Dodo Eggs

“Wow, would you look at this.  I haven’t seen showmanship this contrived or manufactured since my last Village People concert.  I can’t believe people buy into this stuff!”  My comment was designed to get Mrs. Murphy’s attention. 

I was looking at a torn out magazine ad that had fallen out of one of the school lockers.  It was a picture of some hip-hop performers (musicians or artists are words that don’t apply here).  The picture had a black back ground with big gold lettering set in front of a bouquet of one hundred dollar bills.  Behind the rappers was a purple El-Camino.  They all wore long T-shirts, more gold than the Federal Reserve, and scowls. 

I’d seen similar looks from other Ka-Bump–Thump (rap) creators.  (And I mistakenly believed entertainers were supposed to be creative.)  The rapper’s manufactured look reminded me a little of how all hair bands of the 1980’s and early 90’s used the same look… long hair, tight jeans, and “I weight 140 lbs. but I’m still shooting intimidating looks”. 

“Do you see what these guys are doing?” I asked Mrs. Murphy. “Take a hard look at how they have their arms folded.  Do you see it?”

She gave the tattered magazine page a hard look. “This must have fallen out of someone’s locker.”

I tried again. “No, I mean do you see what those clowns are doing to their arms?”

She squinted at the middle performer. “You mean the tattoo? I think it says, Lil’Big’n or is that Lil’ Bling?  I can’t tell.  You know, personally I like country music.”

I pointed to the ad.  “What I’m trying to show you is that these guys have their arms crossed and their pushing their biceps wide with the back of their fists.  Do you see it?”

“No, I thought they had just big muscles.”

I was aghast.  “That’s an old trick we used to use in the high school weight room!  Pushing the backside of your arms flattens them and makes them look larger! This works on you?  Tell me, can you spot a toupee?  What is your opinion of mid-winter tans?”

“Mr. Teply,” she was loosing interest.  “I have a lot of papers to grade.”

“Before you go, let me fill you in regarding men and crossing their arms. One, if a guy is at the pool and he’s crossing his arms he’s self-conscious about his man-boobs or this extra flab. Two, if a guy has his arms crossed and is walking; he is posing like a peacock with feathers in full show. No one walks with his arms crossed. And three, if you’re a rap guy it means, ‘I couldn’t letter with my high school band but your still buy’n my album, sucka.”

“Talk’n big like a debate team / Cus  sucka, I got’a rebuttal
Rapper’s dress code have’n one rule / Don’t be wear’n nut’n subtle!”

Here’s the game… I am offering you two very short stories.  One is completely fabricated (like a Barbie doll) and the other is only embellished (think Hollywood starlet).  Read both then decide which has a shred of truth.   

 
Spare the Truth; Scare a Child

A well-run ranch needs many strong calloused hands to function properly.  But when these can’t be found, the rancher-in-need must resort to silk-palmed, won’t-touch-a-bug pansies like me. 

At the rural high school I attended, extra jobs on ranches were occasionally available and I tried to take them.  It was a good way to make some extra money and smell like manure.

The season had come to work this year’s lambs.  Their tails needed to be docked and they needed castration.  My job was simple.  Chase down the lucky animals and hold them while the necessary removals were completed. Tails were simply snipped but the testes were bound by a thick rubber band wound tight enough to cut off circulation.

I remember one of the rancher’s sons brought his seven-year-old boy with him. The eager, inquisitive child climbed the gates and watched while all of us worked.  His hands holding the top part of the gate while the toes of his boots stuck through the bottom crossbars.  The boy’s blue eyes widened then squinted with imagined pain following each successive operation.

About a half hour into the work, the boy yelled for his dad’s attention.  “Dad what are you doing to the sheep’s privates?”

His father’s eyebrow raised a bit while he conjured a G rated response. “Well, we’re removing their tonsils. The rubber band cuts of blood, the tonsils die, and they just fall off.”

A minute later the boy ran off toward the farmhouse and the father returned to work.  I gave the man a smile enjoying his efforts to protect his son’s innocence and the cowardly way he went about it.

It wasn’t until the next year that I heard the rest of the story.  The boy developed tonsillitis only a few weeks afterward and when the doctor told him his tonsils would need to be removed the child flew into a panic.

 
Finding a Lucky Shot

It was a perfect day with a light blue sky and sunshine warming my skin.  The breeze carried the welcome smell of freshly cut grass.  Small children ran around the large backyard finding bits of pastel amidst the blades of green.  I was enjoying watching the Easter egg hunt as the children were.

The only wrinkle was a colorblind boy who kept grabbing droppings left by the neighbor’s huge Labrador, pulling his hand away in horror, and then crying for his mother.

“Maybe being colorblind isn’t the only issue.”

I was reclining in a plastic lawn chair with a wicker basket wedged between my legs.  Another egg was pulled from my son’s basket. It popped open with just a small squeeze along the seam. “Oh, good a chocolate bar. That’s better than some of the other junk I’ve been forced to eat today.”

I closed the emptied egg and placed it on one side of the basket along with the other “inspected” eggs.

My wife gave me a narrow look.  “Would you stop eating your son’s candy?”

“I’m teaching him to share. You keep saying that’s important.”

The next egg wasn’t as good. It was five jelly beans; three of them were licorice flavored. Those black poison pills masqueraded as candy but I knew better. I began pitching them aside.

“That’s it.” She took the basket and marched after our little boy.

The grandfather sitting nearby chucked a bit. “Son, are you going to let your woman get by with that?”

“Uh, yea.”

His smile didn’t budge.  “I’ll give you one of these small chocolate bars if you throw that last jellybean at your wife.”

“Really?  You know, normally I do stuff like that for free.”

“Well, you’d better hurry or she’ll get away.”

I shrugged and tossed the small black oval.  I wasn’t aiming at anything in particular; it was just a haphazard toss. However, my wife’s striped shirt had slightly pulled away from her jeans, which offered a bit of skin only a half of an inch wide. The bean arched perfectly and landed along the small of her back then disappeared down her pants. She stopped instantly and stiffened.

I turned slowly toward the old man with a smug look hanging on my face.  “So, is that worth a Krackle?”

Black Jelly Beans look like Rabbit Turds and White Jelly Beans look like Penicillin. Coincidence or Sick Joke?

The power button is depressed and I wait for the electricity to warm the CPU’s achy components.

Yesterday, my 486 microprocessor and I celebrated the machine’s 412th birthday (in computer years). The party was going well until my Casio calculator-watch began making fun of the computer’s short processor. Some hurtful digits were displayed and the party was quickly powered down.

The screen blinks then lights. “Ok, here we go. Another dodo egg coming up.”

My bout with higher education was largely composed of two things: portfolios (collections of activities, lesson plans, and big ideas) and term papers (high-minded affairs with a lean toward research). By a wide margin, the term paper was my favorite simply because it could be COMPLETELY fabricated from right there in my dorm room. I wrote a dozen papers on educational topics such as “Parents Who Sniff Salt, the Abuses of Condiments, and Its Effects on Low Income Students”   (B-), “Fireproofing Your Ceiling / Great Lesson Introductions Using Real Fireworks!” (D), and “It’s OK to be Stupid as Long as You Turn Your Work In.” (A+)

The interesting thing about all these research papers was that the entire bibliography and source material was ENTIRELY MADE UP. For nearly every paper I wrote, I quoted myself. There were no hours wasted at the library checking out long-winded books on educational nonsense. I made up all the experts such as: Dr. Reggie Habbot of Monmouth University, Professor Francis Winston from the Institute of Yorktown, and how could I neglect to quote Robert Swinly of the Seamore Institution. The funny thing was…all these experts agreed with me!

Look, don’t give me any flack! The library was always closed during the late night hours before a due date and I didn’t have access to the Internet. What else was I supposed to do? The late night and wee morning hours are EXACTLY when a college library should be open. Who’s at the library at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning? (No one) Who would be at the library at ten o’clock on a Sunday night? (Everyone)

The results? My papers had the intellectual weight of clouds but read sweet like cotton candy. I was never questioned and because my source was original, I was never caught in the net of plagiarism.

I ended up calling these expertly written sources and the papers they were plugged into, Dodo Eggs. It just seemed like the right thing to call these imaginary bits of wisdom. Now I call almost everything I write a Dodo Egg.

Here are a few examples…

Dakota Territory is a land of exhilarating seasonal extremes.  During the middle of the summer the sun makes the asphalt, concrete, even common gravel into an oven top.  Your eyes beg for shade before discovering that Dakota has no trees.  In winter’s frozen belly, your fingers will go numb seconds after you remove them from your pockets.  Spring is a wet, sloppy mess.  Fall blusters and drags in thick rolls of gray clouds.

Halloween is the occasion winter uses to fully take hold on the northern prairie.  During my last October in Dakota, folks took all their yard refuse and filled wide garbage bags colored orange and black to look like jack ‘o lanterns.  A surprising number of homeowners decorated this way. 

Within moments after the last trick or treater disappeared into their homes, the snow begin to fall.  It fell as a thick blanket with stitches falling as flakes.  Inch after inch piled up until everyone’s Halloween decorations only poked up through the snow.  A few days later, another snow fell, which all but hid the orange trash bags.

Here’s the thing about Dakota…the snow falls then sits until spring comes to clean it up.  By late February, roads and parking lots are bracketed by near mountain ranges of piled snow.  School children use the massive piles of snow as playground equipment. 

Around mid-March, the weather finally shifted and the thermometer slowly eased above thirty-two degrees.  The landscape began a slow metamorphosis as well.  Heaps of dirty snow began shrinking.  Dirt became mud as the semi-arid prairie became saturated with snowmelt.   

“Hey Greg, you know those trash bags that looked like jack ‘o lanterns?  Do you realize that there are probably still about six thousand of those things still hanging around?”

“Yea, it’s a little weird to see half the town still decked out for Halloween.”

I rub my hands together with mischievous energy.  “I’ve got an idea.  Let’s borrow your dad’s pickup some night, dress in black, and steal them out of people’s yards.  It’s not really a crime right?  In fact it’s more like a public service!”

We performed Operation Trick and Take late on a Tuesday night so that the residential roads would be relatively traffic free.  We taped a piece of black plastic over the license plate.  Greg didn’t want any casual observer to be able to identify us.  (you know…in case we had to make a high speed get away from the police…the pickup was a 1946 Dodge with a wooden bed…we weren’t going to escape from anyone).   

At a slow predatory crawl, we skirted between streetlights looking for long expired Halloween decorations.  We didn’t have to search long.  As Greg drove the getaway pickup, I would speed out the door and grab the yard bags.  Some were so set into place that they burst open as I pulled them.  Others came away freely and were tossed in the bed of the truck.

“I feel so alive!”

The decision to conclude our nefarious activities was not made for us.  Before we finished mining the south side of town, the bags were piled well above the cab!  There was simply no room for any more.

“So, what are we supposed to do with them now?”

“Well, I guess we could go cruising for chicks.  We’re not getting a lot of attention as it is.  Maybe this gimmick is exactly what we need to garner a little attention for ourselves if you know what I mean.”

“Not really.”

True to form, not a single female waved us down or even tried to make eye contact with us.  The evening wore on and once the sugar from our 44 oz. Bladder Buster worked through our system, we decided to call it a night.  But that left us with another problem.

“So what are we supposed to do with these things now?  My dad has been leaning on me to get the trash bags out of the pickup.”

I stared down my straw looking for inspiration.  A moment later, I found it.  “Hey, why don’t we go and pile them up in front of the post office doors!  We might even make the paper!”

At 1:30 AM, with only a few lonely drunks to see our activities, we came to a stop in front of the post office and began tossing the yard bags against the front doors both of our expressions a mix of exhilaration and trepidation. 

The result?  The paper never carried the story but the police blotter did mention that a dog was reported barking on 3^rd and Westgate.  If we had been more experienced miscreants we would have phoned in our evil deeds.  Shucks!

Spring Break works its way up the calendar and the Southerners I live amongst make quick tracks toward the nearest shoreline.  In theory, it’s more than just a break from hustle and bustle.  As the name implies, it’s also a sign that winter’s harsh siege has been lifted and the beautiful outdoors is awakening from dormancy. 

My question is this…Have they earned a Spring Break?

Every now and then, snow and its wicked sibling, ice, wander through Middle Tennessee and other places just south of the Mason-Dixon Line.  The snow never stays more than a day or two.  Small pockets persist only in ditches and other heavily shaded areas, but on roads and lawns the snow’s persistence is measured in hours not days.

It just doesn’t stay very cold for very long.  In my closet is an expensive, heavy winter coat I’ve had for at least seven years.  It still looks brand new!  I’ve worn it three times!  If I were still living in North Dakota, the coat would be a different shade with a broken zipper.  People in the South flock to a grocery store the second after the weatherman uses the words snow and accumulation in the same sentence. 

I’ll ask again…Have Southerners earned a Spring Break?

My last winter in Dakota was also my first year of college.  I would wake up in the morning, shower, and make a hurried scurry to my car.  (Which was as cold as the outside temperature just without the wind.)  Once the engine rolled over and I began driving, I could reach up run my fingers across the bed of frozen needles my hair had become!  My hair would begin to freeze on the way to my car!

Yea, maybe Southerners should just call it “Was That It?” Break.

Here’s another cautionary tale from my final winter in Dakota.  One night a blizzard rolled through Western Dakota with snow falling thick enough to make buffalo wince.  It fell so fast you couldn’t see more than twenty feet in front of you.

Of course there was fun to be had with snow piling up on the roads and everyone with intelligence tucked inside their homes.  My friend and I took his dad’s pick up truck and went on a bit of a joy ride near the high school.

No one else was out so we gunned through the fast building snowdrifts.  With every muffled THUMP, a cascade of snow flew up from the bottom of the windshield completely blinding us.  We gunned it anyway. 

Then something strange happened.  With temperatures sunk near negative twenty, the engine began OVERHEATING.  We brought our vehicle to a standstill and climbed out to diagnose the problem.  Snow was packing the grill, melting, then quickly refreezing forming a thick hybrid of snow and ice, which choked off air from the radiator.  We spent the next half hour trying to open the grill again before the drifts grew high enough to trap us.

When a southerner expresses pleasure at the end of winter, I’m forced to smile.  They really have no idea.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW MORE ABOUT DAKOTA WINTERS?  COME BACK WEDNESDAY.

Foresyth Says,

“There are an infinite number of good ideas and twice as many bad ones.”

How often have you let your mind off its leash and the first place it wanders is the dung it dropped years ago?  You cringe as you think over the ridiculous idea you had and how badly it played out.  What you did or said cast you in the worst light possible.  You want to imagine that it was unavoidable or just bad luck.  You’d like to forget, but that won’t happen.  So off your mind goes…right back to sticking it’s nose into the big pile of doo doo and all you can do is squint.

My example goes back to when Melissa and I were first married.  We were on vacation with family members and close friends visiting an outlet mall in Florida.  You may think a mall is a terrible place to waste time on your vacation and you’d be right.  Time oozed by and before I realized it, I was on complete autopilot.  I shuffled after our group this way and shuffled after them that way.

Where I regained consciousness was the Ralph Lauren Outlet Store.  Its multiple bargains were stylishly accented with understated placards reading “Over Here Sucka.”

My herd wandered over to the clearance racks but I chose another path.  I’d been in the market for an attaché case with a hammer-swigging horseman on it and I figured this would be the best place.

“Ah a pair of thick corduroy summer shorts with extra inner material to soak up the extra sweat.  Oh my, a hand loop for my claw hammer or do I hang my sunglasses there?  Is that a strip of pastel plaid sewn along the inside?!  Where is…wait, there it is.  The little man on horseback stitched right along the flap that covers the zipper.”

My hand flails about looking for a price tag.  “I’m going to say a garment of this style and quality is probably worth twelve bucks.”  I find the price tag.  “Shoot!  Thirty-four dollars with a five percent discount.  Hmmmm.”

I studied the tag in my hand a bit longer.  It was a thick, sturdy paperboard with a high gloss finish over foil logo and script.  A short piece of braided, moss colored rope secured the tag to one of the belt loops.  And it had a tassel!  There it was, a small tassel hung from the length of rope.

“Darn!  I’ll bet the tag cost almost as much as this stupid pair of pretty boy shorts did.”

Then it struck me.  A plot so cleaver and so diabolical it could keep me entertained in any mall in the country!  “I’ll steal the tag!  What a great idea!  I’ll collect them!  Let’s see, there’s an infinite variety and they can be easily displayed or pasted into a keepsake book.  I’m sure I’m the first person to ever come up with such a clever pastime.”

I looked over at my party.  They were picking through the racks of clearance items like buzzards over a dead zebra.

“Go ahead ladies!  Take your time!  I’ve got a whole new pastime to get underway with.”

I used my peripheral vision to scan the area around me.  Turning my head to look would give my malintent away as it does my note-passing seventh graders.  Then, with only a quick pull, I broke the thin, decorative rope and slid it into my pocket.  (I would knot the ends later to make sure I didn’t loose the all-important tassel.)

With the ease of a gentle breeze, I walked through Ralph’s store pilfering tag after tag.  I could feel my heart beating with the all-powerful thrill of a near-misdemeanor!  The tags burned along my leg and caused my body temperature to rise.  Was I stress sweating?

Then I noticed a man in a white button up push through the backroom doors.  I didn’t know his first or last name but I’m sure his middle name was LongTimeAssistantStoreManager.  His expression was stern and chiseled with purpose.  There was evil a-foot.

Melissa looked over at me and called, “Matt, are you ready to go?”

Was she being sarcastic?  Was she trying to give me away?  It didn’t matter.  I slid along the outside wall and out the entrance to the store, in only a few more seconds I’d be home free.

As we all strolled past the kiosk selling obnoxious ties, Melissa looked at me and asked, “So, you seemed pretty busy in there.  What were you doing over in the women’s blouses?”

“Oh, something stupid.”

If you haven’t read The Last Dance – Step One, you need to.  Scroll down.

“Matt, would you like to dance?”

Now that Leah had been taken by another partner there was no reason not to accept Holly’s offer.  I nodded and a bright grin dominated her expression.  She had broken through the possible rejection.  Each class thereafter, while I was working up the nerve to approach Leah, Holly would come for me like a heat seeking missile.  (A little Titly, I mean Teply, and she couldn’t help herself.) 

By the time the last class of the six weeks arrived, I had danced with Leah approximately ZERO times!  I was distraught!  I couldn’t reject Holly but I sure as heck didn’t want to dance with her anymore!  But the last class was going to be different…

“Alright!  Let’s have our lines again!”  The PE teacher called everyone his or her places. 

By now, everyone lined up basically the same way.  That meant me looking directly into Holly’s bright, gleaming smile.  Wow, was she happy.  If only Leah understood the kind of happiness that I was capable of inducing!

“This time we are doing something called a broom dance!  We’ve got a girl absent today so this works out perfectly.  The extra guy will dance with the broom for a minute or two, when he gets tired of holding it he’ll drop it.  When I hear the smack the music will stop and you’ll have fifteen seconds to find a new partner!  The odd guy out has to pick up the broom.  Any questions?  (Someone raises their hand)  I’m just doing that to be polite now grab a partner!”

The music began in earnest and POW there was Holly directly in front of me.  She smiled and I bowed my head in resignation.  I had the chance to dance with a few of the other non-descript girls…which was fun…I guess.  But the clock was my enemy and it was winning.  Once that bell rang and dismissed the final class, I’d have to wait until senior prom before gathering enough gumption to approach Leah.

The broom landed again and I turned away from (who else) Holly and there Leah stood!  She had broken away from her partner at the exact same time and place as I did!  She was looking at me and my eyes connected with hers!  I couldn’t stop thinking with exclamation marks!!!!!  

“Would you like to dance?”

“Does a monkey scratch its butt?”  (Just kidding.  I wish I’d said that.  In reality, I just nodded.)

The music started up.

Leah asked.  “Ok, what dance do you want to do?”

“I don’t care what do you want to do?”

Our conversation went on like this for almost thirty seconds before we stepped toward each other.  (What dance was it?  Who cares!  I was about to touch Leah Shoemaker!)  Then the spaz who had the broom dropped it prematurely and the music quit again. 

Leah and I looked at each other for another precious moment before she turned away and left my life forever.

Addendum:  Here’s how Leah and I’s story really ends…   After high school, I returned to Dickinson, North Dakota for my first year of college.  On my very first day, I “waltzed” into Freshman Composition and sitting in the very back of the room was none other than Leah Shoemaker!  That is not made up!  She was sitting there with the same girl she hung out with during our grade school years. 

You might think that we could pick up our fledgling romance right there…that the stars had dictated the collision of our constellations…and you’d be wrong.  She looked as soft as a new pillow, wore more make-up than a rodeo clown, and the hair that I loved so much as a youngster had become the same hairstyle both of my grandmothers wear so well. 

I took my seat near the front and never looked back…figuratively and literally.

COME BACK FRIDAY FOR COMMENTARY ON SOME “GODLY QUESTIONS.”

How to describe my early feelings for Leah Shumaker…I may ask you, how long do you have?

My crush (not the right word, try worship) on Leah Shumaker lasted from the first day of fourth grade until I moved away during the middle of my eighth grade year.  Just to make eye contact…to hold her beautiful gaze for only a few moments would make my week.  I envied her parents, her home, her car, and anything else that got to share her rarified air. She was almost perfect with her button nose, delicious smile, and thick curls of dark silk.    
 
I was always too shy (not the right words, try rejection petrified) to actually speak to her, which is why I was counting on the dance class the PE classes were planning.  I never spoke to God much as a young man but when I approached the bulletin board that day I was in full prayer mode.

“Dear God, pleeeeeeeese put Leah in my PE class.  You know as well as I that I’m going to need your help if there’s any chance of Leah and I to ever ‘go out.’  Anyway, I’m begging you.”

I scanned the list.  There was S-H-U-M-A-K-E-R, Leah and almost directly below it…on the same page…please…T-I-T-L-Y, Matthew  (That was me.  The school never spelled it correctly.  It was murder if I was ever called over the school PA system.)

Stepping back from the bulletin board, my head did nothing but spin.  I could feel the blood as it sped through my body faster, and faster.  Leah Shumaker was in my slow dance class!  The class lasted for an entire six weeks.  The law of averages said that I would get to dance with her at least once, maybe twice.  My life was about to change!

The first day of class the boys crowded together near the bleachers with the girls clumped by the stage.  Each group repelled the other like similar ends of a magnet.  Each group wanted to approach the other but the stakes were too high.  Kennedy faced less pressure during the Cuban Missile Crisis. 

Finally, the PE teacher lined us up with one long row of boys facing the girls.  I knew where Leah was so I did my best to line up directly in front of her.  Others must have had the same idea because the line clumped a bit across from her.  The PE instructor had to come and iron us out a bit.  I got the far outside.

“Ok, when the music begins you must choose a partner!  Practice the box step or a simple waltz!  Do you understand?”

Other than the teacher, no one’s heart rate was below five hundred.  Mine was pounding so fast and so hard I couldn’t’ count the beats.

When the slow music began, the lines slowly converged and disintegrated like a kindergarten game of red rover.  This was it!  If I didn’t wet myself, there was a chance for me to snag Leah.  Not just a passing glance or a “You left your book on my desk, moron,” but a dance!    

I didn’t make it to the prize.  Some fiend who was completely unaware of my feelings for Leah asked her first.  It was a bitter taste but nothing compared to the blindside I had waiting for me when I turned around.  There was Holly Katchmar with her long, paisley dress and three-foot long ponytails.  She looked like an illustration torn from the Little House on the Prairie series.

COME BACK WEDNESDAY FOR THE SECOND STEP.

Part 1 – My brothers and I were driving down a North Alabama highway with small groups of trees pushing toward the sky alongside tall bulletin boards.  The dirty structures of small businesses were planted every few hundred yards breaking the landscape on either side.  The auto body shops and small hardware stores sat about like the pulled entrails of some scattered municipality.

“So where it the Lactose Queen anyway?  I’m really looking forward to that delicious blend of smooth, cold soft serve and delicious chocolate bits.”

Nate turned down the assaulting sounds of his Christian heavy metal.  “People in the back seat aren’t allowed to talk.”

A second later the music returned to its previous volume and I was left to the landscape again.  I began reading the billboards accepting the messages of beer induced good times and overeager bail bondsmen (it’s nice that some people can get all the information they need in life neatly plastered to the sky).

And yet, one billboard confused me completely.  It had a yellow background with a T-shirt to one side and…well…I couldn’t read the rest!  As our vehicle approached, I had a long opportunity to study it and could in no way shape or form make out what it was saying.  Someone was investing ad dollars and put up something that could not be read!  

Let’s hope he was trying to sell to birds.

Part 2- If I could make one suggestion to cereal makers it would be…Frosted Bran Flakes!  What’s the draw back?  It seems like the perfect approach.  Real, honest bran flakes with all the nutrition and fiber complimented with a slight dabbing of sugar.

Toni the Tiger has made frosted corn flakes into an institution.  Why not crank it up a notch?  Listen, if breakfast burritos (If you’ve ever eaten one, I have bad news.  You’ve hit rock bottom.) can find a niche then bran flakes should be a hit!  Maybe the mascot could be a stern looking medical doctor wearing a red nose and rainbow colored wig.

I’m just kidding.  When I was in college, the Kroger chain of grocery stores carried a generic version of frosted bran flakes.  They were better than mom’s homemade yeast rolls hitting your tongue while driving an inherited luxury car in route to your wedding.  They were grrrrrrrand!  I liked them so much that I bought up the last few boxes Kroger had and ate them even after finding small flies near the bottom.  Well…I ate most of it.  The flies were dead after all.

Can I have some more, please?

Part 3- I coached middle school football for four years as a condition for getting a teaching position.  Except for walking into a middle school locker room (a biological hazard on so many levels…listen, just throw the bleach and run) and the evening hours involved, I didn’t mind doing it. 

Normally, a side effect of putting on football pads is an over inflated sense of toughness but that isn’t always the case.

After a scrimmage with one of our school’s rivals, the team marched back to the bus for the return trip.  I leaped triumphantly up the steps and gave my team the best Macarthur impression I could conjure.

Then one of my running backs looked me with a face covered in dust and grime and asked, “Hey coach, do you have any lotion?”

“Say what?”

Growing up, my grandparent’s farm was something of a free zone for my siblings and cousins. In most ways, this was a pleasing experience. We made the cattle shoot into a castle. We hunted toads, climbed trees, and every now and then caught sight of grandpa ambling between the buildings with a pail of feed hanging from each arm.

The adults never watched us too carefully. Looking back, I find this a bit strange. There was no heavy traffic or strangers to avoid but there were still a good many ways to get hurt. And yet, none of us (and we numbered into the hundreds) were ever injured beyond scrapes and bruises.

I don’t know this for a fact but I believe the general rule was a bit of homespun practicality I’m calling the Rule of Stupid.

Here it is, “None of the kids are stupid enough to get in the fence with one of the bulls or anything so patently dangerous. And all the other stupid stuff they will do (touching the electric fence) will only make them a bit smarter.”

Trust me, the electric fence hurts.

Of course, being so unsupervised did involve other risks…

My brother Nate and cousin Dustin were approximately the same age with an equal bend toward mischief. Grandma knew this but allowed them free reign because…well…the Rule of Stupid applies even to the ornery.

One day, Nate and Dustin wandered by one of the most important structures on the farm…Grandpa’s outhouse.

No one went in Grandpa’s outhouse. There was no rule against it but why would you sit on the worn wooden hole (spiders?!) when the indoor bathroom was only a short run away? The narrow wooden walls stood resolutely near Grandpa’s tool shed waiting patently for its one and only master.

Dustin stopped walking and grabbed Nate’s arm. “Hey Nate, you know what would be funny?”

“No, what?”

Suppressing a giggle, Dustin pointed toward the outhouse. “Grandpa keeps his toilet paper in a plastic ice cream pail. Let’s take it and throw it into the hole.”

Short pause. “Yea! That would be funny!”

Our grandfather’s body consists of whole wheat, tanned leather, denim, and barbed wire…but mostly barbed wire. A few hours later, he burst into the home and came right for Nate and Dustin (who should have been half way to Nebraska by that point but were instead watching TV as if they had done nothing wrong).

“YOU BOYS ARE GOING TO GET OUT THERE AND START PITCHING SOME @#$@!”

I didn’t understand what was funny about throwing our grandfather’s toilet paper down the outhouse hole and I suppose I never will. But watching my brother and cousin pitch $#%^…now that was amusing.