenty minutes." The first drops burn and the second leave a yellow stain on my face. I go back out to another waiting room that is smaller. This is for the happy people waiting for their eyes to dilate. No one talks. At least there is a TV and all the chairs are facing it.

Twenty minutes later and back in the chair, the exam resumes innocently enough. The doc uses a small, circular instrument with a purple circle of light on it to measure the pressure in my eyeball by pressing the circle directly against my eye. No problem, this is a vast improvement over the old method of shooting a needle thin blast of air against your eyeball to get the same information. And my eye is numb from the drops, so I don't feel it.

But then comes the light again. This time he's trying to look at the back of my eye and my optic nerve, but it's the same excruciating light being shined into my peepers. Now, with my eyes dilated, my pupils can't contract in self defense and it seems even worse than before. Again I have to turn away from the light, blinking and rubbing tears from my eyes. Feeling less of man, I force my head back into the cradle and press on.

The kid chuckles, "It's funny, you know, everyone reacts differently to it. We had to do this to each other for four years in school and people just have different reactions." This; of course, is an obvious lie. It's as if he would have me believe that some students reacted with joy and excitement when experiencing what felt like a light saber being shoved through your eye.

Again I stared into the beam of death, and again I had to turn away, blinking and tearing up. Then I notice him making some kind of adjustment to the machine. This time, when I put my head back in the cradle, the light isn't nearly as bright. He had turned it down? I was silently calculating how much time I would have to spend in jail if I punched him in the face. He had waited until the last two minutes of my eye exam to provide me relief that he could have chosen to give me from the beginning. He had to use a little telescope now to see what he needed to see, but so what; Dr Mengele here could have turned the light down earlier when he saw my obvious suffering. I'm sure he only chose not to because it would have inconvenienced him. Maybe he was dating the receptionist, they seemed to have a lot in common.

With the pain significantly reduced, the procedure was a breeze after that. So take that away with you, if you ever have your eyes dilated you can ask them to turn the light down. In all the years I've had to experience this torture, I never knew they could do this; they probably don't want the secret getting out. Knowledge is power my friends. Is that a black van parked across the street from my house?

Intrepid Swashbunglers

Here's another edit and reprint of a blog post from my old blog, Ted's Café.  Thanks for reading!

It’s winter here at the Café. The fire’s crackling in the big, stone fireplace. The smell of French toast, coffee and sausages waft out of the kitchen and wrap you in a soothing fragrance that triggers old memories; memories of Grandma’s house and Christmas, childhood and lazy Saturdays. Cozy up with a nice mug of hot chocolate and take in this tale of youthful idiocy as we go back to Columbus, Ohio. Back to my early teens…

***

Back in the day; that is, back in the 1980s, if you were really cool you played Dungeons and Dragons. All the hot chicks dug the guys with glasses and braces that carried Monster Manuals around with them at school; chattering excitedly with their friends about Wizards, Hobgoblins, modules and hit points. All the ladies would shove the buff jocks out of their way in a frantic effort to be the first girl to meet the Dungeon Master as he emerged from science class; carrying his books and calculator for him as he strutted down the hall, a nubile young coed under each arm.

Maybe my memory is cloudy; it may not have been like that.

Okay, I admit, I was a total nerd; long before it was cool. No girl would have even considered coming near me unless it was to use me as a human shield during a robbery. And even then she might have thought twice. Better to die alone than to be found lying anywhere near a pudgy, glasses wearing dork with a retainer.

I really liked the game though; Dungeons and Dragons. I could be anyone I wanted to be: masculine, tough, roguish; a hero who gets the treasure and busts some heads in the process. In the world of fantasy I could be everything I wasn’t in reality. Plus it was fun; we liked to be silly and have a good time laughing more than anything else, so a good portion of our playing time was simply spent making wise cracks. I played with a few different guys, but my friend Joel and I played together the most. Joel and I also liked spending time outdoors in the woods of Ohio, reading the Lord of the Rings and talking about hot topics of the 1980s like: being prepared in the event of nuclear attack. The Cold War and Duck and Cover had had an impact on us and we actually thought it was possible to wipe fallout off of our canned food and survive to rebuild civilization. I think I planned on playing D&D in my fallout shelter for 57 years until it was safe to go out. The chicks would want me then. When they saw that I had been smart enough to store food in a shelter they would all flock to me; overlooking the missing teeth and patchy hair due to radiation poisoning. Hey, if they can overlook those things for some old geezer’s money, why not for a place in my fallout shelter?

One winter, Joel and I got up our nerve and decided to explore a storm sewer near the bowling alley that would eventually become our main hangout; the Columbus Square Bowling Palace. I see the irony looking back- we were planning on venturing into the catacombs under the Palace. So like boys with big imaginations, we approached the situation as if it were a dungeon adventure, taking his bow and arrows, torches, backpacks and a large club; just in case. You never knew when you just might stumble upon an Orc. Or worse: the drunken bums and kidnappers our mothers had warned us about.

We donned our coats and packs, grabbed our weapons and headed out, ready for adventure. We trekked through the fresh snow toward the cement tunnel, excitement building as we contemplated what manifold treasures we might discover within. Gold? Silver? Empty, hobo-forsaken cans of potted meat product? Anything was possible. We stopped outside the tunnel to light our torches.

The large, cement storm tunnel always had water running out of it as it also connected to the main sewer system. In winter, the water was frozen; creating an inches thick glaze of ice on the bottom of the tunnel. Walking was hazardous, but we carefully managed. The tunnel went back some 100 yards into the darkness before turning. We could hear water rushing faintly, deep in the tunnel. With a breath we stepped in, our flickering torches casting an eerie light on the walls.

Before we continue, let me set one thing straight. We weren’t like some of the crazy people you may have heard about back in the 80s who actually believed that the world of Dungeons and Dragons was real and could be found if you stumbled down the right hole. We were just out for a good time and to explore a tunnel. Sure, we played it up big with weapons and packs and torches, but we knew fantasy from reality. I think. One thing all the buildup achieved was that we were more on edge than someone would normally be in this situation. Not that anyone normal would put themselves in this situation, but if there is a normal mentality associated with walking through a sewer with torches and clubs we were far removed from it. We were wired and tense, and as we crept along the ice and deeper into the darkness it only got worse. The sound of the rushing water got louder as the tunnel got darker. The entrance became a small round spot of light behind us. We were coming to the point of no return where the tunnel made the bend into the pitch darkness and no light from the entrance would reach us.

About this time our torches sputter and go out. We stood there in the darkness listening to the loud roar of water around the bend in the tunnel, trying to decide what to do, relight the torches or leave; when we heard it. Someone was throwing something at us.

It was one of those aforementioned bums; a societal cast-off who now lived in the tunnels under the city and preyed on innocent fans of Dungeons and Dragons foolish enough to enter his lair. It sounded like he was throwing chunks of ice at us. We could hear a crack as he broke off a chunk and the series of rapid clicks and cracks as the piece he threw at us ricocheted and skipped off the ice toward us. We called out to the offender letting him knew we weren’t scared.

“We’ve got weapons!” we challenged from around the bend, our blood running cold. In the silence that followed we knew he was playing with us; teasing our psyches in preparation for the final attack, when he would rip into us with a roar from out of the gloom. He threw another piece at us.

“Let’s get out of here,” was the sanest thing we had considered so far that day. And fortunately, we both agreed. We turned to head back to the light of the outside and the world fell out from under us as we plunged through the ice and up to our necks in freezing water!

Discussing it later, we realized that the ice chucking bum was actually the sound of the ice cracking under our own feet. Logic might have told us that there was no way some bum could survive in a dark tunnel filled with ice water, but logic had taken the day off back when we started this escapade. What happened was, we had gone deep enough into the tunnel to where the temperature was warmer than the frigid outside air and we stopped and had been standing on weak, cracking ice that gave out at just the moment we turned around. We fumbled in the water, trying to get a purchase on the ice and climb out. I had borrowed a pair of mittens from Joel that his dad had gotten for Christmas. They were really nice; leather, thick and insulated, and when they got drenched in the water it was like having stumps instead of hands. My stumps couldn’t grab onto anything so I whipped them off and lost them to the depths of the tunnel; sorry, Joel’s dad.

We managed to crawl onto the ice only to have it break off and send us back into the water. We then had to crawl over the broken section to try and reach solid ice ahead. Pulling ourselves out and onto solid ice, this also broke off and sank beneath our weight dunking us again into the bitterly cold water. My pudgy, Dungeon Master physique was quickly tiring. Up ahead; at the tunnel entrance, Joel’s dog, Duncan appeared, barking like crazy. Like any kid from my television generation, I knew rescue when I saw it.

“Duncan, go get help!” I yelled frantically; the result of too many episodes of Lassie. If Duncan could talk, I’m sure he would’ve yelled back, “Kid, I’m a dog. If you get out of here alive; you need to go get help!” Even in the frozen water with the threat of death, I’m pretty sure Joel laughed at me.

Joel finally managed to find purchase on stable ice and haul himself out. Mercifully, he helped me out too and we staggered down the tunnel and out into the icy cold, Ohio winter. Our pants froze stiff as we peg-legged it to his house, looking like a pair of denim and parka clad robots.

Later, we realized all we had to do was stand up and we could’ve gotten out a lot easier. Turns out, the water was only about a foot deep, but in our panic it seemed like we had fallen off a fishing trawler into the Bering Sea, fighting for our lives in the frozen depths.

It sure felt good to pry our frozen clothing off, get warm, eat some hot food and play a little D&D.

Grandma Z's Gift Of Gab - Don't Read This If You're Eating

My grandmother had a gift for gab. She just had a way of telling a story that kept you riveted; you would hear about the people she knew and the experiences she'd had and they seemed to come alive right in front of you. I need to edit, rephrase and polish my stories. People don't appreciate that at a dinner party so that consigns me to being a better writer than a storyteller.
Grandma had a story she would tell about being a waitress at the Twin Ponds Country Club. Some group of men, Shriners or a local company, were there for a banquet and after having drinks, began hitting on my grandmother. She wasn't even waiting on their table, but she was quite an attractive woman back in the day and lots of men used to approach her. She'd had enough of these clowns asking for her name every time she walked by and decided to make up a name to try to get them to leave her alone. The next trip past their table went something like this:
Drunk banquet guy: "C'mon sweetheart, what's your name?" he asked, a Lucky Strike dangling from his mouth.
Grandma: "Zelda Glutch, now leave me alone; I'm trying to work, you jerks."
Drunk banquet guys at table: Stunned silence.
They never bothered her again.
What makes this story even more interesting is the fact that this name stuck with her for the rest of her life; everybody called her Zelda from then on. Growing up, she was my Grandma Zelda. I don't remember how old I was when I found out her real name was Pauline. I heard my mom say something about my Grandma Pauline and responded with, "Grandma who? I didn't know I had a Grandma Pauline."
"That's your Grandma Zelda."
"Oh, huh. Why do we call her Zelda then?"
Grandma's stories were always interesting and funny, no matter how many times I had heard them. Many of them I absolutely enjoyed hearing again simply because of the life she injected into their telling. She often told the story of one of her friends, a man who had moved away from the upstate New York area when he was young and had returned many years later for a visit. As a child he used to go jump off one of the local bridges into the river beneath. Unknown to him, the water level had dropped considerably since the last time he had jumped at this particular spot. He excitedly drove out to the bridge for a fun trip down memory lane and flung himself off with abandon, just like old times. He landed in two feet of water and stood up covered with cuts, cursing and spitting pebbles out of his mouth. Rocks were also sticking out of the skin on his chest. At least he could stand up. I always cracked up at the way she told this story.
That’s country living for you. People doing stupid things and getting hurt; as long as it isn't too serious, always gets a laugh. I honestly don't know where the line gets drawn between laughter and concern, maybe a certain type of compound fracture or a specific volume of blood loss; I'm not sure. Things are different in the country; people seem tougher, yet also kinder; real salt of the earth types. We seem to lose touch with an important part of ourselves living in cities and suburbs. Namely, the part that laughs at other people getting injured. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate supermarkets and indoor plumbing, and I'm sure city kids do their fair share of laughing at their friends who get hurt; but there are so many other fun experiences that city and suburb kids don’t get to enjoy nowadays; it really is a shame.
Like turd fights. At least, I'm assuming city folk aren't participating in these. But just ask any country kid about getting in a turd fight, they’ve all done it. Out there cleaning the corral, feeding the animals, the temptation is just too great. One kid gives in to it and lobs a cow plop at his or her friend and chaos ensues. I’ve heard the horror stories about being careful to keep your mouth shut, but at its heart, this is just plain country fun at its best. Grandma had stories about turd fights.
Grandma Z also used to tell me about the time my great-grandfather went swimming in the Barge Canal, near Utica, New York. He and his friends used to go jump off a bridge into the canal. I guess jumping off bridges was the best, cheap thrill available at the time; it seems better than the cheap thrills kids seek out today. I wonder, did mothers harp on their sons about flinging themselves off the nearest train trestle while their kids argued, "C'mon mom, everybody's doin it!" like kids do today? Probably, people don't seem to have changed that much in 100 years.
Musings aside, this particular year there had been rain for several days and the canal was rising up and over its banks; perfect, deep water for jumping off the bridge. Stan; my great-grandfather, and his friends spent the day jumping, swimming and having a good time. One of Stan’s friends jumped in and shot back up to the surface, screaming and gagging, entrails wrapped all around him. A cloud of bloody, scummy looking water enveloped him in the area where he had gone in. Terrified, Stan and his friends watched from the bridge as he swam to shore; because would you jump into that gory mess to try and help him? Yeah, I didn't think so. He made it to shore, unwrapping lengths of intestine from around his body as he went. As he clawed his way up the swollen bank, they could see he was unhurt. Their eyes went back to the canal and from the remains of the carcass floating in the water they pieced together what had happened.
With the canal flooding over the banks the normally dry, solid ground that contained the river was soft and muddy. Somewhere upstream from where they were swimming some unfortunate cow had slipped into the canal and drowned. Its bloated body continued downstream just under the surface of the water and Stan’s buddy had unknowingly timed it exactly right to plunge straight through the corpse, tangling himself in the entrails in the process.
Of course this was hilarious to everyone but the poor guy who went through the cow. Heck, maybe it ended up being funny to him too, he was a country kid, after all. Grandma said they laughed about it for days.
They also made him walk home fifty yards behind them. He stunk.

***

Speaking of rewriting and editing, this is an edit and rewrite from another blog of mine. I hope you enjoyed it!

Trials of a Home Cook

I'm the long-suffering cook in our house. I don't really have a problem with the cooking part, I like cooking. And I'm not so much of a traditionalist that I think women should do all the cooking; I like to think that two people come together each having skills that they bring to the table, or to the stovetop, or to money management; whatever the case may be. I do think it's a shame that more girls don't cook nowadays; I think they're really missing out on something that can be fun, relaxing and rewarding in it's own way, but as someone who was raised to be able to fend for themselves I also think it's a shame that so many people lack this basic skill; men and women. I also detest the militant attitude so many girls seem to have toward cooking in this modern age, "I ain't cookin' for no man!" is the new mantra of the empowered woman. If relationships are built on loving and helping each other I think it's a small thing for both parties to be able to cook an egg.

But like I said, in our house I'm the cook, my wife does the cleaning. If she had a blog I'm sure she would write a post about cleaning up after a houseful of slobs, I'm here to share my experiences trying to cook for a houseful of picky people.

I'll start at the beginning. I married into having three teenagers. When we first got married my wife showed me how she made macaroni and cheese for her and the kids. I couldn't wait to see her skills in the kitchen and quickly wished I hadn't. After boiling and draining the macaroni, she tossed some chopped, raw onions into the pot along with the noodles and started adding handfuls of shredded cheddar cheese. Just as I was thinking that there had to be more to it than this, she announced it was done and her innocent kids lined up to get a bowlful.

"You don't make a sauce for it?" I asked cautiously.

"No, this is it," she smiled, handing me a bowl.

We weren't married long when one evening I had to go out; shortly after I left, the kids excitedly asked her to make the macaroni and cheese they loved so much, but I had already ruined it for them. After cooking for them for only a few weeks they were already learning the difference between real food and whatever their mom had been making for them for years. I refuse to discuss the broccoli and ketchup soup; except to say that it happened, but she happily made them the mac and cheese. They all took a bite and, chewing slowly, said that it wasn't as good as they remembered. I never even saw that pot of food so I guess it got tossed out before I came home.

The first time I cooked for my kids was an amazing experience for myself, and I imagine for them as well. I made something simple; chicken spaghetti, we like to call it. I simply cut up raw chicken breast and put it in spaghetti sauce instead of using ground beef; the chicken cooks in the sauce. My grandmother used to make sauce with chicken and I've always loved it. The kids were totally silent when I placed this food in front of them; they just sat there, staring down at it like they had never seen anything like it before. Maybe they hadn't, come to think of it. When they started eating they stayed quiet, but they were eating like they had been marooned on an island. They liked it and they let me know by devouring it and asking for more. To this day, our middle daughter asks for this for her birthday meal. And my wife hates it; not the request, but the actual food itself. Therein lies the beginning of said trials; these are some of the pickiest people I've ever cooked for in my life, people that willingly ate raw onion macaroni will turn up their nose to well prepared chicken spaghetti.

It actually started with onions, if I remember correctly. Our son, a founding member of the raw onion macaroni foundation; or ROMF, insisted he didn't like onions. I think back on this wondering how he ate that mac and cheese and then had the nerve to tell me he didn't like onions. But he was so insistent that I started making small portions of our meals onion free just for his sake. I subscribe more to the school of thought that says, "Eat what I cook or go hungry," but my wife begged me to make onion free food for him so I relented. It wasn't that it was difficult, but it did take up a lot of space on the stove and was a general pain in the neck. I would get frustrated having to do this and sometimes when making spaghetti sauce, or anything else, I would add extra onion powder to his pot, taking secret vengeance. He never noticed. A note to you readers out there- don't frustrate your cook. Muahaha!

I tried to get him to try grilled onions and caramelized onions thinking he would like the different flavors since he had most likely only ever experienced crunchy, raw onions in his macaroni, but he never would give them a try. Then he comes home from the Marines one day and tells me his buddy was grilling onions with their steaks and now he loves grilled onions. Mixed emotions of wanting to kill him and being thankful to the Marine Corps for changing our son's palate flooded my heart. It makes cooking for him a lot easier now; unless it's soup.

Our son claims to hate soup. Yes; soup, a global food offering with limitless varieties is hated for no actual reason by one of our family members. Winters were fun at our house. Upon entering the kitchen and seeing me adding ingredients to the pot on the stove he would immediately wrinkle his nose and ask what I was making. Another word for you readers: when a family member is going out of their way trying to provide tasty, nutritious meals for you, you might want to learn to control your nose wrinkle response. I see it in my wife and daughters too. Nothing says contempt like wrinkling your nose at a cook's food.

Trying hard not to kill him, or yell, "Soup you little ingrate!" at the top of my lungs; I would calmly tell him, "Soup." He would then inform me that he would be dining on cereal. This strikes me as odd in retrospect when you consider that cereal, at its heart, is nothing more than crunchy, soggy, milk-soup.

I haven't even gotten to the girls yet. Our middle girl, the one who likes the chicken spaghetti, is OCD about her food touching. To the point that she will get a separate small bowl for her corn or anything else that could possibly stray into the neighboring food on her plate. I've considered buying her a green, plastic prison tray with the built in depressions for food, but then she would use it and get the last laugh on all of us. Sometimes I like to mix my corn and mashed potatoes in full view of her horrified face, laughing like Dr. Evil as she winces. Dinner is never boring at our house.

She also hates mushrooms. I have given up a lot of foods over the years that I used to enjoy because of my family's refusal to eat them. Mushrooms are one of them. Sometimes I will add them to a stew, but I now leave them chopped big enough for her to remove easily. She invariably ends up passing a small pile of mushrooms on a napkin to some lucky person at the table. Once, when I still dared to put them in spaghetti sauce, I tried to chop them in a food processor thinking she wouldn't see them and never notice. I was wrong. She inspects her food to an infuriating level if you're the home cook. She bends over it at the table with an accusing stare and starts slowly stirring through it with her fork, looking for offensive additions like mushrooms and cyanide capsules. Using this method she plucked out a minuscule fragment of otherwise unidentifiable mushroom on the tip of her fork and asked, "What's this?"

"A mushroom," I conceded. She didn't eat any more of that meal, acting like a head of state that narrowly avoided being poisoned. For months after that, any time she asked me what was for dinner the question was always followed by, "Are there mushrooms in it?"

Then there's our oldest daughter. She doesn't like corn. Or; she does, but not frozen corn or canned corn, but she likes corn on the cob. Or maybe it's: she likes frozen corn, but not canned corn. I'm pretty sure she likes mushrooms. And this is where we get into a huge problem; they're all so picky in their own ways that it's hard to keep track of who likes what. It seems that for most meals I find out all over again that someone doesn't like something.

This is mom's fault. She raised them to never try anything they thought they might not like and never forced them to eat anything. Don't get me wrong; I don't think we should make dinner time a horrible experience for children in the name of expanding their tastes, but I do lean toward just making them try things. If they don't like it; fine, at least they tried it. I think that a lot of times when kids say they don't like something, chances are high that they've never even eaten it before; they just don't want to try it.

But this is lost on my wife who has easily become the pickiest of them all. It's not her fault, she has been stricken with a terrible condition called Cuckooitis that has affected everything about her eating habits. She no longer likes pork, bacon, chicken, any kind of meat; except steak, but she probably won't like that tomorrow, never liked the chicken spaghetti and doesn't like any bread. She doesn't like pizza, people that eat pizza or Italy. She does like pasta; which doesn't technically count as Italian since it was invented in China, and vegetables- she loves vegetables. She doesn't like potatoes or rice unless I accidentally prepare them in a certain, undefinable way, which she will compliment and then I will never have the good fortune of reproducing again. She hates all fruit; much like my son with soup, and won't eat ice cream because it makes her teeth hurt then gets mad at us for eating ice cream without her. She likes diet soda, probably one of the most disgusting things on the planet. I'm not the type to get into the whole sugar substitute argument, I just think diet soda tastes nasty. Ants won't even touch it. If I'm going to drink soda, you might as well give me the sugar-filled variety. Either one is bad for you so give me the one that tastes good.

She will also tell me she doesn't want to eat sweets, but when I make myself a chocolate cake will ask me why I didn't make something we both like.

Who doesn't like chocolate cake? And I thought you didn't want any anyway.

It can be pretty maddening trying to cook for these people, but you'd be surprised; most of the time they actually like my cooking. Or at least, one of them per meal.








Breakfast prepared by the author.

Megan Is Missing

I just submitted a story for a competition, the writing prompt was this: when a man takes lunch to his wife's office, he's told that she hasn't worked there in weeks. The story could be happy, witty, serious, whatever you chose, but it also had to be 700 words or less. I'm long winded so it was a fun challenge to edit my idea down that much after originally writing about 850 words.

Here it is, hope you like it!

Megan Is Missing

My marriage had been in a rut for years. I had been secretly contemplating divorce for months, but couldn’t get up the courage to broach the subject. There were too many things I didn’t want to deal with: more fights and arguing, deciding who keeps the house, bickering over money. So I left it alone and suffered, wondering if things would ever get any better.
About three weeks ago, things began to change. I wish I could take credit for it, but I can’t; it was my wife who suddenly and dramatically changed in some amazing ways. She went out of her way to compliment decisions I made or little things I did around the house that she never seemed to notice before. She started cooking. When we married I understood that she couldn’t cook and that she had no interest in learning. It was one of those little things I overlooked at first and began to resent later, when I got tired of being the chef. Maybe it’s cliché to say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but I truly appreciated the delicious meals she was now preparing. I fell in love with my wife for a second time as she displayed more and more of these changes; the result being, that I began treating her better as well. I went out of my way to compliment her and talk with her; to connect with her. Our love life even improved.
I decided to surprise her at her work with lunch. As soon as lunch hour arrived I went straight over to our favorite Italian place and ordered meatball subs. Megan and I had been going to Luigi’s for years and loved how they loaded their meatball subs with tons of gooey, Mozzarella cheese that they made fresh daily.
The smell filled the car as I drove to Megan’s office. I couldn’t wait to see her face light up with surprise.
I was the one surprised; a stranger was sitting in her chair when I entered the lobby. Megan had been the Executive Assistant at the Ryan Brother’s law firm for the past five years. She must have stepped out of the office for a moment; hopefully not to lunch, as I was standing there with it in my hand.
“Welcome to Ryan Brother’s Law, can I help you?” the girl asked, smiling.
“Hi, I’m here to see Megan,” I replied, “I’m her husband.”
She looked confused. “I’m sorry, Megan?” she began. “Megan Koslowski? She no longer works here.”
“You’re kidding,” I chuckled. “She left home to come here this morning. What do you mean she doesn’t work here?”
“I’m sorry sir,” the young brunette answered, “Megan is no longer employed with Ryan Brother’s Law.”
My blood went cold. What was going on? Where was Megan?
“When did she quit?” I asked, puzzled.
“She didn’t; officially, Jack,” a male voice answered me from an open office door. Bryce Ryan appeared in the doorway. “She just didn’t show up one day three weeks ago. Never answered our calls. You didn’t know about this?” He seemed as puzzled as I was.
“No,” I said quietly. “I’d better go find out what’s going on Bryce; excuse me.”
I stepped outside. It had begun to rain. Reaching for my cell phone, a man in a black trench coat approached me.
“Jack Koslowski?” he asked, showing me an FBI badge.
“Yes,” I answered hesitantly, the rain spotting my glasses.
“Could you come with me sir? I’d like to speak with you about your wife, Megan.”
He helped me into a black, tinted van that had pulled alongside us. I had no energy to resist.
“What’s going on? Where’s my wife?” I was beginning to feel frantic.
“We don’t know sir,” he answered while closing the door and sitting down on the bench seat beside me, “but we have reason to believe the woman living with you is not your wife.”
My mind was spinning. “What?” I managed, “What are you saying?”
As the van sped away a man spoke up from the front passenger seat. “We believe your wife may have been replaced with an exact replica.”