New Year's Predictions from the Swami Mommie

by Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for Predictable Predictions

I have had the privilege of interviewing the Texas Swami Mommie for the past several decades and I can tell you she is batting a thousand, 0 for 70, on a roll when it comes to New Year Predictions.  Here is what she told me last night.

1.  Gasoline prices will go up, then down, then up but will not stabilize in 2014.

2.  There will be scandal in Washington, but not in Nevada where it is legal.

3.  The Supreme Court will  determine if Twerking is pornography or just safe sex as practiced by Miley Cyrus in public.

4.  Obama Care becomes "I Don't Care".

5.  K-Mart, who gave us "I shipped my pants" and the jingling "bells", is continuing their marketing strategy with a variation of Deck the Halls for 2014.  Contract negations are underway with the Chippendales and The Thunder from Down Under.

6.  The National Spelling Bee, no longer having any qualifiers, will become the National Texting Bee. TMYDTD (texting makes you dumber than dirt)

7.  A&E's executives will be required to under go 200 hours of sensitivity training and remedial accounting.

8.  A printed newspaper will become the newest exhibit at the Smithsonian and placed next to a book.

9. DISH and Direct TV will see competition from U-tube.

10.  Toronto mayor, Rob Ford, will seek US citizenship in order to run for Congress.

A Visit from ???

by Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for Freedom of Speech

T'was three days before Christmas and all through the house.
Every creature was scurrying, even the mouse.

The stockings were packed in the attic somewhere
In hopes they would be found before Santa got there.

The children were zoned out in front of the TV.
School had been out for two days, you see.

Taco shells were in the oven, the timer was set.
They will burn anyway, on that you can bet.

I with a glass of Chardonnay and Hubby,Dr. Pepper in hand,
had just given up trying to get the Christmas tree to stand.

When out on the drive-way there rose such a clatter,
I slowly got up to see what was the matter.

Away to the security cameras I swayed in a flash,
Hit the zoom button and hoped it didn't crash.

The moon on the crest of the Si Gnome and yard art
gave the appearance of a garage sale, the unsold part.

When what to my blurry eyes should appear
but the UPS truck, on that  I was clear.

With a little old driver, so slow, you see
It reminded me of Uncle Nebecaneezer Lee.

More rapid than Andretti he ripped through the gears
And he shouted and called out strange mutterings to my ears.

" Dag-nap it, consarn idget, you stupider than dirt,
You blithering mullat, I'll put on the hurt!"

To the top of the drive way, to the patio floor,
he managed to park very close to the door.

I ditched the wine glass and was turning around,
when down the sidewalk he came with a bound.

He was dressed all in camo from his pants to his shirt
And his clothes were all muddy and covered with dirt.

His glasses how they twinkled, his dimples how merry,
His cheeks were like roses and his nose like a cherry

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow
And the beard on his chin reminded me of that TV show.

A wink of his eye and the tilt of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but set me to work.
And had me unload all the packages, then turned with a jerk.

He grabbed his blue cup, took a long drink of tea,
And tore down the drive-way, barely missing a tree.

But I heard him exclaim as he drove into the black
"Happy Happy Happy Christmas to all and that's a fact, Jack!"

Black Friday and Brown Thursday?

A Sale-a-bration!
by Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for a cold shower

Black Friday has now expanded into Brown Thursday notably with several stores having sales starting as early as 6p.m. on Thanksgiving Day. I guess Wal-Mart, also known to the media as Brawl-Mart, figured since they were open anyway, they may has well rack up a few extra million in sales.

With nothing major on my "must have Christmas list" this year, I joined the crowds anyway.  I had "buck" fever. It was the thrill of the hunt. Like some neanderthal cave person, the fear of starvation or in my case missing out on a good buy, drove me from mind numbing marathon football games into the stores.

As I was wandering the aisles, I encountered old friends, not people I knew, but merchandise I hadn't seen since last year...the George Foreman Grill, the foot massager, the heated back pad, the soap on a rope, the cellophane wrapped gift baskets of toe nail clippers, back scrubbers, and lotion. They were all there.  I wondered how we managed to buy a wedding gift or a birthday present during the rest of the year.  I mean you can't find those 32 piece Tupperware look-a-likes with the red lids at any other time.

I had the twelve-year-old with me again.  This was her second BF and first BT (Brown Thursday).  Like a young cub, she was learning.

Dr. Hubby thinks I am a walking contradiction.  I don't allow her to watch violent movies, attend NASCAR races, or  pierce her ears, but I put her in the middle of the biggest free for all of the year.  Ok, for months she did talk about the fight over 800 thread count sheets she witnessed at Target last year but that was different.  That was 800 threads!  And besides, I was not encouraging gladiator mentality.

As 6 p.m. drew closer, the crowds began to circle and mill around the one cup electric food choppers encased in shrink wrap located in the automotive aisle.  I glanced at the twelve-year-old. Her nostrils began to flare, her eyes widened, and she was breathing faster.  The little hairs on the back of our necks began to stand on end. At 5:59 the crowd exploded.  Someone standing very close to me yelled "FIGHT".

The Food Chopper minimum wage security guard ran for the nearest exit.  Food choppers were flying through the air, sometimes attached to a person. Shrink wrap lassos were pulling choppers from the top. Arthritic old ladies became Roller Derby Mamas as they crashed their way through the crowd.  It was glorious!

By the time the S.W.A.T. team arrived it was over.  Hub caps, motor oil, and turtle wax were scrambled amidst shrink wrap, chopper lids, and empty boxes.

It was time to leave...
                                        for the next store.

Stay tuned next week for "Kung Fu Street Shopping"

Lessons Learned from BS Camping

by Jody Worsham
All rights reserved in case of memory loss

Having survived the granny-and-me-near-campout experience, I think it wise to pause and record those lessons learned before we do this again.

First, if you are told to bring mosquito repellant what they mean is "Wear full body armor capable of repelling an attacking horde of steel nosed, blood sucking vampire insects the size of large bats."

Second, if they say "Campout will be held rain or shine", they mean "Campout will be held until rising water reaches your armpit or your tent floats away, whichever comes first.

Third, if they say "Be Prepared" they mean "We are prepared for any possible lawsuit; therefore, all scout masters are certifiable."

In all fairness, I think I am beginning to understand the Boy Scouts of today which is different from those young lads in England who took that military manual and used it for adventures in the outdoors.

I didn't understand the need for so much "training" of the scout leaders to do things I grew up knowing  or had learned from experience and common sense; but I grew up in a rural setting.  If you didn't have a BB gun by the time you were six and knew how to use it safely, then there was something wrong with you or your daddy.

Fishing was something you did after your chores and every chance you got.  Your first slingshot was made from a forked branch you cut with your own pocket knife and two strips cut from an old inner tube.

We were climbing trees, jumping out of barns, and whittling on sticks without any protective gear.  We swam in un-chlorinated ponds.  We had skinned knees, stubbed toes but amazingly few broken bones.  I live in a rural setting and my little scout is growing up the same way, but I'm thinking this is no longer the norm.

Today the majority of our population lives in the city.  If you want to shoot, you have to go to a shooting range or join a gun club.  To fish you have to have a license and a permit to enter the lake property.  Most Home Owner Associations frown on anyone cutting branches to make a sling shot.  To climb anything, you must got to a park and climb on tubular geodesic structures with a minimum of six inches of shredded rubber or pea gravel beneath.  Kids wear elbow guards, shin guards, mouth guards, and helmets.  There are fewer skinned knees, stubbed toes, but no scars and experiences to share with your friends either.

So I salute the Boy Scouts for providing these experiences for our children and if they have to put the adults through training so they will know what to do, then so be it.  You can't teach if you don't know.

And in a lawsuit happy society, then yes, Be Prepared.

Helicopter BS Camping

by Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for Under Armor, Outer armor, and helmets

Having recovered from BB gun shooting and lunch, it was now time to check out the activities closer to the covered pavilion and the parking lot.  Rain was eminent.  The first stop was at the rope ladder climb.  After the "I am a certified rope ladder" speech I noticed the rope was tied to a fairly strong branch about ten feet off the ground.  Good.  My little scout  would have bo trouble reaching the top.  However, he was only allowed to climb four feet off the ground and he had to wear a helmet!  The leader explained this was for safety purposes in case anyone fell.  Four feet?  I was more worried about the other 553 scouts who had worn that same helmet.  If a helmet was required for a four foot climb, I couldn't wait to see what protective devices would be required next.  Flak jackets?  Shin guards?  Pocket protectors?

Surprisingly, no protective gear was required for the rope bridge, but it was only three feet eleven inches from the ground.  Nor was protective gear required for the boys to fire the two liter compressed air water bottle rockets.  However, 553 moms would have gladly worn a helmet as we dodged empty two liter bottles that were raining down randomly all over the area.

After we launched the second bottle rocket, "the bottom fell out" as we say in the South and the promised downpour began.  We ran for the covered pavilion.  There was no Safety Scout person to tell the boys to refrain from standing under the tall pines or sitting on the metal picnic tables during a lightning storm.  I guess they assumed we had some common sense although the helmet for the four foot climb till rankled in my brain.

I was not looking forward to sleeping in a wet sleeping bag in a tent beneath some pine trees that may or may not have a secure root system.  After my little scout was totally soaked fom spalshing inthe puddles   and the rain had eased up, he said "You know, we've done all the activities.  We could be sleeping in our own bed with dry clothes.  If we left..."  Before he could finish the sentence, I was racing for the campsite to dismantel our tent with a genuine smile spread across my face.

As we were loading the car he said "You know, next year when we come...."

"I'm sorry, would you repeat that last part.  I blacked out for a moment."

"I said next year when we come, I think we should leave our tent in the car until the end of the day.
Then, if it is not raining and the mosquitos aren't as big as bats, we could decide if we wanted to stay or not."

"Sounds like a plan to me."  And with that he climbed in the back seat an fell asleep as I headed out of the parking lot.

On the drive home, I thought about the Boy Scouts and our near camping experience and came to some surprising realizations.

Next blog  "What I learned about BS Camping."

The Camping BS continues

Boy Scouts are helpful, courteous, and certifiable.

By Jody Worsham

All rights are reserved for certificates of certifiability.

Once we had registered for the granny and me campout, we were assigned to Camp #5. We headed for the camp map conveniently located nearby.  Obviously the Boy Scout who made the map had never been to Six Flags, Disney World, or a mall.  There was no dot or arrow saying “You are Here”.  I guess he figured that if we were standing there, then we would know we were there.  With no way to orient ourselves to the map, I looked for a Boy Scout.

Boy Scouts are helpful, so I stopped the first one I saw.  He led me down the garden path until he admitted he didn’t know where we were, so he turned us over to another boy scout who led us in the opposite direction past some buildings.

Boy Scouts are courteous.  This one asked if he could pull my can.  I was about to tell him I was not an old lady who needed help crossing the street when  I glimpsed my reflection in a nearby window.  Instead I said “Sure.”  After a mile of bumping, dragging, and stumbling with our semi-rolling garbage can, we arrived at Camp #5.  We quickly claimed a spot, erected our tent, and were off for all the activities.

Boy Scouts are certifiable. I know this because at the beginning of every activity, the Scout Master in charge would begin with “I am a certified instructor. I have had x number of hours training in__”  whatever the activity was.  It seems you can’t just use common sense; you have to be certified.  The sling shot activity was a perfect example.  First the Scout Master in charge began with “I have had 12 hours of sling shot training. I am certified in Sling Shot. Safety .”  I’m thinking is this guy stupid or something?  Did it really take him 12 hours to learn that hard objects in a sling shot can be dangerous?  Release the pouch, don’t release the sling shot?  Stand behind the person with the sling shot?  Pull the pouch toward your body not away from it?  After our certified instructions, we fired our five pieces of dog food at the pie plate target and preceded to the next activity, BB guns.

Again the Scout Master began with “I have had 18 hours training in BB guns.  I am certified.”  I’m thinking my boy has had three times that much training since he has been shooting BB guns since he was six following strict gun safety rules and supervision from my husband.  Then a Boy Scout read the posted list of rules.  l) Don’t point your gun at anybody.  2)  Remove the safety before shooting.  And I’m thinking “Has common sense totally disappeared in America today?”  I guess it has because we had to crawl under a low table and  lie on our stomachs  before we could load our bb gun, cock it and fire.  This was to keep the shooter from swinging his gun around and pointing it at somebody.  This was not a problem for me.  I couldn’t swing anything anywhere.  In fact, I was afraid they were going to have to get a fork lift to get me out from under the table.  We shot our five BB’s and I somehow got out from under the table with a minimum of splinters.

As we headed for other sessions in archery, bridge walking, crafts, rope ladder climbing, and fishing; each with its own certified instructor, the storm clouds were gathering. I wondered if there was a Certified Storm Watcher in the group.  I would soon find out.

Continued in next week's blog.

The BS on Camping

Part One

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for camp repellant

I am determined that my eight-year-old will miss as little as possible because he was blessed with senior parents and that included the Boy Scout Mommy and Me campout. 

I think I have always viewed the Boy Scouts like one of those Norman Rockwell paintings of Americana.  In my mind I could see Norman painting my little Cub Scout in our backyard, pitching his tent, cooking on an open fire, and proudly saluting the flag with me watching from my porch wearing a 1940’s type hairstyle and house dress.  I’m not sure Norman ever went camping with his mother much less his grandmother and more than hairstyles and fashion have changed since the Boy Scouts of the l940’s.

First there was the paper work that had to be filled out before we could attend this 24 hour Mommy and Me campout.  That equates to about one page for every hour spent camping.  Files had to be downloaded.  Ok, there are some definite disadvantages to having parents born in the 40’s but once I figured out which button to click, we were fine; well except I had to phone my 93 year old mother to ask if she remembered when I had gotten my last tetanus shot.  I whipped out the old credit card, paid our fees, and printed three sets of documents to take with us to the camp. 

Next, it was off to Wal-Mart for a two person tent light enough for me to carry, simple enough to erect, and cheap enough to afford.  We found…..one.  I grabbed it just before the mommy stampede started.  “Remember the Boy Scout Motto: Be Prepared! You should have come earlier” and I raced for the closest check-out stand.

Then there was the all-important list of other suggested “necessities” for this camping trip: flashlight, change of clothes, extra shoes, sleeping bags, rain gear, ground cover, first-aid kit, snacks, water, Boy Scout uniform, jackets, lawn chairs, insect repellent, and a means to haul all of this to the campsite which could be as much as a mile away from the parking lot on a gravel trail. “Be Prepared!” kept racing through my brain so I added Advil, Icy Hot, Thermal Wrap, aspirin and doubled my hormone replacement meds.  To get all of this gear to camp, which now filled the back of my suburban, it was suggested that we also pack a little red wagon, luggage carrier, or a rolling garbage can.  I noticed U-Haul was not listed.

The day of the camp out we arrived early, or what I thought was early.  The parking lot was already filled with what looked like 400 refugees fleeing an impending hurricane and with all their worldly goods that they could carry. A mad house of shopping carts,  grocery carts, rolling garbage cans, rolling suitcases, garden wagons, little red wagons,  all rolling, bumping, and tipping over were swirling around me.  Women and children were running all over the place while dark thundering clouds gathered on the horizon. “Be Prepared”.  I parked next to the road facing the exit and unloaded.  As we headed to registration I saw a small flash of lightning.  I clutched my child, cell phone, and garbage can handle as we rolled, bumped, and tipped over our overloaded trash can.  Echoing with the distant thunder was “Be Prepared.  Be Prepared.  Be Prepared”.   But I wasn’t at all prepared for what was to come.

                                                (Continued in next week’s blog)

I-Robot, Not

by Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for midget Swiffer

Is anyone else as annoyed as I am with all the "prove you aren't a robot" messages that come across your computer screen when you are ordering ...oh...say diapers?, vineyards?, burial plots?

Even when I am reading a friend's blog and I want to write words of encouragement or sympathy or just give a compliment, I have to prove I am not a robot, like a robot could give a flip about raising grapes or any empathetic words.

Before I can hit "publish" I must retype teeny tiny fuzzy numbers that appear on my screen.  Enlarging the print only makes the fuzzy numbers  wider and fuzzier, not clearer.  The squiggly lines all run together.  Making them larger simply makes the lines look like a big map of the  Mississippi River drawn by a drunk captain of a steam ship missing its paddle wheel.

If I cannot prove that I am human, does that mean I am morphing into a robot?

To reassure the humanoid population of over 65-ers, I have outsmarted the "prove you are not a robot" security check.  I just type anything in the space.  Sometimes I type the eye chart from my optometrist's office. Whatever I type, it will be rejected for not matching the security code, but I just keep doing it.  By the fourth or fifth time you will see in very VERY large type:

PRINT THESE LETTERS AND NUMBERS

  i B  65+

Works every time.
i

Craig's List of Trick or Treat

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for therapy for Craig’s Mom

 

Halloween is in the air and in the aisles of every Wal-Mart, K-Mart, and grocery store.  Plastic pumpkins, Halloween costumes, and blood and guts sealed in plastic are on every end cap at every corner.  Most of the displays on the candy shelves offer sugar ladened, calorie loaded, thigh broadening treats in larger and super large packages.  But what if you were more inclined to offer up a trick instead of a treat?   You might start with Craig’s List.

If you want to sell it or buy it, Craig’s List will post it. Up until recently most of the listings were what you would expect on such a site: cars, washers, dryers, furniture, sports equipment etc. Free enterprise prevails. “If you want it, I got it. Let’s make a deal.”  According to WFAA News in Dallas www.wfaa.com/news/consumer/22236124l.html  the newest trend on Craig’s List, and just in time for Trick or Treat, is a bit unusual.  Women are selling positive pregnancy tests on Craig’s List. 

I suppose if you found yourself “in the family way”, you might be looking for ways to keep the future little tyke in diapers.  Given the procedure for taking such a test, a pregnant mom could continue to supply a steady stream (sorry about that) of positive tests for nine months. The return on your investment is better than buying gold, especially if you are a Texas gal.  For some reason, positive pregnancy tests go for around $5 more if from a Texas supplier.

Now the question is who would want such a thing?  I mean you could flash it around, maybe get a few early baby showers out of it, possibly a proposal from a reluctant boyfriend, maybe some extra cash on your Lone Star Card (equilevant to food stamps) but eventually your secret will be found out.

And how would you market such a thing?  “In need of some ‘Positive Reinforcement?’  Get your Clearblue First Response positive test results for the low price of $35.99.  But wait, call now and we will give you a second EPT test at no additional cost.  Just pay shipping and we will do the handling.  If you specify Texas, add an addition $4.99.  Call today.  Available for a limited time only.”

Since these tests are crossing state lines, will the Federal Interstate Commerce become involved?  Will they require a stamped date of freshness?  An expiration date?  Is there an expiration date?  Will they require the location of the collection site as they do for bottled water?

Is this another frivolous lawsuit in the making?  Will the positive results be used as a basis to sue Clearblue for “false/positives” or Craig’s list for fall advertising causing emotional suffering, damage, and in some cases heart attacks? This could be some trick!

Craig, does your mother know what you are listing? All I can say to the women supplying these tests, you better make hay while the sun shines because in nine months the gravy train will come to a stop.

Hey, Craig, Trick or Treat? 

Fall Football...but One Man Football?

One Man Football
by Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for a one man band

Football reigns supreme in Texas.  Not only do we play Pop Warner football starting at age six, we play regular 11 man football in junior high, high school, and college.  Texas A&M proudly sports the 12th man team.  And if you only have nine boys in your high school, you can still play football...six man football.

But if you happen to be an eight year old little boy with senior citizens for parents, living in a mostly retired community with no children, and you have an older sister who has just been given her own phone with unlimited text, you learn to play one man football.

How does he do that?  The question deserves an answer and here it is.

I video taped him playing one man football the other evening. First he is the center, calling the signals and hiking the ball high in the air.  Then he turns and runs to catch the ball as the quarterback.  

I think there was a blitz on that time because he stuck his right arm far out to the right, pivoted, and quickly switched the ball to his left hand.  He was now the running back.

 He did a quick reversal and spiraled the ball high and long downfield just to the side of the sand pile giving himself enough time to become the wide end receiver and score the touchdown.

But the most ingenious play was the kick for extra points. He threw the ball up in the air, caught it, placed it on the ground and held it with one finger, then spun around and picked it up and kicked it for the field goal.  Sometimes he made the extra point and sometimes he didn't.  He explained for the benefit of his single fan.

"I have to read the other team and decide if I want to go for two points or try for the field goal. I'm the quarterback so I can do that."

And with that he ran back to huddle up with his "teammates" before the next play. On the snap he ran wide to the left, then suddenly threw himself onto the sandpile.

"What happened?" I asked, fearing he had hurt himself.
"Got tackled."

He played like that for quite awhile and then he stopped.

"Is the game over?" I asked.

"No, it's half-time.  I'll be back in a minute.  Got to get some water."

When he came back he said "Can I see the instant replay of that last touchdown?"

"Sure," and I clicked the correct button on the i-pad and played it for him.

I could not help but admire his creativity and spirit. He was making the most of his situation and creating a fun filled evening for both of us.

There's a lesson in there somewhere.

For my husband, I think he was just glad the boy left the cheerleaders on the sidelines.

Live Long and Prosper, Monkey Pickles

by JodyWorsham
All rights reserved for Translation App

 I have been a guest writer on Monkey Pickles.Com for the past couple of months.  Huntz is the originator?  owner? Webmaster or something at Monkey Pickles.  He just sent out a memo (make that an e-mo) to all us new pickle writers...or maybe it was just me.

I don't know Huntz that well. I've talked to him once, but I'm thinking he may be a tad dyslexic, has fat fingers and keeps hitting the wrong keys, or he is possibly from another solar system. Here is the gist of what he wrote, I think.  I am writing this from memory having accidentally hit the delete button instead of the translation app.  It could be in English but I am not ruling out Klingon.

Huntz:  "Hope you are logging in backwards to Word Press and separating your words with  < and  > and h2o, with text tabs, and Word Stuff."

Login?? Logs in the woods out here.

 Backin?? Backed into a fence once...ok twice

h2o?? Thought that was water

h2o 2o?  Too much water?


Text? A book I had to read in school.

TAB?  First diet soft drink.

Huntz:  "Choose 3 tags from the most used and season well to increase the pipeline."

I go Tag-less since Michael Jordan appeared  in that TV commercial with the question "Boxers or Briefs" and no tag.  My most used tags are "Large, X-large, and Tent."

The only seasonings I have are salt and pepper but I also like fall and winter. Concerning pipelines, we have Mobile, Exxon, and Texaco and a few hundred others running through most of Texas.  That's about all we can handle right now.

In regard to word press, well I have had some experience there.  Our new puppy chewed up the kids' homework the other day so I had to first find the iron and press the paper so the teacher could read the words. So I do press words.

As the newest and oldest living Monkey Pickler writer and the one with quite possibly the shortest writing career in the history of Monkey Pickles, I can cut and paste and e-mail.  That's it. That is  the extent of my computer-ish-ness.

In the event Huntz is waiting for the Mother Ship to return and is doing Monkey Pickles on the side, I say "Live long and prosper, Huntz (and don't back into any pipelines)."

Miss America, 82 years later

by Jody Worsham grinsandgroans at yahoo.com
All rights reserved for jewelry cleaner

Is has been more than a few years since I watched the Miss America Pageant.  Things have changed.

Before watching the Miss America Pageant last night, I checked to see what interesting talents  I might see besides the customary singing,piano playing, and tap dancing.  Of the 53 contestants, the unusual talent fare included two baton twirlers, two Irish Step dancers, two violin performers, one ballet en pointe, two Bollywood dancers, one African Folkloric dance, and one combo baton, hoop, and flag twirling.  I was really hoping to see that last one.

After watching the talent performances that made it to the finals, I think the talent rules for the Miss America Pageant should be changed.  The young lady representing her state should have a talent representative of that state.  That would give us a good variety of talent to watch in between the TV commercials and the producers’ futile attempts to generate interest and suspense.

For example, Missouri is the "Show Me State" so maybe Miss Missouri could show us something.  I am not suggesting a tasteful striptease act, the swimsuit competition came pretty close to that this year or maybe I'm just getting old. Maybe she could show us how to carve a raft out of some logs. Miss Florida might wrestle an alligator.  Miss Louisiana could call ducks and Miss Alaska spearing a salmon would hold my interest.  I bet Miss Kentucky could race a thoroughbred around that giant indoor arena. Miss Texas could do some rope tricks or a Dallas Cowboy cheer and Miss New York could recite the Dow Jones closing numbers.

If you are going to represent you state, then that is what you should do.  Besides, if Miss New York had done that, then Miss Texas would have won for sure.  Not that I am disappointed that Miss Texas didn’t win, although she should have, but then I am a Texan.

I have to remember the Miss America Pageant is a scholarship pageant.  All that parading around in bikinis while wearing high heels, swooping down the runway in mermaid gowns, and twirling, dancing, singing and fiddling is to demonstrate how smart they are and how deserving of a scholarship they are.

In the years since I last watched the Miss America Pageant, I think I have missed something and it wasn't just the Miss Congeniality Award. 

Miss America has come of age.  Congratulations Miss America, aka. Miss New York, Bollywood and all.

Senior Citizen Writes Country Western Song

By Jody Worsham                                      

All rights reserved for Video Music Awards appearance, and I mean “RESERVED”

Today, with Social Security and Medicare being what it is for us Senior Citizens, I have been considering  what my next career move is going to be in order to pay for Medicare Part D-Q.

As a kid growing up and listening to Porter Wagoner and the Wagonmasters on the radio at my grandparents’ house, it seemed all you needed to create a hit country western song was  to include a cup of coffee, a train whistling down a lonely track, rain, and a girlfriend who had left you.  Add a steel guitar and a singer who could sing through his nose and you were a hit.

That was it.  I am going to be a country western songwriter.  Now I know nobody rides the train anymore, more like airplanes or motorhomes and coffee can't be just coffee; it has to be Starbucks or something.   Rain is good and we need some.  Today a girlfriend dumping you is just a quick text message, and I haven't heard a steel guitar since, well Porter Wagoner.

I’ll have to take a different approach but still keep true to the country western roots, maybe just updating it to reflect our modern times.   I’ve got it.  I’ll write a modern country western song about family.  I’ll call it…

                                                       "I Am My Own Grandma!"

I gave you life; I raised you right
But all you did was party all night.
Now you're gone.  You took my truck.
You left us three kids and hound dog named Buck.
We adopted the kids in the pouring rain.
Our family tree is hard to explain.
Kids, your daddy is your daddy and that will always be
But he is also your brother, cause you're all adopted see?
And your cousins are now your uncles
and your Paw is well your Paw
And I guess that makes me my own GrandMaw!
Now get me a cup of coffee;
 Make that a mocha frappe and a straw.
Today I am your Mother, but yesterday I was your Grand Maw.

Chorus:  We are just your typical family.
With a twisted family tree.
If some branches get chopped, and others spliced, it's all the same to me.
Cause when your kid ignores the law,
You can become your own Grandmaw!

Now all I need is a singer with sinus problems and an electric guitar and Medicare Part H is covered.

  Yeehaw!

The Ice Age Cometh!

by Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for..wait, was that my cell phone?

I have declared today as Local Clean Out the Freezer Day. I think I have things in there left over from the first Ice Age.

With school starting on Monday I am in a frenzy to get all those jobs done that I was going to do all summer in the hopes that with school starting and me having six hours of uninterrupted thought patterns, I could get some writing done because I have to write and submit. My friend said so.

That is only going to happen if I accomplish those pesky household chores now. On the way to the laundry room with the first pile of laundry, I noticed my lonely i-pad on my desk. It is Hump Day, after all. Lots of e-mails on Hump Day. I better stop and check my humor groups on the I-pad. Laughing makes the trip to the laundry room more fun. Oh, there's the refrigerator and it IS Local Clean Out the Freezer Day. From the arctic depths of the refrigerator freezer, I can hear the "ping" of my i-pad. Better go back and check that to see if there is a response to ....anything.

After reading four more e-mails, squeezing out a damp mop in preparation for a "swipe and wipe" of the den floor, I reward myself with a quick glance at the lap top. Sometimes it gets things the i-pad doesn't, especially if I forget to recharge the i-pad. And there might be a link to something I'm missing.

To recap: It is 8:52. I got up at 6 a.m. I am still in my pj's. I have read five humor pieces, made six comments, walked the pile of dirty clothes to the laundry room (that's as far as I got), opened the freezer door observing the frozen wasteland, and have a damp-soon-to-be-dry mop leaning against the den wall. The kids and Dr. Hubby are down at the Trump Chicken Condos laying a brick floor in preparation for the arrival of 50 baby show chickens on Tuesday.

It's quiet now. Maybe I should take advantage of that. I made a pretty good start on the chores. I think I deserve some computer writing time. Now if I could just think of something to write about.

Dang, I forgot. It is Quilting Day down at the Center. If I can get dressed, find my quilting needles and thread, I will only be 30 minutes late.

I'll celebrate Local Clean Out the Freezer tomorrow. The ice should be melted by then.

Jody the Medicare Mom

Jody can be found most days observing household clutter, identifying archeological scrapings from burned dinners, watching damp mops dry and wondering why, like her friend Wanda, she never gets anything done.

Let's Hear It for the FAT Cells!

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for fried foods everywhere

FAT!  We see it all the time, on the television, in the dieting aisles, walking down the beach, in the mirror.  We are bombarded with commercials selling the latest FAT reducing pills, drinks, rubs, wraps.  Skinny Minnies are effortlessly walking, climbing, lifting, twisting, or running on the latest torture contraptions released by the CIA.  These devices are guaranteed to give you washboard abs, a flat stomach, tight buttocks and endless trips to the chiropractor for twenty-four easy payments of $19.99 and a 300 calorie diet.  Our whole society has bought into the idea that FAT is BAD.

I am here to defend FAT.  Think about it.  In the culinary world fat makes the taste buds happy, happy, happy as Phil would say.  Without fat, potatoes would taste like library paste, Julia Childs couldn’t have named her book “The Joy of Cooking” and Paula Deen’s hair would have been too big for her body. Fat is to humans what a fur coat is to people in Miami.  It makes a statement.  It says “I have this and I am going to keep it whether you like it or not.”

Fat keeps whales from freezing in the Arctic waters.  Early man would have found himself unenlightened without bowls of fat to burn and shed light on his cave drawings.

Insurance companies should be giving discounts for an abundance of fat.  Statistics show that people with an ample supply of fat suffer fewer severe injuries from a fall than their skinny counterparts who are lacking in padding and are more likely to suffer broken bones.  Pirates carrying a hefty load of fat have also been known to survive longer on a deserted island than their thin shipmates.

In ancient economic systems, if you were worth your weight in gold, wouldn’t you like to be heavy on the scales?   It just might enable you to prevent foreclosure on that condo in Maui.

Without FAT our vocabulary and literature would be sadly lacking.  Who can forget fat lip, fat chance! fat bank account, padded expense account, padded cell, and padded seats?  Minnesota Fats, Fats Domino, Jabba the Hutt, the Hulk might never have made it into our literature and onto the silver screen had they been thin.

Great artists from the Renaissance and Baroque periods honored fat in their paintings and sculptures.  Fat happy cherubs adorn doorways and buildings.  Rotund and amply fed women were highly sought after as models.  A long legged, tall thin Barbie would never have made it as a model in those days.  Twiggy would have been passed over as ugly, unattractive, and definitely too thin.  No stick figures for the world’s greatest artists.

Therefore, let the world salute FAT!  May it keep us warm in winter, protect us when falling, bring us wealth when weighed, and sustain us when marooned on deserted islands.  We thank you for flavoring our food, our language, our literature, and our art.

Hippy!  Hippy!  Hooray for FAT!

 

 

 

Cleaning Can Be Hazardous to Your Health

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for Dust Bunnies

Aside from the usual cleaning hazards (inhaling fumes, bleach burns, slippery floors, vacuum cleaners left longer than two weeks in the hallway, spontaneous combustion of cleaning sponges, marital problems started by Mr. Clean), cleaning can also be hazardous to your loved ones.

Granted, I do not clean, I mean REALLY clean, all that often.  While some adhere to the traditional spring cleaning, I am more aligned with the Mayan calendar, which means I haven’t really cleaned since Dec. 21, 2012 when their calendar ended.  But yesterday I decided it was time to scoop out the house and engage in some hard core cleaning.

Most of the time my cleaning consists of moving the clutter to a different room, rearranging the clutter in a more organized manner, or hauling the clutter to the barn.   In moments of desperation I have actually been known to sweep, mop, and vacuum all floors at the same time regardless of whether or not the floors are covered in carpet, wood, tile, or cement. 

Most of the time I give the carpet a quick vacuum in the high traffic areas and as my grandmother used to say “give it a lick and a promise.”  This particular day I decided to shampoo all the carpet; after all, it had been six months since the Mayan calendar ended.

I started in the twelve-year-old’s room.  After removing enough wrappers, bottles, paper plates, and coke cans to start my own landfill, I vacuumed and shampooed the carpet.  Who knew the carpet was really blue instead of dove gray? 

Inspired, I went on to the eight-year-old’s room.  I removed all the throw rugs.  Seeing the spot where I had tried to remove a stain last month reminded me to double check my cleaning solution to make sure there was no bleach in it this time.  No bleach.  Whew!  Carpet vacuumed, shampooed, and fans turned on high to speed the drying process.  Now I am really motivated.  On to the living room.

This was more of a challenge.  Furniture pieces had to be tilted back and the coffee table moved to the other side of the sofa.  I was on a roll.  Spitting out white foam and sucking up water that would make the Mississippi seem clear; my carpet shampoo machine was doing an excellent job.  I was surprised to see that my carpet was a solid color and did not actually have a pattern in it, that I shampooed it again; this time the water really looking like the Mississippi River.  This resulted in a soggier carpet which needed more drying time.  Off to our bedroom.

By this time my carpet shampoo-er and I were both running low on steam.  I turned the TV on and discovered a “Matlock” marathon and took a little break.  In between episodes I managed to do a little more decluttering, cleaning, and shampooing.  Later during more sporadic cleaning and episode 9 of the “Matlock” marathon, Dr. Hubby came in to take a shower.  Before settling down to join me in watching episode 10, he decided to get a little snack from the kitchen by way of the living room.

I heard the crash, the splintering of wood, and the thud of a body on newly shampooed carpet before I heard the screams from Dr. Hubby and the frightened children.  I scampered to the living room to discover Dr. Hubby sprawled out on the floor.  The coffee table, which I had moved to the other side of the sofa while the carpet dried, was now missing two legs.  He, fortunately, still had his legs attached.

“Who put a coffee table in the middle of nowhere when there hasn’t been anything there for the past ten years?” he yelled between knee spasms, words describing questionable heritage, and clinching his teeth.

“I shampooed the carpet so I moved the coffee table until it dried.”

“You couldn’t put it back?”

I helped Dr. Hubby to his recliner after I determined an ambulance was not necessary and supplied him with a handful of Advil.  Then I began to laugh out of relief or at the comedy of it all.  Dr. Hubby, even at his age, can shoot the eye out of a black eyed pea at 30 yards but can’t see a 2x4x3 foot coffee table in the middle of an open space in broad daylight.

“He’s going to be ok, right?  Cause it wouldn’t be as much fun without him.  You are ok, but just not as much fun,” worried the eight-year-old.

“He will be fine,” I hoped.

 The twelve-year-old and I moved the coffee table back to its customary place and used books to replace the now missing legs.  I put the vacuum cleaner and the carpet shampoo-er back in the hall closet exactly in the same place as outlined by the dust print.  Don’t want any more accidents.

I thought about my day of house cleaning, carpet shampooing, and coffee table vaulting husband.   Even without a calendar, the ancient Mayans have spoken:

 Excessive cleaning can be hazardous ...to somebody! 

Movie-ing On!

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for pot of gold!

I admit I do not go to movies very often.  In fact, the last movie I saw was “UP”. But this summer, without any plans for a cruise or vacation, I decided to use our allocated vacation money to treat the children to a movie or two or three. 

Since “UP” brought down my average monthly salary, I knew to attend movies before 5p.m. on a week day and skip the 3-D version (which stands for Depleting, Depressing, and Debilitating my budget) otherwise I could quickly max out my credit card.  I also knew to stop at Wal-Mart for the prerequisite sugar jolt of candy that I would hide,  sneak, place in my purse in case anyone in the theater had a sudden diabetic emergency…or the movie turned out to be boring and the children started chomping on each other.

The first movie that had the children marking off the days until it opened in theaters was “Monster University.” Opening day and we were off at 3:44 for the not-matinee-and-not-evening showing. “One senior, two children please.”  I held my breath until the credit card flashed “approved.”  Feeling like I now had a little wiggle room in the budget, I thought about splurging and getting popcorn and drinks for the children; that is until I saw the prices.

 $19.95 for a bucket of popcorn and two MEDIUM drinks.  Seasonings were $1.50 extra but salt was only $1.00.  The profit margin must be 99%, the only actual expense being the bucket and the cups.  I bet if they could figure a way, they would have you bring your own sack and just have you stand under the coke spigot with your mouth open for so many seconds.  We skipped the $20 popcorn and cokes.  The movie was cute and funny on so many different levels.

The second movie opening marked on the calendar was “Despicable Me.”  Still working off our cruise vacation budget, I agreed to take them.  I had never seen “Despicable One” but the children said that was ok they would tell me anything I did not understand.  As it turned out, I had to explain why I was laughing so hard to them.  It was a perfect cartoon spoof on all the James Bond super spy movies I had seen.  This movie had the children chomping on the contraband M&M’s half way through.

The third movie was “Turbo.”  I love Dream Works so I was looking forward to this movie.  Remember this is replacing a seven day cruise for four with all gourmet meals, entertainment, continuous soft-serve ice cream, free child care, and constant maid service included.  Getting tickets on line enables you to bypass the trauma of credit card APPROVED and the Snack Bar prices and head straight for the movie theatre.   This was a “formula one” type movie.  The underdog, or in this case the under snail, dreams of winning the big race and does.  It did have a couple of profound philosophical points which went completely over the heads of the children.

With no more must-see movies on our list and a little bit of change left in the vacation fund, we headed for the frozen yogurt store.  Here, in true genius marketing fashion, they do not post their price list.  Instead you fill your cup with as much frozen yogurt as you want and pile on all the candies, toppings, and nuts that you can.  Then, when it is too late to put anything back, they weigh it and charge you by the ounce or in our case, by the pound.

After crunching the numbers, 4 ½ hours of actual movie entertainment, 1 ½ hours of movie advertisements plus M&M’s times three, add in frozen yogurt and future dental appointments, we will definitely get more for our money by btaking a cruise….possibly around the world.

Duck (make that) Bird Tape

by JodyWorsham
All rights reserved for taping ducks

I admit to using duck tape for a variety of reasons:  splicing 2x4's together, repairing a hem in a costume, making a dress form by wrapping a model wearing a t-shirt with multiple layers of duck tape, waterproof bandages for a horse's hoof, the normal every day things people do with it.  I have not yet resorted to trapping wildlife or making a tape ladder; although that does sound intriguing.

No, I will leave the more creative aspects of duck tape  usage to Dr. Hubby.  A long time advocate of such home remedies as WD-40 for wounded chickens, Vick's Vapo Rub for what ails you, and Old Spice Shaving Lotion for making  orphan calves acceptable to our Jersey cow, he has now added Duck Tape to his arsenal of home repair tools.

Recently our eight-year-old was testing the structural integrity of a bird's nest in the event of an earthquake registering 9 on the Richter Scale, by jumping up and down on the tree limb holding the bird nest.  He reported, after being caught, that th should not be insured by the good hands people.  Dr. Hubby examined the proverbial bird nest on the ground and saw that the eggs in the nest were unharmed thanks to the copious amounts of dog fur collected by the bird parents from our shedding Labrador.  I'm not sure the lab meant to shed so much fur, but the birds were fast.

Dr. Hubby picked up the nest and put it back in the tree.  Concerned that the structure might have been compromised by the budding seismologist and the 14 foot fall to the ground, Dr. Hubby brought out the duck tape and secured the nest to the branch.

The bird parents returned to check out their hew industrial high rise.  They liked the new industrial look.  Having your TV on HGTV facing the patio door and their tree, I
m sure, helped them acclimate to their new living quarters.

A few weeks later, the eggs had hatched and all had flown the nest.  Because duck tape is so strong, the nest will remain for the next tenants for years to come.

Duck Tape Condos may become all the rage.  The eight-year-old is already considering an online business for do it yourself bird nest builders. The kit would include a roll of  duck tape, which he is renaming bird tape, some twigs, and fur from a yellow lab named Sandy;  that is if Sandy isn't bald by then.

7667

Wring Your Own ....!

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for an  egg-sorcist

When Dr. Hubby mentioned that he would like to raise a few chickens, I didn’t think anything about it.  He has these ideas that pop into his head occasionally.  I should have known after 49 years that his ideas pop like popcorn and somehow expand exponentially.

We started with twelve little yellow fluff balls in a cardboard box in the barn.  The cute little yellow fluff balls soon outgrew the cardboard box and the pen hubby had rigged up temporarily and turned into twelve white feathered noisy pooping, smelly pullets.

 “Not a problem.  I’ll just build them a pen down where the old barn used to be.  We are going to need a place for the kids' show chickens anyway” says Dr. Hubby.

What followed is now referred to as the Trump Condos for Chickens or the Government Economic Term Stimulus Tentative Under Planned Interactive Development.  I just refer to it as G.E.T.   S.T.U.P.I.D.   In hindsight, I probably could have gotten a government grant to determine which came first:  The Chicken or the Egg.   But no matter, that was a moot question.

Actually the shed, the chain link fence, the recycled old patio doors, the unused French doors, the ceiling fan for circulation, the water-ers, the chicken feeders, plumbing and electricity, a door for easy access, covered porch for the John Deere Gator bought to haul the chicken feed, and shavings  came first.  But to keep the stimulus stimulating, more chicks had to be bought so there would be a continuous supply of eggs…of which I had yet to see one of…..egg  I mean.

We are now up to 24 chicks in various stages of development.  The eleven-year-old picked out her favorite and named it “Sweet Thing”.  After a few more weeks when the first birds were discovering their voices, Sweet Thing had to be renamed Sweet Boy.  Now we have 23 chickens and one rooster.  Dr. Hubby is now concerned that the older birds are pecking on the younger birds so….there is an addition to the Trump Chicken Condos.

 “Well, when the show chickens get here, we are going to have to have a separate place to keep the broilers away from the layers.” I had a better solution.  KFC came to mind.

With the added room, more chicks arrived because…I don’t know why.  He’s a man who can’t resist a sale, auction or anything homeless.  We are now at 32 birds and one rooster and awaiting the arrival of 50 show chickens. 

After four months and an additional 500 square feet of condo living, the first eggs arrived.  It was very educational.  Our eight-year-old has, after much observation, deduced that it takes all day to make an egg.  “First you have to get the yoke in it; then make the shell and add a little dab of protein.”  I think he has mixed up farm life and the cooking network.  Our eleven-year-old was a bit more astute.  “Chickens don’t lay eggs before 10:00.  It is now 11:00.  Do you think chickens can tell time?”

With a rooster in the flock, the eight-year-old got a lesson in sex egg-ucation early on.   Sweet Boy is anything but sweet.  If you walk into the chicken condo carrying anything in your hand like a bucket, he will attack.  If you walk in empty handed, he rushes up to you and wants to be petted.   He has also developed a powerful set of lungs as our neighbors down the road will verify.

As promised, egg production began to increase.  At first we got two or three eggs per day.  Eggs sunny side up.  Then we began to get half dozen a day.  Scrambled eggs.  French Toast. Omelets.  A dozen eggs a day.   Egg salad.  Quiche. Boiled eggs.  Egg custard.  18  eggs per day.  Egg sandwiches.  Eggs Benedict.  EGGS FOR SALE!  I even pushed for our church to declare an Egg-umenical Sunday.  I lobbied for Egg-stra school days.  I argued for a yard sale of Egg-normous size.  I nagged for an Egg-ercise program at the gym.  Nothing.

We can’t afford any more eggs.  Between the chicken feed, the egg cartons, the now egg allergy shots, it is costing us to have chickens.  I am waiting for the old hens to shut down.  Then I’ll add:

 FRESH CHICKENS FOR SALE!  Wring Your Own and Take Her Home!

 And I am not egg-aggerating!

E.T....No Pal of Mine!

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for the days of Ma Bell

If you watch NatGeo or the Science channel, you know all about the theories of past alien invasions.  I am here to tell you that the aliens are back.  They have used their far advanced technology to infiltrate the internet, our phone systems, and Pay Pal.

Now I know many of you have had to deal with tech support from those who have English as their fourth or fifth language and that is trying, especially if you have older ears trying to  listen to English  spoken with an accent thicker than mud on a hog in August.  But since my recent experience with the alien infiltrated Pay Pal, I would take Mud Hog spoken with any accent.

I shall explain.  After complaining for years about no longer having my wonderful Salad Master Machine that I used twice a year to make potato salad, I found one on E-Bay.  Hooray! And just in time, as it turns out, for the 4^th…of Never!

I checked the pictures of the Salad Master Machine on E-Bay.  It was just like my old one. I compared new prices from the factory.  I looked at the ratings for the seller.  I even had a Pay Pal account to secure my payment so all was good…or so I thought.

Time to make my purchase. When I got to the “How Do You Want to Pay?” I clicked Pay Pal . Long pause as I search through three hundred manila folders for my Pay Pal log in name.   You can see my level of computer competency right?  I found I had failed to write it and my password down.  Not to worry. It’s Pay PAL.  When I couldn’t log in, Pay Pal conveniently asked me to click the following boxes:  “Forgot Log In name? click  Forgot password?…click.  Can’t remember either?  Click and double click.”

 After clicking enough times to secure my position on “Dancing with the Stars, Flamenco Night”, I submitted my telephone number to verify I had an account.  Yep.  There it was…under the yahoo e-mail account that hasn’t let me in since some one…or some THING changed my password years ago and didn’t tell me what it was.

Appearing on the not-yet-blue-scream-of-death computer monitor was my old e-mail account name and “You have been sent instructions for changing your password to the above e-mail.”  AAAAARGGG.  Just before I manhandled the monitor I read the second line. 

“For further assistance click here and leave your phone number.  You will be called immediately to verify that this is your account.”  Good. I can explain my problem.

I clicked…again…and within 60 seconds the phone rang.  A computer (?) generated voice (a.k.a. E.T.?) asked me to punch in the security code I had been given on the blue-scream-of-frustration.  I did. Then E.T. told me how to change my password.  After repeatedly tapping the new password into the phone, E.T. told me a confirmation would be sent….wait for it…wait for it…to the  e-mail account I could not access.

Back to the blue-scream-of-rising-blood-pressure monitor.  “Need help?  E-mail us your problem.” Ooook….

“I need to change my e-mail address on my Pay Pal Account.”

“Instructions will be sent within 24 hours to (you guessed it) the e-mail on your account.” 

Back to the black-and-blue-stream-of-explicatives.  On the monitor was “Call us”. I did.   E.T.’s mother answered.

 “Please say in a few words the nature of your problem.”

“I need to edit the e-mail address on my Pay Pal Account.”

“I can help you with that.  Access your account now and I will lead you step by step through the process.”

“That’s the problem.  I can’t get into my e-mail account.”

“I’m sorry.  I did not get that.  Say AGAIN or say MORE INFORMATION.”

“AGAIN.”

“Please say in a few words the nature of your problem.”

“MORE INFORMATION”

“Please say in a lot more words and with as many details as possible, what we can do to help you with this very important and frustrating problem you are currently experiencing.”

“I want to speak to an earthling!   A being…  or an illegal alien  with an accent…”

“Oh, I can help you with that request.  Push #1 for Klingon …Push 2 for  Mork, Push 3 for  Alph….”

CLICK!!!

I wonder if they take cash on E-Bay …. or the Mother Ship???

The Best Little School House in Texas

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for small schools

I haven’t been to a small high school graduation in…well since my own graduating class of nineteen students over fifty years ago.  Since my twelve-year old will be graduating from her new school in ___I can’t believe it___six years___we decided to attend. 

I knew, from the limited parking, to get there early.  What I didn’t know was that I would be sitting in the bleachers, the chairs on the gym floor being reserved for family and friends of the graduates.  Black plastic was duck taped to the gym windows (I could fix that.  There would be proper blackout inserts for my child’s graduation) in order for the slide presentations to be seen.  A portable stage was set up at one end of the gymnasium with a curtained backdrop and chairs for the administrators who would be presenting the diplomas.  Twenty-four chairs were lined up to the right of the stage for the graduating class of 2013.  Eighteen chairs were set up next to the giant screen for those presenting scholarships to the graduates on the opposite side.  At 6:45 the principal, superintendent, secretary, and counselor began bringing in the potted ferns for the edge of the stage.

At precisely 7p.m. the Graduating Class of 2013 marched in appropriately spaced to make the most of their numbers to a recording of “Pomp and Circumstance” and amidst shouts, hoorahs, and whistles that would have put my husband’s PhD.  graduation at A&M to shame.   Clearly these were proud and possibly relieved parents to see their children about to graduate.

After the prayer (yes, they pray at this school) the historian presented the history of the class.  Seven of the twenty-four who started kindergarten together were graduating together.  She named the others and the year they joined the class.   The Salutatorian gave a moving speech about having a rough start but then was guided and challenged by teachers who knew when to tug and when to hug.  The Valedictorian entertained us with a speech from the view point of a modern teenager whose parents and teachers were often viewed as not so modern. I laughed.  I cried.  I remembered.

Scholarships were then presented.  When the presentations were over twenty-four graduates shared in over $400,000 in scholarships.  Every single graduate received a scholarship from the community in the amount of $1,000.

The power point presentation was next.  Pictures of special moments in each graduates’ life appeared on the giant screen. Black plastic and duct tape quickly forgotten.  Captured moments filled with laughter.  Some pictures with stories shared only by the graduates but special all the same.

An hour and a half had elapsed when the superintendent came to the podium.  Some have asked “Couldn’t we shorten this ceremony a bit” but I suspect for the parents of these graduates, it has gone way too fast.”

And with that each graduate came forward to receive his diploma.  The principal having attested to the fact that all graduates had met the requirements set forth by the state of Texas, declared them high school graduates and instructed them to move their tassels to the other side of their mortar board hats.

Then each graduate was given the opportunity to present roses to those who held a special place in their hearts.  It took a bit of time as they searched the crowds for the ones they had selected, but nobody seemed to mind. 

They reassembled, the benediction, the recessional and it was over.

Fifty years ago as I received my diploma, I was excited about the future. Today I am once again exited for the future of my children who will soon graduate from this little school.

The school is growing as others seek that which is so special about this school.  Another classroom is already being built.  Growth is necessary but I hope it never grows so large that each graduate could not receive a scholarship, or the power point reduced to strobe like flashes of pictures or the opportunity for the seniors to present their roses. I would miss that.

Small school doesn’t automatically equal a small education. I hope this school never outgrows what makes it so special.  Size matters when it comes to the size of the schools’ heart, not the size of its graduating class.