Based on age and "wisdom," how much lenience should we allow our grandparents?
The only grandparent I ever got to know well was my grandmother and she truly confounded me, her cracker-barrel cynical wisdom profoundly baffling.
After school, I'd always greet Grams with:
"Hi, Gramma, how was your day?"
"Long and boring," she'd reply.
Even at an early age, I saw this opening to our ritualistic conversation as a mere prelude of horrors to come. Yet I stupidly plodded on, the living definition of "insanity:" doing the same thing over and over and expecting things to change.
"Sorry to hear that, Grams."
"Can't see nuthin', can't do nuthin', ain't good for nuthin'," she explained very helpfully.
I swear to Gawd, by the time I tried to work through the double (quadruple?!) negatives she'd hurled at me, I didn't know where she stood.
Typically, I'd just move on (hey, I had high school problems at the time and the whole world revolved around me, dammit!). Other times when I told her my day spectacularly sucked as well, she'd reply with this horrific bon mot:
"Bah! School days are the best days of your life."
Huh.
Grams must've gone to a high school full of unicorns and rainbows and coke in the water fountains and mutually loving pals with no mean cliques or bullies.
I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, I truly did. But somewhere between her mangled grammar and whiskered tough-love, I threw in the towel.
"Gramma," I said, "school days are terrible! They're the worst days of my life!"
She replied, "Feh. 'Cain't' never did nuthin'."
She was speaking Yoda-speak before Yoda was even a twinkle in a muppet's eye. And I still don't get it. I mean, what kind of message was I supposed to take away from "school days are the best days of my life?" That everything was downhill from there? That I should just pack it in now, save myself a lot of grief? She certainly didn't seem very happy.
And then there's "Cain't never did nuthin'." I had no clue who this "Cain't" guy was (some biblical dude, no doubt), but why was it relevant to me that he did "nuthin'?" Furthermore, Grams must've been having such a blast in her school days, she forgot to pay attention in English class.
Well... Grams odd wisdom and cynicism is apparently hereditary as my mom's carrying on the same proud tradition of not making sense and trying to bring everyone along for her trip to despair, worse than Eeyore on downers. I'm aware of it, hope that I don't fall into that dark trap, even though my wife says I do some times.
So I need to watch it. After all, Cain't never did nuthin'. (Oh! It all makes sense to me now! All of it! Every last mangled word!)
Fireworks!
Since I was a kid, beer in Kansas was a hush-hush word. To this day, my mom still can't bring herself to mention the word "beer." Whenever she hands me birthday cash, she always says, "Don't spend it on 'you-know-what.'"
Well. She wasn't alone in hating the "Debbil's Drink" in horrible, horrible Kansas. Some time ago, years before my birth, God-fearing, holy-water tossers gathered at a pointy-white-hat meeting to make some nonsense Kansas law...
"Brother Clem, we must give the people what they want."
"What're you speaking of, Brother Cletus?"
"Why...beer, of course."
"Shut yer dang soup-hole, Brother Clem! Blasphemer!" (Brother Cletus proceeded to beat down Brother Clem, a chore considering the constraints of the white-sheeted, pointy-headed outfits they were wearing).
But, cooler (less pointy) heads took the matter into mind. Kinda. There was a compromise. And, lo, beer was legally unleashed in Kansas, but it was watered down to half of the alcohol content, thus comprising the infamous "3.2 beer."
Only good thing about that stuff was we could drink it in college once we turned 18. (Don't even get me going on the cut-rate, cheap, horrible beer we survived on. Anyone remember Shaffer beer? Even worse, the short-lived novelty "M.A.S.H." awfulness? Once that show ended, that late TV show beer went on sale for about .50 a six-pack. We became fans!)
But! As of April 1st, 2019, the law changed. The great overseers got rid of 3.2% beer. Now, we can actually--finally!--wondrously!--walk into a grocery store and buy real beer! Hallelujah! At the grocer the other day, I saw a billboard/sign reading, "You're still in Kansas, Toto! But we finally have real beer!"
Somewhere, Toto's doing back-flips of joy.
Now, if only we could buy beer on Sunday before noon. Or holidays. Sigh. You just can't take the pointy hat mind-set completely out of Kansas lawmakers now, can you?
While I'm going off on everything Kansas, check out my book, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley, a summation (in short stories) of everything wrong with the Midwest as I see it. Oh, it's spooky and funny, too!
Not a hoax! Not an imaginary story! The tale I'm about to recount is the God's honest truth.
My mother's been besieged by giant, mutant bug monsters.
Okay, let me back up a bit... Maybe my mom's not the best eyewitness to such claims of truth, for you see she's 88 years old, has Macular Degeneration, and is legally blind. She can't see a thing (or as she puts it, "I can't see beans!"). So she's probably not the most credible person to put on the stand, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.
Anyway, my brother texts me, "Have you heard about Mom's giant bugs?"
I wrote back, "No, but tell me about it!"
He just responds with, "ask her to describe them." Well, for once I'm almost excited to call her.
"Mom," I say, "I understand you've been attacked by giant bugs?"
Silence. Finally she answers, "You've been talking to your brother, I guess."
"Yeah, he might've mentioned something about them. What's going on?"
"Well," she says, "this giant bug swooped into my apartment when I opened the door. Scared the tar outta me. He looked like a green bean with a three inch stem and a fan-tail and an awful tiny face. There's a big one and a little one and I can't catch them. They keep going for my hands and my face. But the big one lost his fan-tail since he got in. They're still in here somewhere, though."
Mr. Sensitivity that I am, I laughed long and hard.
"I don't think it's so funny, Stuart," she said. "Wait 'till you get one of these bugs, then you and your brother won't think it's so funny."
"Mom, I'm sorry. But you admit you can't see 'beans.' But your description of the flying green bean monster bug is pretty detailed. I guess that's one bean you can really see." I couldn't help myself, continued sniggering.
"I don't think it's so funny. Wait 'till you get one, then we'll see if you think it's funny."
"Mom," I said, "I'd love to see a flying, giant mutant green bean bug monster."
It's true. I would love to. But everyone knows green beans with three inch stems and fan-tails don't exist.... Or do they?
What's that buzzing sound? Is that...is that a...flying green bean?
Speaking of weird beasties, you'll find a plethora of them--a zoo's worth--in my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley.
While in the shower the other morning, I hear my wife shout my name. I recognize that urgent tone and know (for whatever reason) I'm in trouble. Sure enough, she bursts into the bathroom, whips back the shower curtain in her best Norman Bates manner.
Naked and vulnerable, I see that she doesn't have a knife in her hands, and timidly say, "Yes?"
"Why does Harry Potter wear glasses?" she replies. "Still?"
Relieved I wasn't in trouble, I told her it was a dang good question, and she went off to work. Now, I suspect I know how my wife's mind works better than most people, but I still have no idea where this question came from. And it was a whopper. I gave it much more thought while in the shower (it turned out to be a very, very long shower).
One would think that being a wizard, weak vision would be one of the first things to go, right? I mean, come on, everyone knows spell are less risky than laser surgery.
But my thoughts took a turn for the dark (as so often happens). I'm glad we don't live in a world of wizards and sorcerers. From my own little Kansas backyard of the world, I'm envisioning a worse place than it already is.
It seems everyone owns a gun in Kansas these days, and they're not afraid to whip them out and wave 'em around if the feeling arises. But just imagine what would happen if a wizard got hacked off at some guy for nearly clipping him on the highway. I suspect even genteel Harry Potter is susceptible to a bit of road rage now and then. Instead of gunfire, though, it'd be POOF! The driver's a goldfish, thus causing further wreckage.
What if a wizard--even a good wizard--decided to do away with death and disease? We're looking at overpopulation, eventual pestilence, food shortages, worse than a Logan's Run scenario.
Undoubtedly, wizards would soon be running the world, rounding up we mere "muggles," separating us from our families with a giant wall to keep us out and...and...
Wait.
Too late. The wizards have taken over! Run for your lives!
Since I'm on a drama-queen roll, please do check out the hysterical histrionics of Zach, a vapid male entertainment dancer (NOT a stripper!) and his put-upon sleuth sister (with four kids in tow), Zora. May as well begin at the first book in the series: Bad Day in a Banana Hammock.
Mother's Day has come and zipped by once again.
No one deserves a more awesome Mother's Day gift than my truly wonderful, warm and caring mother-in-law. Caregiver extraordinaire, she had her hands full with ailing friends and neighbors while not saving much time for herself.
Which is why my wife and I decided to travel to Oklahoma Friday night, then my wife would take her mother away for a quick, relaxing getaway. That left me with my wife's father overnight. Bonus points: my wife's bro came down to spend time with us as well, cool guy that he is.
So, I'm thinking: kick-ass! Manly macho coolness! We're gonna sit around, drink beer, belch loud and proud, pass gas (maybe even light one up with a lighter for the more daring of us), and visit a strip bar! Hoo-HAH!
No repercussions! Heck-fire, the women wouldn't be back until Sunday. Hellz yeah! Rah!
Sigh...
It's funny how hopes get dashed quietly sometimes, weaker than a feather silently drifting down to the floor.
What did we three rugged, manly-macho-men neanderthals do on our free pass?
We went shopping for flowers and cosmetics for Mother's Day. I considered trying on some khakis to see if they made my butt look big. Honestly, we probably would've done each others' hair, but have you seen me lately?
By days end, my bro-in-law left and we two remaining masculine men packed it in by 10:00. Shopping can be SOOO tiring. Oh, sure, when our prostates called out to us in the middle of the night, we stumbled quietly past one another to conquer the bathroom, but we did it in the most macho of ways: in our boxers.
Frankly, I welcomed the women back with open arms, not to mention more than a little relief. Living like a caveman for 24 hours plum tuckered me out.
The men in Gannaway, Kansas, don't get more rugged, working the mines as they do all day long. Did I mention the mines are haunted? No? Did I tell you that Ghosts of Gannaway is based on a true story?
Between marriages, my heart belonged to one woman. Of course I'm talking about Lady Gambling, as fickle and unfaithful as they come, worse than a bus-load of film noir femme fatales.
When the gambling riverboats (a weird Midwest law: casinos were allowed in Missouri, but only if they were on the water. Go figure. I suppose the lawmakers thought the water would wash away our sins. Welcome to the Midwest!) came to town, those friends of mine who were bachelors at the time had nothing better to do than to squander our paychecks every weekend at the boats.
Oh, it didn't begin like that. When we first started going, I was on a streak. Every time I'd walk in there, plop down five bucks on the blackjack or roulette tables (I never played craps; I didn't understand it and besides--sniff--what an incredibly crass and vulgar name), and in a manner of minutes, I'd turn five into fifty to one hundred bucks. Easy!
Of course this didn't last. My luck fizzled out. Lady Gambling had found a new sucker to tantalize and tease and lead on, only to abandon me by the side of the road like a sneaker (and where DO those roadside shoes come from anyway?). My increasingly desperate motto became: "Surely, my luck can't be this bad all night, right? Right? For the love of Pete, right?"
Well...
One night I got extremely cocky. Hoping to recoup some of my losses at the Blackjack table, I put fifty bucks down on a King . I mean, come on, the dealer was showing a six, a notorious bust card! The dealer hit me. Another King!
"Split 'em," yelled my buddy.
I did the only wise thing , split them, dropped another fifty bucks.
"Hit me," I declared, my senses absolutely a-tingle. Lady Luck had wandered back into my life.
Another King! What were the chances? After purchasing more chips from the dealer, I split them again. $150 down, couldn't possibly lose, a sure bet.
My friend agreed. He started "churning the butter" and singing, "We're going to Sizzler, we're going to Sizzler, we're going to..."
The dealer hit me with a Queen, a nine, and a Jack. Sweet! Looking pretty at 20, 19, and 20. Until of course the dealer turned over a four. Then an Ace.
21!
The world went out from beneath my feet. A cartoon trombone mocked me: wah, wah, wah, wahhhhhh. The dealer smirked, scraped up my chips, said, "Guess you're not going to Sizzler."
No. Sizzler was off the table. In fact, that month I got used to Ramen noodles again, just like in college.
As we left the Infinite Palace of Despair (which it shall now always be referred to), shoulders down, and wallets light, I vowed to break up with Lady Gambling. After next weekend, of course...
While we're on the subject of unlucky people, take a gander at my characters in Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley, my short story collection of horror and humor. All of these folks have the unfortunate luck to reside in God-forsaken Kansas, or at least a haunted version of it (which isn't too far off the mark). Read it and gasp! (And thank your lucky stars you don't live here!)
As per our agreed upon division of labor, I found myself in the kitchen the other night preparing a turkey-loaf for my lovely wife. My own kitchen-sink recipe, the ingredients called for a pound of turkey, an egg, various spices (whatever I can find; the loaf's never the same twice), catsup (and am I alone in thinking that "catsup" should be spelled the way it's pronounced? I mean, come on!), Worcestershire sauce, blue cheese crumbles, chopped vegetables, and a sliced thumb tip.
Wait...what?
To quote that great television educator, Ernie, "one of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong."
Yep, my thumb got in the way of chopping vegetables. Just call me "all thumbs." Except, of course, I'm a little less all thumbs now.
Shock's a funny thing. At first when I sliced my thumb, it hurt like crazy. Just for a second, though. I stared at the wounded digit, saw there was inexplicably no blood. Huh. Weird. Then blood started spraying everywhere, a delayed action.
My shock was delayed as well. At first I started giggling. See what I mean about shock being a funny thing? Then crazed panic set in. I wrapped tissue after tissue around my spurting thumb, couldn't quite stem the blood flow. As I debated back and forth about driving myself to the ER (my wife was working late)...
"Stuart, you better go."
"Nah, shut up, Stu, it's just a minor flesh scrape."
"I mean it, you might need stitches, Stuart!"
"Give it a rest, Stu! Do I tell you how to live your life?"
Near hysteria, I thought of the old Saturday Night Live skit with Dan Ackroyd dressed as Julia Child when he cut his finger and arterial blood spattered everywhere. Monty Python and the Holy Grail played out in my mind: "It's just a flesh wound" said the armless and legless knight.
Finally, I let reason guide me. I swathed many bandages around my thumb and finished making my turkey-loaf.
And, lo, it was good.
When my wife came home, she sighed, and said, "Please clean your blood up off the floor." Like it was an every-day occurrence or something.
Speaking of blood, a fair amount of it gets splashed around in my historical tale of horror and hauntings, Ghosts of Gannaway. Loosely based on the events in Picher, Oklahoma, this sucker was a monster to write, but I'm proud of the results. Read it already!
