TIME TO MAKE YOUR RESOLUTIONS

I am very good about making New Year's Resolutions.  I'm just not worth a darn in keeping any of them.

 

Five years ago I decided to simplify my resolutions.  But the list down from 43 or so to just 5 good ones.  I had way too many.  I wanted to pick 5 that were really worthwhile.

 

Here it is five years later and I have the same resolutions.  Each year I just scratch out the date at the top of the page and insert a new date.  2008 coming up!

 

My number one resolution is always to lose weight.  I don't put how many pounds I want to lose.  But it's a lot.  A friend told me I was so fat it was like carrying an overweight housewife around all day.  Along with her Kirby vacuum cleaner.  Those things weigh a ton.  I keep gaining weight every year but I think it's the woman that's gaining the weight.  It's no wonder I move slowly.  It wouldn't be so bad if she would vacuum once in a while while I waddle around.

 

My number two resolution is always to clean my office and get organized.  I don't really care about this one.  I just put it on the list mainly for my wife.  She thinks I need to get organized.  She's afraid I am going to die and she will have to deal with all the stuff.  Personally I think being organized is highly overrated.  You file stuff away and you have no idea what you have or where you put it.  Last year I hit upon the idea of putting everything in stacks and putting the stacks behind me so they are out of sight.  This way I feel organized.  Out of sight; organized.  I used to have an assistant and she filed all my stuff.  Or so I thought.  She put it in file drawers chronologically.  When I would ask her for a certain thing she would always ask me, "When was that Mr. Adams?"  And then she would start searching.

 

One of my other resolutions is to read one good book a month.  I've since scratched out "a month" and also the word "good".  That should make it easier.

 

My goal to get healthy is giving me a lot of trouble.  I've had cancer surgery, six eye operations, and a stroke which I have been recovering from for the past five months.  Don't get me wrong.  I'm not whining.  I know that doo-doo happens.  And I was brought up to accept things as God's will.  But I am beginning to wonder, WHY ME? 

 

What I really want to do this year is WAIL.  I want to build a Wailing Wall out back.  I admire those old middle eastern women who are out wailing their lungs out.  They are not crying.  They are wailing.  And I think it's probably very therapeutic.  I've tried it a few times.  It always makes the dog bark and my wife yells, "Stop that wailing you crazy old man."  But so be it.  I plan to wail if my newspaper gets wet.  I'll wail when I misplace my keys.  WAIL, WAIL, WAIL.  I may let my neighbors come over and wail at the Wailing Wall.  We might have to have certain hours for

wailing so we don't become a public nuisance.

 

I've joined a gym and I have a personal trainer now.  This is part of my quest to get healthy and fit. I almost didn't join because they had a 5-page questionnaire you had to complete.  One question was: have you ever been on a diet?  I said: Yes.  Then they asked: Did you lose weight?  I said: Yes.  They wanted to know how much weight I lost.  I said: 3 pounds.  They asked: How long were you on a diet?  I said: 32 Years.  Which is the truth.

 

My trainer is a cute woman so I will probably continue to go.  My therapist before this was a guy who looked like a chipmunk.  He was a drum major in school and wore a kilt.  He wouldn't tell me whether he wore underwear or not.  But I'm sure he did.  He wouldn't be a high-stepping drum major without his drawers on. 

 

At the gym they have big colorful rubber balls in the back.  People use them to exercise.  I thought they were training seals.  When I found out that people lay across these balls and do various exercises, I told her flat out that I wasn't getting on a ball.  And I want to take this opportunity to say publicly to the person who invented these balls for exercise: STUPID. STUPID. STUPID.  Whatever happened to touching your toes?

 

 

I JOINED A GYM THIS MONTH TO AVOID THE RUSH

I decided to avoid the January rush and join a gym in December.  Nobody joins a gym in December with the Christmas table laden with goodies.  But recently I saw a boxing match on TV and when they showed the fighters' statistics, one weighed 140 pounds and one weighed 142 pounds.  I thought to myself, "Jez.  I'm so fat it's like carrying a full grown boxer around with me all the time. No wonder  I move so slowly.  Or like carrying a full grown housewife.  And her Kirby vacuum cleaner."  That thought was all the incentive I needed.

 

I'm in Phase VI of recovering from a stroke back in July.  I not only joined the gym, but I got a Personal Trainer named Amanda.  She's cute.  Mainly she giggles as she leads me from one

torture chamber to another.

 

I got the distinct impression that the gym works much like used car lots...they assign cute young

women to sell to old fat guys.  And they assign male hunks to sell the women who come in.  But that's o.k.  I don't mind  having some Eye Candy while I work out (which is a euphemism since I have not yet sweated).  Amanda has a sweat shirt that says FIT HAPPENS.  She bounces around so much I was sure she had been a cheerleader in college.  I asked and she

was.  I asked her to do the splits and prove it.  But she did a cartwheel or two instead.  That proves it in my book.  I often wondered what happens to cheerleaders once they grow up.  I

think a lot of them peak early although they were always highly prized Date Bait when they were active. 

 

Before you can get on a machine at the gym (which in itself requires a  lot of dexterity), you have to fill out a 5 page questionnaire.  Health things and personal questions.  One was: Have

you ever been on a diet?  I answered: Yes.  Another question was: How much weight did you lose?  I answered: Two pounds.  Another question was: How long were you on the diet?  I answered: 32 years.

 

Then you have to sign a complex 5 pager legal document promising that you will not attempt

to sue the gym in the event that something terrible happens to you.  I wouldn't sue them.  All

they have are a bunch of exercise machines.

 

This gym is rather sedate.  At the moment.  the place is scheduled to expand into one of those

Disco-type gyms...the ones at which half-naked people go to meet other half-naked people amid loud music and flashing lights.  I don't think my membership allows me to go on the Disco side.  I know my heart wouldn't allow it.

 

Right now there are more women than men.  I guess they care more about their appearance.  But they are Old Chicks and mostly very skinny.

 

One lady rides a stationary bike next to me.  If it were a real bike she would be in Santa Fe by

now.  But she doesn't go anywhere.  She watches TV news as she pedals that sucker.  Next

to her is another woman who rides the bike and is reading a Stephen King novel which takes longer than pedaling to Santa Fe.  I don't know how she can read and ride.

 

Another personal trainer was working with his client (that's what they call us...clients, not

customers...not even members).  He had her on a table and had twisted her legs around so

much she looked like a human pretzel.  Without salt.

 

(This is an aside so I will put it in parenthesis.  But I have a certificate as a Certified Pretzel

Maker.  I got it  in Pennsylvania years ago where they have a Pretzel Making School.  You laugh,  but it's a lot more difficult to make a pretzel than it looks.  You don't lay them flat and

twist them.  You roll them out like a worm...pick up the two ends...and you flip/twist while they

are in the air...and if you are lucky, they turn into a pretzel.  This is all done in one move. My graduation certificate remains one of my proudest accomplishments and I hope my family remembers to include this in my obituary.  I think I should probably write my own obit now because I feel as if the family might have forgotten some other good stuff.  People do write their obits ahead of time and some file them with the NEW YORK TIMES.  My lawyer said he would die if he doesn't get a big piece in the NEW YORK TIMES so he updates his obit every year and files it along with a photo from his college yearbook.  He's now 87 years old, but he's still

using his college yearbook picture.  So much for obits.  Except for the fact that long ago, newspapers used to run them on the front page of the newspapers.  This was before they really had any Hard News.)

 

They have clocks all over the gym...and time does not pass quickly when you are grunting and groaning.  I may be the only person who grunts aloud.   I'm deaf and I can't hear when I groan.

But apparently I am scaring some of the other "clients". But other clients are scaring me.  In

the backroom they have about a dozen big, big rubber balls in bright colors. I thought they were

training seals back there. But, no!  They make clients get on these balls...stretch across them

to do exercise routines.  I told the trainer right off that I was not getting on a ball.  First of all, it

might explode and wouldn't that be embarrassing?  She claimed they would hold 500 pounds but you never know and I'm not taking any chances.  She tried to play Dodge Ball with me but I could not dodge a ball that holds 500 pounds.

 

In the new gym we will have changing rooms.  I think I am past my getting naked even in front

of a bunch of other men.  I think I might fit in better on the women's side, even with my beard.

 

We have a snack bar in the current gym.  Well right now it's more like a candy store.  They have all kinds of candy bars that all have the word POWER as part of the name. And drinks

that are called POWER AIDE.  I guess power is what we all are looking for.  I know I am, and I always want to start my routine in the candy store.

 

In the new gym, we will have a Karaoke Juice Bar where we can sing and meet people.  I can't

wait.  But I'm not drinking carrot juice, even on a bet.   I'm not that desperate to meet people.

 

I AM A PRINCE. I'M PRETTY SURE OF IT.

My birth certificate says I was born in the Gastonia hospital.  It doesn't say anything about my royal personage.  But, of course, how would they know?  I mean, Royals aren't born with a silver crown in their mouths.  It has to do with your blood line. My guess is that I came from a line of Royal Gypsies, perhaps The Count of Gastonia in Transylvania, who lost his right to move up to kingdom on the Royal Ladder of Gypsy Heritage.That's just a guess.  Sure, you might laugh at me and wonder how I ever got sired by the Count of Gastonia.  Gypsies travel you know and it's a well documented fact that the Count of Gastonia came through here in 1935 via a Trailways Bus.  He got off here because the town was amazingly named after him.  He was traveling incognito at the time as gypsies often do.  Apparently he was a sperm donor at a local clinic.  It's the only way we can explain it because my Mother claims she would never have taken up (in the Biblical sense of the word) with a gypsy who was just passing through, even if swore on a goat that he was royal.  My feeling is that there might be a whole string of Royals living among us because the Count of Gastonia supported himself by being a sperm donor in the various places he travelled. Do you feel royal?  You may be a

Prince or a Princess, and chances are good that you are not being treated like one.  You've got to stand up for your rights!

 

     I felt  royal from the very beginning of life.  When I was born everybody was so elated because my Mother previously had six miscarriages before she finally had a healthy me.

Also, three of her sisters and my grandmother lived with us and they all adored me and made over me as if I were a little Prince.

 

     I was spoiled rotten. My wife says, "They didn't do you any favors", meaning she doesn't

intend to treat me like a prince.  If this were the olden days I would probably remind of of what happened to Marie Antoinette.  It was a wicked way for Louie to get her to shut up, but it worked. When you are King you can have the Royal Ax brought out on a moment's  notice.

It's also not sinful if you are King.  It's one of your many perks.  I'm not sure that this right applies to Gypsy Royalty however.

 

     I was treated royally for the first five years of my life.  But then I had to start school and

Miss Abernathy, my first grade teacher at Victory School, had never had a Royal in her class.

And without a crown or proof of some kind, I was just another snotty nosed mill kid.

 

     Later in life when my third daughter was born, we had a sure sign of royal heritage appear.  She was born with two thumbs on one hand..and everyone knows --- well, every gypsy knows --- this is a sure sign of royal blood.  Plus it makes thumbing a ride much easier when you grow up.

 

     Actually the double thumbs has been showing up every other generation on my Mother's side of the family.  My Mother had double thumbs.  She also did not have hair under her arms

and neither does Queen Elizabeth, so I am told.

 

     We had my daughter's extra thumb surgically removed  so she would not be self conscious and because my wife did not think it was a royal appendage.  When my daughter started kindergarten, she came home the first day in tears.  Apparently, on the bus to school, my two

older daughters told everyone about the double thumbs and they called my little darling a freak.

Everyone wanted to see it.

 

      I took her out on the back porch to console her and I told her that I was going to tell her a

secret and she had to pledge never to tell anyone else.  I explained  to her that in another time

and place, the double thumbs would have signified she was a sign of royalty and she would have been a Princess. Or maybe even the Queen.  She perked up at this revelation and got

a royal look as if she were sitting on a throne .  I warned her not to tell others because they would be jealous.

 

      I watched when she got on the school bus the next morning.  She ran through the bus with her crooked thumb held high yelling, "I am a Princess.,  I am a Princess.  Get off my bus!"

 

     So much for family secrets.  I still treat her like a Princess and she's now 37 years old.  She doesn't wear the crown I got her.  She says it falls off so easily when she has to vacuum.  I don't think other Royals do their own cleaning.  I can't imagine Queen Elizabeth with a vacuum.

Although she may have a Dirt Devil in her room to suck up cigarette ashes when she smokes.

I also can't imagine Queen Elizabeth going to the bathroom.  Or having sex ever.  It would be

easier imagining her with a vacuum.

 

WHO IS THAT MAN IN THE RED SUIT?

I like Santa Claus.  But  I never liked the fact that my parents lied to me about him being the

real thing.  Even when I was five years old I could figure out that some fat guy in a red suit wasn't going to be able to land on our roof with a herd of flying raindeer.  And then to come down our chimney with a bag of toys.  I had a vivid imagination, don't get me wrong.  But I remembered that the wolf that tried to blow down all the little pigs' houses had decided to come down the chimney of the one who had built with brick and he ended up in a pot of hot water and the three pigs ended up with Wolf Stew.  Besides, we didn't have an open fireplace and Santa would have ended up in a kerosene heater.  Now explain THAT to me Dad.

 

Actually I never spoke aloud my thoughts about Santa being a fake.  I mean, why should I?  Somebody was putting gifts under the Christmas tree every year and if I turned the spotlight on

him, the gifts may have stopped.  So I kept my little skeptical mouth shut...I think I was 22 or

23 years old when I confessed that I was a non-believer. 

 

But parents tend to lie about everything.  Think of the Tooth Fairy.  Now why do they have to

think up such a stupid fairy.  Thank goodness he didn't give much for a tooth or I would have

pulled out every one in my mouth just to get the money.  I remember distinctly the first time

I went to the dentist...we lived in Charleston...I was 8 years old.  We went on the bus and as

we rode in to town I asked my Father where we were going.  He said to the dentist.  I wanted to know if it was going to hurt.  He laughed and said, "Of course it's not going to hurt.  Don't be silly."  Well, liar liar pants on fire.  It did hurt because he yanked out one of my teeth.  And then I had to sit beside that my liar Father on the bus.

 

That's not the only time he lied.  Another time we took the bus one Saturday and when I asked

where we were going he just said, "We're going to see a man about a dog."  Of course this got me excited thinking we were going to get a dog as a pet.  But when we got off the bus we went into a doctor's office.  As we waited I tried to whisper to him about what was going on.  He didn't want to go into details but just said they were going to cut off a little of my penis.  "FOR WHAT?" I said too loudly.  It didn't make any sense to me.  None at all.  We went into the

doctor's office and he made me take off all my clothes, even my underwear.  He had me get on a table/bed and they started to give me ether.  I was suppose to count backwards from 10.

After one whiff and the count of 9, I jumped off the bed and ran out into the waiting room.  Sure

I was naked, but I didn't care.  My Father chased me and took me back in.  They had to get a couple of male volunteers from the waiting room to come hold me down while they gave me the

ether again.  I wasn't counting, but I was out before I knew it.  I didn't sit next to my Father on

the bus home.  I didn't speak to him even after I got home.  He tried to make up by offering to get me ice cream.  This wasn't like losing one tooth, you know.  I had a mouth full of teeth but

I only had one penis.  And to tell you the truth, I think the doctor may have cut off more than he had to because he was so angry at me for running off.  But there's no use crying over a severed...well you know the phrase.

 

As I was recovering, my Father came into the bedroom one day, sat on the bed and said,

"You still my boy?"  I didn't answer him at first.  But he asked me again.  Then I told him,

"I'm not going to be your boy if you keep lying to me."

 

When my daughters were growing up and had their first visit to the dentist,  they wanted to know if it would hurt.  I told the truth.  YES!  I didn't lie.  I told them it would hurt really badly...that it wasn't as bad as childbirth, but it would hurt.  I remember my oldest daughter

came out of the office saying, "Liar, liar. Pants on fire.  It didn't hurt at all."

 

When I was 5 years old we went to my Grandfather's house for Christmas.  We had a housefull

of people...all my cousins.  Suddenly there was a knock on the door and when we went to answer it, there stood Santa Claus.  A real live Santa Claus.  He was carrying a bag of toys

and a guitar.  Before he handed out stockings with our names on them, he played the guitar

and sang, "I'm Back In The Saddle Again".  I knew it wasn't Santa but thought it might be Gene

Autry in a Santa suit.  When he told me to get on his lap and tell him what I wanted for Christmas, I knew for sure it wasn't Santa.  I could smell the bourbon on his breath.  It was

Uncle Johnny for sure.  But, again, I didn't admit that I knew it wasn't Santa.  Maybe I am just

as big a liar by not admitting what I knew...but, you know, there were all those gifts every year

and I hated to risk them stopping. I was just a boy after all.

 

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More new features than ever. Check out the new AOL Mail!

An Herbal Remedy That Might Kill You 'With Joy

Medical people are now saying that lots of guys with erectile dysfunction are taking herbal remedies that are causing them to have heart attacks and dying.  Well it's a big price to pay

but if you die with an erection, you'll probably have a smile on your face.

Dogs From Baghdad

I love dogs but, honestly, I have never heard of such a stupid idea.  Someone has decided to

collect stray dogs in the city of Baghdad and they are shipping them to various places in the world to be adopted.  It's costing $4,000 a dog!  They must be flying First Class.  Of course they might be using some of that money to teach them to speak English. 

what's In Your Medicine Cabinet?

You better check it out because if you don't, one of your visitors will.  Everybody wants to look in other people's medicine cabinets.  And most people do. Admit it!  If you haven't looked in another

person's medicine cabinet, you've certainly wanted to as you stand there washing your hands and wondering what's behind the mirror.

 

It's called CURIOSITY.  The same thing that has killed all those cats.

 

I look. I don't mind saying it.

 

But I look very carefully. A friend of mine puts about 200 loose marbles in her medicine cabinet.

So if you take a peek without knowing what's inside, hundreds of marbles come bouncing out

and hitting the sink and her tile floor.  And she's usually outside the door laughing and asking,

"What's going on in there Nosey?"  She makes you pick them up.  I know because I've opened

the cabinet door before.  More than once.  I have a short memory.

 

Another friend of mine has a big sign inside that says: WHAT HE HELL ARE YOU LOOKING FOR?

 

Another one has a big assortment of Adult Store "toys" just to get the neighbors talking.

 

My medicine cabinet is dull by comparison.  And  I don't care if people look in it.  It's filled with

dozens of half-used prescriptions....all of them are way out of date and I don't know what most

of them were for anyway.  Half the doctors who prescribed them are dead now.  I've got enough

prescription medicine to start my own drug store.  If I could only remember what they were for.

Must have worked however because I'm still alive.

 

I have a lot of stuff in little bottles with droppers.  But I don't know where you drop the stuff or

why.  There are two partially used bottles of Caldarom.  I think it's an herb of some kind.  A

naturepath doctor in the mountains sold it to me to cure a hand disease that had baffled four doctors who had prescribed various expensive hand creams.  The naturepath guy made me quit taking vitamins and other stuff...then I took the Caldarom drops in water. And like a miracle, my hands  were clear again.  (Sadly he got arrested soon after for murder...he was treating a young girl and had her quit taking her regular medications. She died and he went to the clinker.)

 

I have a bunch of grey whiskers on the top shelf.  A stack of them.  II was saving them for an art project but have  forgotten exactly what the art project entailed. But it will come to me one day...and I hope I can

remember where the whiskers are stored.

 

On that shelf I also have a tube of DARKIE TOOTHPASTE...it's suppose to whiten and brighten

your teeth. But I think you have to paint your face black like Al Jolson to make it really look

effective.  The guy on the tube of toothpaste looks like Al and it always makes me break out in

song.  Usually "Mammy".

 

That's pretty much it for the medicine cabinet itself.  But we have about l0 drawers.  My wife

keeps  her assigned drawers sort of neat.  She knows what's in each one.   I just sort of open

a drawer and throw whatever I have into it.  I have an unbelievable collection of crap in the drawers.

 

One drawer has seven razor blades.  All used.  I am taking a blood thinner medicine now and the doctor advises against using a razor to shave.  So I have grown a beard. I could throw the old razors away, but I don't really need the space.

 

I've got quite a collection of motel soaps, shampoos and lotions.  I figure you pay for all the

stuff they put out, so I take it with me.  I don't think I've ever used any of it. For one thing, you

can't get the wrapper off the soaps.  I can't imagine how they seal them so tight.  And if you

do get one open, the pungent odor breaks out into the room and your bathroom then smells

like a cheap motel for eternity.

 

I have eyewash, mouthwash and three partially used cans of shaving foam...a Dry Look hair spray(but I don't have any hair so it would make my head dry looking...I must have had this left over

from when I did have hair...and nobody can remember that far back).  I have Herbal Ed's salve

but I'm not sure where to apply it. I have a pencil sharpener and a pencil with white lead...you

use it to put the white under the tips of your fingernails when you want them to look neat.  Then

I have about four different fingernail clippers in various sizes.  Yet I can never find a single pair when I want to clip my nails.  I have some dog shampoo...although we haven't had a dog in years.  I guess I could really get rid of that but who knows when a dirty stray dog may wander

by and need a shampoo.  I want to be ready to clean him up.

 

 

Getting Ready for Fly Season

I hate flies.  And  I hate them most at this time of the year because as the weather gets colder

they start dying off.  And because they know they are going to die anyway, they start opening the door and coming in the house...flying around and landing on your nose...they know no fear.  They are like Kamikazi pilots with four feet.

 

I am not a hateful person by nature, but I sure hate flies.  I must have had a swarm of them attack me when I was a baby out for a stroll.  They probably ate my ice cream cone.

 

I am a collector.  I collect lots of different things.  If you have three of something, technically you have a "collection".  So I have a fly swatter collection.  My fly swatter collection includes one that

functions as a wall clock.  There's a big black fake fly on the second hand...so  as the clock ticks

away, the fly moves around.  I have another one that's shaped like a big screen hand.  Then I have some home made fly swatters...a friend of mine calls them "make do" fly swatters because they

were put together by poor people who had to use whatever was at hand to make them. One of my make do swatters has a ruler for a handle.  And I yell, "Joe Rules!" when I smash a fly with it.

 

I spent a summer in Maine one year...in a wildlife preserve.  And I think it must have been dedicated to preserving dreaded black flies.  They are the biggest and meanest flies I have ever

met.  And you never see a word about them when you read Maine tourism literature.  They are always writing about their lobsters, but their flies are bigger than lobsters..  If they showed the dreaded black flies in their literature, their tourism business would die out.  You need more than a regular fly swatter to combat these things.  I tried to hit one with a regular swatter and he grabbed it, swatted me on the head and flew away with it.  You can see why they aren't featured on Maine's website.

 

If you mention these black flies to somebody from Maine, the person will absolutely deny their existence.  It's like people from the coastal area of South Carolina who deny that we have huge

flying cockroaches.  We call them Palmetto Bugs. But a roach is a roach.  And you can't kill

these things with a fly swatter.  It's no use to put out one of those Roach Motels where the roaches

check in but they don't check out.  These South Carolina roaches don't check out because they

eat the motel.  I tell my wife, "you just have to learn to live with them."  But she still jumps up on the couch if one goes scampering by...as if they can't jump up on the couch.   The minute

she goes to bed, they all jump up in her spot, sit and watch tv.

 

The last time I was in Jackson, Mississippi, I stayed in a Brand Name Hotel.  My daughter makes my reservations and I have told her if the person who answers sounds forgeign, not

to make it.  I know this sounds discriminatory..and it is.  Quite a while ago, Indians (not

the American kind but the ones from India) have started buying up motels. First it was the

Mom and Pop type, but now they own chain and name brand ones.  When I got to Jackson

and checked in, there was a young college-looking guy at the desk...but the lobby was filled

with flies.  I mentioned this to the guy.  He just shrugged and said, "The place is owned by

Indians.  They don't kill anything.  They have a goat in their room." I don't think people should be in the hospitality business if they keep goats in their room.  And his comment is not

true about them not killing things.. They kill chickens.  And if they can kill chickens, they can damn well kill flies.  When I

went to my room,  it too was filled with flies.  I went back to the lobby and asked to have

the manager come down.  He did and I explained about the flies and that I wanted him to go

to Wal-Mart and get me a fly swatter.  But he started that routine about the fact that they might

be reincarnated relatives, etc.  I asked him, "Does your grandmother have big buggy eyes and

four legs with poop on them?  Because if she does, she is flying around in my room and I'm going to swat her with USA TODAY unless you get me a fly swatter."  He said he would come and collect the flies.  He actually shooed them out of the room with a towel.  I thought he would probably bring the goat down and let them light on him.

 

Why Can't We Have Everything?

People often wondere why we can't have it all. 

 

We can have it all.  We just can't have it all at the same time.  And if we did have it all at the same time, we wouldn't know what to do with it.

 

I MIGHT DIE TONIGHT

Or maybe not.  My doctor says I have sleep apena.  It's some new thing they've come up with to make you worry.  People who have it quit breathing while they are sleeping...and they die.   But generally they start breathing again...and start living again.

The doctor said, "You could die in your sleep." 

I told him I wouldn't mind going that way.  If you die in your sleep, you don't even know you're dead.

The conversation got me to thinking about death and dying.  Mainly the different ways one could die, and the many ways I don't want to go.  Not that you have control in the matter.

I would not want to be sucked into a batch of quicksand like Tarzan was always doing.  Fortunately he had his trusted monkey,
Cheetah nearby (star of "Are You Smarter Than a Hollywood Monkey").  Cheetah would run get a vine that allowed Tarzan to
get out.  Sometimes the bad guy would fall in, but Cheetah would not get the vine...he would just laugh hysterically.  I have
a feeling he would get the vine for some dried banana chips.

I wouldn't want to be run over by an l8 wheeler.  Even at a slow speed.  Or by a 4-wheeler for that matter.  No head-on crashes
either.  Or being suffocated by a white air bag.  (I got hit by a car once and my air bag came out.  Once the car settled, I was
fairly certain I was in Heaven and that the air bag was a white cloud.)

The ocean scares me.  And the things that live there.  I wouldn't want to be eaten by a shark, a barracuda, or an octopus.
Or even a gang of hungry crabs.  No piranahas or anything else that lives in the water.  I especially wouldn't want to be eaten by an alligator.  And don't say it couldn't happen because an 83-year-old woman here in South Carolina got eaten except for her feet.
I don't think the alligator liked her Crocs.

I hate snakes and wouldn't want to be eaten by one.  I've seen pictures of them swallowing live rabbits so somewhere there may be a snake that could swallow me (that I would almost like to see!).  No snake bites and no choking by a snake. I cut off my friendship
with a guy who bought a pet snake...a big one...and insisted on bringing the snake with him to social gatherings.  He was soon gathering by himself.

I wouldn't want to fall out of a tall redwood tree or have one fall on m.  Or be sawed in half at a sawmill...or by a poorly trained magician.

No beatings and no muggers, please.  I wouldn't want a brick building to fall on me...or even one brick.

I wouldn't want to be nailed o a cross or burned at the stake even if it meant that someone would make a movie about me or
that I would become a saint.  I'd rather help the poor.

I'm afraid of being put accidentally in a coffin while I am still alive.  I am a shallow breather, so I have told my cousins to
put a mirror under my nose when they come to the funeral home and make sure I am not buried alive.  It happens more
than you might imagine.

I don't want to be burned up (why do people say houses  burn down, but people burn up?).  A friend of mine wants to be
dro. pped into an active volcano when she passes on.  I just think she is too cheap to pay for a regular cremation.

No poison arrows, please.  Not even a plain one.  I can't believe that William Tell actually let someone shoot an apple
off of his head.

I'm not crazy about dying from natural disasters --- floods, earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes, tornadoes.  They seem to
be happening all the time.  One deaf man like me got hit by lightning and it restores his hearing.  But there have been
thousands of others who were fried like a big piece of bacon, so I'm not standing out in a storm flying a kite with a key on the
string.

I don't want to die after a long illness at home...or worse yet, aftere a long illness in a nursing home that would bankrupt mr.

I don't want to be hit on the head with a baseball at a Braves game.  Or even at a Little League game.  Or run over by a loose
racecar at the track.

I know you can't control how you are going to die unless you do it yourself which isn't my style.  But I hope it will be quiet and
painless with a smile on my face without my tongue hanging out.  (Have you ever noticed that funeral homes never put a smile
on anybody's face?  The dead always look so....dead.  I want a smile on my face with my teeth showing...maybe even have
my hand in my pants.)


F

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EATING YOUR HEART OUT...FOR PRIZE MONEY

I remember fondly when Ranlo Mill would set up long tables under the shade trees and bring in a truckload of ripe watermelons for their annual Watermelon Eating Contest.

 

I don't know why I thought I could  win,  but every year I dreamed of winning.  Nobody ever remembered who won even a week later so fame was fleeting.  But yet I yearned to win.

 

Men would slice up dozens of watermelonons and we would gather around the table and start

eating, saving empty rinds to prove what we ate.  I don't think I ever ate more than two pieces.

Maybe three.  I also don't remember girls eating, although I'm sure they were welcomed.  But

having an eating contest to your credit isn't like being Homecoming Queen.

t

I thought of these contests recently when I watched the International Hot Dog Eating Contest

on TV.  It was the sixth annual one and it was held at Nathan's on Coney Island.  Nathan's Hot

Dogs aren't those skinny little finger dogs.  These are MAN SIZE DOGS.  And you have to eat

the bun and condiments including kraut.  It's also a time-based competition to see how many you can eat in 12 minutes.

 

Last year's winner was on hand.  He was a little Japanese guy.  I thought he would at least

look like a sumo wrestler.  But, no.  He was small.  And apparently most of the competitive

eaters aren't big and fat.  Fat people can't hold as much.  It's something about fat people having a small "first stomach".  But the Jap didn't win again this year and I was glad.  I still

haven't forgiven them about bombing Pearl Harbor.  I know this guy didn't bomb us, but his

grandfather might have.  And why is a Japanese person eating Nathan Hot Dogs?  Let them

eat sushi, is what I say.

 

Anyway an American guy won.  Guess how many he ate?  Wrong!  He ate 66 1/2 and it makes me gag even to write it.  And I love hot dogs. 

 

Soon after the contest I found that eating competitions have become a big thing.  It's not an Olympic sport (yet),  but it's a sport of sorts.  They even have MAJOR LEAGUE EATING, a

franchise just like baseball and football.  And you wonder why America is obese!  There's even an International Federation of Competitive Eating.  The name fills me with visions of members getting together eating everything in sight...paper plates, napkins, floral centerpieces, trays of bones.  Even tablecloths.

 

My oldest grandson was glad to discover there is a wing eating contest.  He thinks he might be able to win it.  I told him about the watermelons but he's still confident. Last year's winner ate 146 buffalo wings in 12 minutes.  That really doesn't seem like a lot.  My grandson could probably eat that many but I'm not buying him a tray of wings to practice which he is hoping I would.  When he was 8 years old he entered an apple eating contest and won.  It was suppose to be an applie pie eating contest but they had already eaten all the pies so they

switched to plain apples.  I was afraid my grandson was going to choke himself to death because he took huge bites and I don't think he chewed them much before swallowing.  I guess that's what you have to do to win.  The prize was a bucket of apples.  We booed.

 

In the U.S. there are more than 4,000 sanctioned competitive eating contests each year.

And the number is growing.  I guess people find it amusing to watch people stuff their faces

and overindulge. Many of the competitions are telecast on SPIKE and I imagine ESPN will

soon have a channel devoted to eating.

 

Here's just a sampling of what you might see: SPAM, hamburgers, cow brains, pizza, chili, corn dogs, cheesecakes, hardboiled eggs (winner last year ate 65 in 7 minutes),  burritos,

blueberry pies, meatballs, corned beef and cabbage, grits (they had the contest in Louisiana

but South Caroline is the Grits Capital of the World...the winner ate 21 pounds), waffles, jalapenos, french fries.  I wonder if they have Spring Training Camps?

 

Think you could win one of these?  Get out your eating bib!

 

Richard Shea says competitive eating  celebrates the individual freedom to strive and achieve;

to  express the innermost self and ideals found only in the laws of nature.  Sounds awfully high faluten for competive eating.  Maybe this quote was about Dancing With the Stars.

 

 

 

HANGING WITH MAD MEN

Jack Kerouac said he liked to hang with people who were mad.  I agree.  I do, too.

 

Not the kind who hqve to be put in straitjackets, but the kind who are funny-mad, not scary-mad.

 

My wife thinks all my friends are crazy.  That's her term.

 

I used to tell her, "They're just not like you and me."

 

I noticed lately that I've been saying, "They're just not like you."

 

I may have gone over to the other side.

 

 

PILLOW TALK

When I was a kid, as an only child I would hold a pillow over my face to see how long I could hold it without suffocating to death.

 

I know that probably seems a strange thing to do.  But, mind you, we were poor and I had few

things in the way of store-bought toys.  So attempting to suffocate myself was just one inexpensive way of playing.

 

I could go for about a minute and a half back then. Then I would yank the pillow off my face and gasp loudly for air.  Just seconds longer and I would have been a goner.  At my own hand.

 

My Mother, when she would hear the gasps (we had a very small house with very thin walls),

would yell out, "What are you doing in there?"

 

What did she think I was doing, I wondered.

 

I never answered her.  I just tried to gasp quieter the next time.  But it's difficult to gasp quietly if you have a real pillow on your face.

 

I would usually do the pillow thing four or five times trying to better my time, much as a swimmer might do.  I pretended to be in training for underwater swimming.  I had no intention

back then to end it all.

 

I still put the  pillow over  my face now that I am very old.  But now I'm practicing to put myself away when the time comes...mainly if things get any more shitty.  And I'm not apologizing for saying shitty.

 

You be the judge.

 

I am completely deaf.

I am blind in one eye.

I have had eye surgery on the so-called good eye four different times.

I had colon cancer that left me with a belly scar so big people think it is my ass crack.

I had a stroke.

I am bald.

I am fat.

I can't sing.

I will never get on DANCING WITH THE STARS unless they do a segment for physically challenged  people...which they probably will do.  (Wayne Newton looked physically challenged...he's had so much plastic surgery, he can't turn his head and he moved like

a robot that needed oil.)

My friends are dying like flies on the first cold day of autumn.

 

Add it up!

It comes to "shitty".

 

So I now put my pillow over my face after taking what I think might be my last breath.  I pretend it is my wife that's doing it.  Who could blame her.

 

I can hold my the pillow there for two minutes most.  Then I yank it off because, really...in

spite of all the aforementioned, I still condider myself lucky.  Especially with such a wonderful caregiver.

 

But I must say, I get a little nervous when I see her changing the pillowcases and coming

toward the bed with a fluffy pillow.  I start to cry out, "NO!  Not the PILLOW." But who would

hear me.

MR. GOODFOOT

I am recovering from a stroke that paralyzed me on the left side.  With therapy I am learning to walk again but with the aid of a walker.  The walker does me no good on steps so I have to hold on for dear life and take one step at a time. Surprisingly I am suppose to lead with my bad foot first.

When it is safely in place, I follow with my good foot.  Going up, I lead with my good foot.

 

I got in the habit of saying aloud: "Bad foot first.  Now good foot".  And I started affectionately calling my right foot Mr. Goodfoot.

 

But then I feel psychologically I should stop calling he bad foot "bad".  It was like scolding a dog

for soiling the carpet.  "Bad foot.  Bad foot."

 

Really now, Mr. Goodfoot had not done anything to actually deserve being called Mr. Goodfoot,

although I certainly appreciate its support, literally and figuratively.  Yet it was truly just the regular foot that it had always been.

 

I felt as if I were undermining the comeback of my geek foot by calling it "Bad Foot".  I did know how to reward it.  Maybe I could yell, "Way to go boy," evereytime it made a step.  But

it still  needed a name of its own.

 

I decided to call it Mr. Not-So-Good-But-Getting-Better-All-The-Time Foot.  Of course now

I am much slower going down steps with that monoger.

 

 

TARZAN: KING OF THE TALL GRASS OUT BACK

I loved movies when I was a kid.  I started going to town on my own when I was only six.  I took the bus and I usually had fifty cents to spend.

 

My friends and I liked Tarzan movies and were always pleased when one was playing.  They were so exotic

compared to Gastonia.  They had big snakes.  Alligators.  Elephants.  Quicksand.

 

It seemed that Tarzan would step in quicksand in every single movie he made.  We would yell out,

"Oh, no.  Not again."  Today people would call him mentally challenged.  We called him stupid.

 

The quicksand was like a magnet that drew Tarzan to it.  Thank goodness he had a monkey, Cheetah,

who was always handily nearby.

 

"Get the vine, Cheetah," Tarazan would yell.  "Get the vine!"  Cheetah would run off and soon come back

with a glass of chardonnay.

 

"I said get the VINE, stupid, not the wine you dumb cluck."

 

Meanwhile Tarzan was sinking deepeer and deeper into the quicksand.  He should have known that flapping his arms only made him sink faster.  Here's a tip from the book THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW BEFORE GOING TO

THE JUNGLE...if you are in quicksand, you try to float.  And try to get a human to help you instead of calling a monkey.  Even a Hollywood monkey.

 

We liked to play Tarzan after we had seen a movie of his.  We would play in the high grass behind my house.

That's as close as we could come to simulate a jungle.  We had to hand out parts.  Almost everyone wanted

to be Tarzan.  (We called him TAR-ZAN...it made him sound more like an action hero.)  I wasn't personally crazy

about being Tarzan because you had to wear a loincloth.  If it had been made of tiger skin I might have liked it.

But we usually used a piece of oil cloth from a castaway tablecloth.  Plus I didn't like the idea of wearing a homemade loin cloth without my underwear, and especially if I had to climb a tree. Some boys didn't care.
Just like Hollywood today.

Cheetah was a popular choice.  If you got to be Cheetah, you could jump around and roll around like a fool....pick your nose and flick the boogers...show your genitals inappropriately.  You know how monkies
are.

Sadly nobody really wanted to be Jane, not even the girls.  She was very pretty in the movies and she was often an highly trained scientist of some sort and it made you wonder why she would take up with an Ape
Man.  But put her in some kind of animal skin and she reveerted to a ditsy housewife every time.  Even in
a treehouse without a gas stove.  She tried to make Tarzan and Boy eat oatmeal for breakfast every day
and pick up around the treehouse after breakfast.  And she kicked poor Cheetah out.  She said monkies didn't belong indoors.  And that they were very smelly, and I'm sure she was right about that.
If we had no girl to play Jane, we would try to make a Sissy Boy play the part.  Preferably a blonde boy.

The main thing we did was hack through the high grass whicH was filled with man-eating snakes (so we
said).  Well, maybe not man-eating but certainly ones that could eat a monkey which, of course, made the
role of Cheetah slightly less desirable.

Remember in Tarzan movies how a big snake would swallow another living thing and you could see the
form of it in the snake's body.  Scary, huh?

If we whacked through enough grass, we would come out at a little store where they sold penny candy.
The storekeeper would usually say to Tarzan, "Why you got that tablecloth on you, boy?"

And Tarzan would say, "I am not Boy.  I am TAR-ZAN, King of the Jungle. And this is a loin cloth."
Neither one of them knew what a loin cloth was.

We would conduct our business as quickly as possible before the storekeeper looked under Tarzan's
loincloth.

Back home we would run into cannibals.  My grandmother washed clothes in two big black kettles
over open fires.  My friends thought she was a witch when she would be outside punching and stirring
the clothes.  But she didn't wash on the weekends, so the big black pots were perfect for cooking a
cannibal meal.

We always wanted to cook Jane figuring she would be the most tender.  Our other choice was the
Sissy Boy playing her part. We certainly didn't want to cook the monkey, and Tarzan was the star.
So we would pick Jane up and put her in the pot.  We really didn't cook her although I am sorry now
that we didn't try at least once.  Of course I would be writing this from Juvenile Jail.

We pretended to cook her and Tarzan would beat his bony chest and proclaim, "Sweet ribs tonight."

Oh, those were glorious days  before electronic toys and computers.  And that, dear readers, is why
we grew up with FAMILY VALUES.

 

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WHAT GOD HATH WROUGHT

I'll tell you what he hath wrought.

I have to dress myswelf with a pair of giant tweezers.

 

Yes, you read that correctly.

Tweezers!

 

I"m recovering from  stroke.

The Occupational Therapist (O.T. as they like to be called)

prescribed the Tweezers.

 

The Tweezers are like a long stick with pinchers on the end.

 

The O.T. says you can amazingly pick up pennies with them.

But why would a stroke victim need to pick up pennies?

 

I pick up my underwear.

I pick up my socks.

I pick up my shirt.

I pick up my glasses when I accidentally drop them.

I pinch my wife inappropriately.

(Heh, these things are more fun than I thought.)

Anf I would pinch the O.T. if she were here.

 

I just hope none of my friends from my former life

don't see me dependen on big Tweezers.

 

I mean, I used to be somebody.

Mr. Somebody, they called me.

Now I'm putting on my underwear with Tweezers.

 

Amazing tweezers to be sure.

I'm Edward, Tweezerhands.

FRAGILE

I feel like a package being tossed around the post office of life.

 

Put a FRAGILE sticker on me dammit.

I can't take much more.

 

At least give me a HANDLE WITH CARE sticker.

I'll never get to my destination in one piece.

 

Couldn't you have asked for EXPRESS MAIL. 

Or Special Handling.

 

Where am I going anyway?

WAILING

I admire those old MIddle Eastern women you see on tv.

They are always wailing their hearts out over the insane killings and bombings.

Sometimes they are wailing over the rotten fruit in the marketplace.

But the whole idea is that they wail when they are pissed.

 

I think we should have Wailing Walls here in America...

Someplace to go and wail when things don't go our way.

Maybe have one in every backyard instead of a plastic pool.

 

I would like to wail, and I would do it even without a wall

but it scares the dog and sets him to barking...and my wife yells

"Stop that wailing you crazy old man".

 

I suspect that wailing is quite healthy.

But I would do it over all kinds of stuff.

I wouldn't want to have family members killed

just to get in a few good wails.

 

I would wail if my morning newspaper got wet

and I couldn't unfold the pages.

I hate that.

 

I would wail if the lightbulb goes out on the stove.

(You can't reach the damn thing!)

Or if one of the kitchen flourescent lights goes out

and has to be replaced.
I do in fact wail when this happens.

Fortunately flourescents last for hundreds and hundreds of hours. 

On the Road to Recovery

Remember those old Bob Hope-Bing Crosby-Dorothy Lamour movies? The famous "road" pictures that were so funny? My recovery from a recent stroke would make a great road picture. Or one of those stupid reality shows. I used to tell my children when something bad happened: "Two years from now, you will be laughing at this". They never believed it. Some things took longer, but they were girls.

I always believed the sooner you could find humor in a bad situation, the sooner your got over it. But don't laugh at funerals. Unless they drop the casket. I am trying to apply my philosophy to my stroke recovery and I am laughing already. I laughed first when my wife was trying to find a medical transportation company to take me from North Carolina where I had the stroke down to a rehab hospital in Savannah, a distance of about 300 miles. They wanted $7,000! I told my wife to go down to Main Street in Saluda and find some guy who had a pick up truck and see if he would put a mattress in the back and haul me home. But she was smarter. She called a limo service and found someone to take me in a limo for just $432. My grandson wanted to ride with me. When we got to the hospital, they thought a rock star had arrived. The hospital was very, very nice. They have won awards for 6 years now as one of the top 100 employers in the country. They treated me like a prince...the nurses were so nice and so were the therapists. I can't say much for the food but the night nurse made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich as a snack. All the patients were stroke victims since that's what the hospital specializes in. The doctor said I should have a fast and complete recovery. But his idea of fast is a lot different than mine. I was in the hospital for six weeks and I've been out for six weeks...and I am still recovering. I am making progress, but it is very slow. I'm trying to be a patient patient. My wife is my primary care giver...when she came to get me from the hospital I reminded her of saying "for better or for worse" some 50 years ago. I said, "This is worse." Actually she's been very good at it. She's been trying to get control of me for all these years so now she has my checkbook, my car, my credit cards. I don't even get an allowance. Plus I think it brings out her mothering instincts. At first we had therapists who came to the house...one suggested getting Amazing Tongs, those things that are like giant tweezers...you squeeze the top part and these claws come together like those machines in convenient stores where you try to get toys. She said I could pick up pennies with it. Now, why in hell would I want to pick up pennies? Honestly. Stroke victims don't need pennies...we need hundred dollar bills. I am using my tweezers to pinch my wife inappropriately. I go to a regular gym now for outpatient physical therapy. It should be decorated like a dungeon because the machines are designed to torture people. I was hoping they were machines where they strapped you on, turned on the switch and the machine did all the work. But no such luck. I think my therapist guy came over here from Parris Island, at the Marine base. He doesn'r put up with any whining. YOU CAN DO IT! he bellows. And when he bellows, I do it. A lot of people come to the gym who aren't doing therapy. I have noticed that the older women are in much better shape than the men. The guys arrive at the gym in walkers or with canes. The women skip in. They have cute clothes and nice shoes. They jump right up on the machines and start moving. My personal take on this is that the guys are in recovery and the women are on the prowl. They are probably recently widowed and want to get back in the game. They aren't the least bit interested in the guys in recovery. Why should they be? They have televisions on the stationary bikes, but none of the programs are as interesting as watching Chicks roll around on huge colored balls. I always want to throw them a fish when they finish and watch them clap their flippers. They have so many balls around the place but I've already told the therapist that I am not getting on one of those balls. He says they hold up to 500 lbs. I'm not worried about the ball exploding; I'm worried about rolling off. I threw myself out of bed the other night, accidentally of course. But as I slid off the side I was smart enough to take a pillow with me. I could not get up and I didn't want to wake my wife in the middle of the night so I just snuggled up on the floor with my pillow and slept until she came downstairs and found me. I am deaf so I have to read lips. But lying on the floor and trying to read her lips was difficult. So she stretched out on the floor beside me so I could read her lips. I said, "How in the world did we ever come to this?" And I do wonder. I want to recover but sometimes I think it would be easier to become an invalid. You could get one of those modernized scooters that are advertised constantly on television (and I don't believe for a minute that those people are crippled! They're models and they probably have a champagne party after the filming.) If I were an invalid, I could catch up on my reading. People could come visit me (but would they?) and bring me food. I could eat anything because as long as I had the scooter I could get fatter and fatter. And if I got too fat for one scooter, I could get a double-wide. But I'm not ready to give up yet. You have to keep at it if you want back in the game. And I want back in the game. Soon.

Joe's Chicken Room

My Grandson, The Basketball Player

My grandson, Davis, is determined to be a star athlete like his older brother. He's back on the basketball court this year, running from one end of the court to the other. But never getting to touch the ball. Poor guy. He's always yelling, "Throw me the ball! I'm in the clear!" And he is in the clear because the other team members don't bother to guard him. They remember him from last year. He practiced all summer shooting baskets in his driveway and he actually made 8 out of 10 shots. I know it's easier when you don't have another 5 people hounding you on the court. But still, 8 out of 10 is good. Four of us go to every game to watch him not get the ball. We watch as he sits on the bench with his hands on his knees so he can jump up the minute the coach calls for number 40, his number. I"ve started going to the games a little early. I take a fistfull of dollar bills. I don't try to bribe the coach. What I do is offer any kid --- on either team --- a dollar bill for every time they throw the ball to Davis. I know it probably sounds like a disgusting form of bribery but I figure, what's the point of having money if you can't enjoy it. GO DAVIS, GO.

"I Want My Foreskin Back!"

It's a cry that's being heard all across America as millions of guys who were circumcised as babies without their consent suddenly want their foreskin back. They fear, rightly so, that their foreskin probably ended up on a tray of calamari somewhere. They are pissed. The good news is, if you are one of those guys, you can get your foreskin back. You can grow a new one! Wait...wait...this isn't one of those offers from Canada to grow a bigger penis with the aid of a pump. Although a foreskin will certainly enhance the look and even make you appear to be European. Non-Jewish, of course. This is legitimate. A guy has invented a product that will grow a new foreskin. He's looking for an appropriate name. (Email him at: WhatDoICallThis.com). He swears that it works. But, with all new products, there are a few kinks to work out. One, the foreskin grows back in color. And, as yet, you are not able to chose your color. You have to take your chances. You could become Ralph, the Red Penis Guy. But look what a red nose did for Rudolph. The other bothersome side effect is that once the foreskin starts growing, it doesn't stop. It keeps growing. But it's slow growing. Yet you don't want a long foreskin and a short aft skin. Or do you? The inventor says the continual growth shouldn't be a problem. He says you can safely clip it at home. "Like clipping your toenails," he proclaims. Well not exactly. It's not so easy to reach your toes.

Mason Jars: You've Got to Love Them

I just read a wonderful collection of stories by Gary Carden in his book called MASON JARS IN THE FLOOD. Carden is a great storyteller in the tradition of mountain people in Western North Carolina. Some people call them "Rememberers" and I love that name. Much better than raconteurs. (Someone introduced me once when I was giving a talk as a wonderful raconteur. I had to rush home afterwards and look it up in the dictionary. It sounded like someone who ran the roulette wheels in Las Vegas. The dictionary just said it meant: storyteller. As a Texas friend of mine used to say, "Those French. They have a word for everything." And they do. Most of their words make you pucker when you say them --- like "we, we madame". And I honestly think that's how the French got the reputation as being lovers. They are always puckered up like they are ready to kiss somebody.) But back to Gary's book. I bought it because of the name. I love Mason Jars. I love the name. I love the way they look. I love the memory of what my Mother and my Grandmother used to put in them. They called it canning, but there were no cans involved. They should have called it "jarring". When fruits and vegetables started coming on in the summer, I would start washing jars. Actually I boiled them. They had to be clean and germ free. Then the women started filling them with peaches, green beans and tomatoes mostly. But also jellies and jams. My Mother's prized possession was a big pressure cooker which made canning quicker and easier. But it spit steam and sputtered like it might blow its lid and kill us all. She wouldn't let me in the kitchen when the pressure cooker was cooking. She claimed she knew a woman whose cooker exploded and took the roof off the kitchen. I doubted it even as a kid because she and my Grandmother were given to exaggeration. We didn't call it lying because they would say this stuff to make a point that would stick in your head. Once when I was grown and had teenage daughters, my Grandmother came to visit and was alarmed that they had electric blankets. I heard her telling them later about a friend of her's who got "fried" by an electric blanket. "She was like a crisp piece of bacon. With a head on it." It was an outrageous story, but none of my daughters would sleep under an electric blanket after that. Canning gave my Mother so much satisfaction. She would stack the jars on the pantry shelf and stand there admiring her handy work. And it was work: all that snapping and stringing of green beans; and the peeling of peaches and tomatoes. We were never allowed to eat the food in the jars when it was first canned. There were still fresh vegetables in the fields. "Wait for cold weather," my Mother would admonish. And when cold weather set in, she would start opening the Mason Jars. She would open a jar of tomatoes and say, "Smell this. It smells like summer." And it did. And it tasted like summer and made all the hard work of filling the Mason Jars worthwhile. I have a lot of Mason Jars sitting around my house in the mountains of North Carolina. A lot of them are filled with marbles. Some with buttons. Some with flower seeds. I've actually got some that are filled with food. All of them were winners in the Western North Carolina State Fair. The whole peaches look like art; even the green beans look like art...much too pretty to eat. My wife --- a city girl --- has always been afraid to eat home canned foods. I told her they found a jar of canned pickles in King Tut's tomb...more than 2,000 years old and still crispy. She said, "You lie like your Mother and Grandmother." I do. I'm a raconteur. I never learned to can, I regret to say. It's something that I could have passed on to my own children. It's doubtful they would want to do all that work. I guess I can leave them all my Mason Jars filled with marbles and stuff. You don't need a pressure cooker for filling jars with marbles.

Preaching at the Holy Church of Juanita

My friend, Juanita Leonard, invited me down to Louisiana to preach at her church. She's got her own church in her back yard. It makes it eaiser to go to church on Sunday morning. It's right there! And you can go in your pajamas if you don't want to get dressed and if you have nice pajamas. Juanita is a black folk artist who paints somewhat in the style of famous Clementine Hunter who lived nearby. But Juanita doesn't limit herself to a canvas. She has painted the inside of her church with people picking cotton and with big, big chickens. Neither of these images have religious significance as far as I can determine, but they are both images that she has mastered and has down pat. She has two houses on her property and she has painted these with cotton pickers and chickens, both inside and out. And on the floors and on the ceilings. I don't think Juanita really believed that I would come to preach at her church when she invited me. But I am a Holy Man Without a Church so I have to go where I am called. Plus, she promised me a pot of Chicken Gumbo. I made darn sure I got the gumbo right before I went all the way out there to preach. I've been tricked before. But Juanita had the pot of gumbo, indeed. And she served it to me in the pot, right off the stove. I ate it sitting on a Lazy Boy Lounger that she had recently rescued from the side of the road. It only had one setting....flat out. And I can testify that it's hard to eat a pot of hot gumbo --- even good gumbo --- when you are on your back. She served the gumbo in the pot with a big potholder to keep it from burning my stomach. After we ate, we went out back to her church. It has two pulpits...and two chairs. "Where does the congregation sit?" I asked. "In those two chairs. If they get here early. Otherwise it is standing room only." "And where does the choir sit?" I wondered. "Over in the corner," she said as she pointed to a single chair. "It's not a big choir. We only have one person who has a decent singing voice. But we have a Karioka machine and a tape of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. She sings with the Mormons and it shakes the roof on Sunday. When they sing The Messiah, people can hear it all over town. "Well, what time does church service start?" I wanted to know. "When someone shows up," she said. "You can start your sermon at any time. We don't have to wait." "But who am I going to preach to?" I asked. "My daughter is here. I'm here. Who were you expecting...the twelve disciples? I could put the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on low." So I proceeded. After it was over, Juanita apologized for her congregation and such a poor turnout. "I had my daughter call the Associated Press with a scoop that Father Joe was coming to preach today. I should not have told them you are white. My people don't think y'all know anything about the Lord."