Danger, Will Robinson, Warning!

By Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for racing stripes.

If you ever watched the 60’s TV show “Lost in Space” you will recognize the little robot calling out “Warning! Will Robinson, Warning!” whenever danger was near.  I wish I had one of those.  At least it wouldn’t be a highway patrol saying “ Warning! Mrs. Worsham, Warning” and waving a piece of paper at me.

I have been called Lead Foot, Jody Andretti, Rocket Mama and a few others.  I have been known to drive unslow.  I blame it on the car designers and modern technology. It’s true.

Back when I started driving, cars did not have air conditioning.  You drove with the windows down in the summer which was the only time I had access to a car.  You judged your speed by the position of your pony tail.  If it was straight out behind your head, better slow down.  Or you judged speed by the sound of the wind noise.  Cars had those little triangle windows that opened a crack and served no purpose other than to create wind noise to alert you to your speed.  When the decibels reached 7 or just short of a train, it was time to hit the brakes.

In the late 60’s early 70’s Chevrolet thought it would be helpful to install a dial whereby you could set the needle on the speedometer to go off when you reached so many miles per hour.  The intent was for you to set it at the legal speed.  The trouble was I got tired of hearing its buzzer go off every ten seconds, so I set it on 95.  Now when that buzzed, I slowed down.

Today we have Cruise Control.  You tap a button, set the speed, and prop your feet up on the dash.  Foot free driving.  Some cars automatically adjust your speed if you approach another car or a herd of deer cross the road which is more likely in my area.  But there is nothing that says “Warning, Jody Worsham, Danger” to avoid a speeding ticket.  Yes, you can buy one of those radar detectors but that’s like admitting you sometimes speed and plan on doing it whenever you think you won’t get caught.   Lead Foot, yes, knowingly disobedient, never. 

The seven-year-old gave me my very own speed reminder.  It is low cost, easy to install, and highly visible.

Today pony tails are worn low on the neck if you have one at all and the air conditioning eliminates wind noise warnings.  Triangular windows have been replaced by huge expanses of glass.  Cruise control only works if you remember to set it. You only know if you are speeding if you can quickly decipher which of the twenty-seven dials and electronic read-outs on the driver’s console and steering column is for speed.   Well, that, and those flashing red and blue lights in your rear view mirror.

 

“Warning! Mrs. Andretti! Warning!”    At least this time it was just a “warning” ticket.

Inventory or Junk? Part Duh

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for Auction Anonymous

It depends on the person you ask.  Our auction/bargain hunting days have now spanned forty-eight years.  During that time what he buys is still inventory and what I buy, he claims is junk.  I fail to see the difference.

But to be fair all of the chest of drawers from the auction 48 years ago are gone except for two I have in my sewing room.  The birch became tables, workbenches, cabinets, and chairs.  Most of the remaining bedframes, after supplying six children with multiple beds and a few trips to the salvage yard when funds were low, were made into fence posts to fence our thirty-five acres of land.  It was a little strange to see, but it kept the horses and cows off the road.  The few remaining bedframes are in a small pile in the back pasture.

It turned out the band uniforms were not a bad investment.  Each uniform had sixty-four silver knob buttons, six yards of woven nylon cording that formed the citation cords, and a hat with a plume.  I offered band uniforms to every theatre department that was even thinking about performing “Music Man”.  The Nacogdoches Historical society bought some to use as the basis for Santa Anna’s officers for a re-enactment.  A couple of choirs bought some to use as costumes for toy soldiers.  My students strung and hung silver buttons on stage to create a perfect starry night and we have used the nylon cording to tie up just about everything.

But I am a little worried today.  Sutherland’s has been going out of business since Christmas and Dr. Hubby has been adding to his “Never-know-when-you-might-need-it inventory” since before Christmas.  I now have a weather thermometer in every bedroom, bathroom, and closet in the house just because they were a good price.  Today is the final, final, really final last day public auction.

With his first call he announced “I got you some shelving.  I don’t know what you can do with it, but it was a good buy.”  That had me a little worried.  Why would there be any question about what you would do with shelving unless…I won’t go there…yet.

His second call said “I got you some yard sticks.  Think you can find a use for them?”  By now I was getting a little leery.

“How many?”

“A  case…or two….”

“Ok, well that’s not bad.  The school can probably use some yard sticks I….you said a case or two…how many cases?   Exact number.”

“Eight.”

“And how many yard sticks in a case?”  I was learning.

“Five………..hundred.”

“You bought 4,000 yard sticks?  What are we going to do with 4,000 yardsticks?”

“Make tables?  Use them to make Santa Anna-Music Man-Toy Soldier Scarecrows?”

The third time the phone rang I almost didn’t pick it up for fear of what he had bought next.  However, imagining what he had bought was worse than knowing.

“What did you buy this time?”

“Uh, now it only has 50,000 miles on it.  It was a real good price. “

“I hope you are talking about a dolly.”

“It’s a truck.  Well, I had to have some way to haul my inventory home.”

Our town has a growing number of storage facilities.  If I read in the newspaper about a storage unit auction, I’m chaining him to his recliner and going myself.  There might be some good junk there that I can turn into inventory.  At least I won’t come home with 4,000 yardsticks!

Going Once...Going Twice...

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for Storage Wars

 In Texas, state universities can only sell state owned property through a silent auction announced to the public.   Until my husband became a professor at Stephen F. Austin State University, I had never heard of a state auction much less attended one.

 It was early in our marriage so we were still childless and thus had an extra bit of cash.

“Let’s stop by the silent auction and see if there is anything interesting,” said Dr. Hubby.

“Ok” never suspecting what I was in for.

We had only the bare necessities as far as furniture was concerned so Lots  3,4, and 5 held promise with the chest of drawers that were displayed. Lots 10 had two bedframes, and lot 45 had a storage closet displayed.   SFAU was demolishing some of the units; those one story Motel 6 look alike dorms where two units shared a bathroom.  Dr. Hubby had stayed there as a student in the late 50’s.  Each shared unit had four steel twin bedframes, two wardrobe closets, and two chests of drawers and there were 300 units.  Lot 35 interested me as a theatre student.  I saw potential in the West Point style black SFA band uniform as a costume for a butler or maybe a train conductor.

“Now do not make an even bid and do not make it for just dollars” instructed Dr. Hubby.  “I’m going to bid on Lots 3, 4, 5, 10, and 45.  Maybe I’ll get one,” and he was off.

I placed my bid of $19.21 for the band uniform in a sealed envelope and left it with the person in charge along with my name and phone number and waited for hubby.

The next day we got a call.   “Hey, honey, I was high bid on all the lots.”

“That’s great.  So we have three chest of drawers, two twin bedframes and a closet.”

“The displayed items were just samples.  I actually bought thirty-five chests of drawers, eighteen wardrobe closets all solid ¾ inch birch, and uh six hundred bedframes.” 

“WHAT????  Ok, this is a college town I can see having a garage sale and getting rid of some of the chest of drawers and making our money back and the birch will be good for building all kinds of things, but what are we going to do with three hundred bedframes? 

“I’ll think of something.”

 That was what I was afraid of.

 “Oh, and you got your band uniform or should I say band uniforms….there’s two hundred of them.  What are you going to do with two hundred band uniforms?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Hang them on bedframes and make two hundred scarecrows?”

Advice from Cousin Earletta

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for rip and tear sheets.

I have a real treat in store for you.  My Cousin Earletta has agreed to be my guest blogger and share some of her advice.  Cousin Earletta self-publishes a newspaper called “The Sharp Pine Needle” which is delivered by Billy Bob on his bicycle.  It’s called “You Asked For It.”  Go ahead Cousin Earletta. Oh, and if you have questions for Cousin Earletta, just contact her at grinsandgroans (at) yahoo.com

“Well, thank you Cousin.  With everybody pussy footin’ around trying to be politically correct, no one is giving any advice worth taking.  So I am here to give you some honest, straight from the hip, no  ‘holes’ barred,  good common sense advice that only an older mature Southerner can give.  So remember “YOU ASKED FOR IT”.

To Lost in Seattle.  You must be in that generation that uses “Finding Myself” as an excuse to live off your mama or your uncle.  If you haven’t found yourself by now chances are you ain’t looking in the right places.  Get a map.  Better yet, get a job.  Your Uncle Sam is going through my money faster than I can make it.

To Benched.  Yes, God created everybody equal… in the beginning, but gene pools ain’t the same and yours might be kinda  shallow.  I know it’s hard sitting on the bench your senior year when all of your friends are in the startin’ line up, but let’s be real.  At 4 ft. 3 inches, you ain’t goin’ to be playing post on the basketball team.   You will get your chance when Donkey Basketball comes to town.

To Bearded Lady.  My Aunt Lulabelle had the same problem only with her upper lip. She could have passed as a direct descendent from Hitler.   Only her problem began when she was nine.  She tried waxing, shaving, electrolysis, plucking, and bought every known gadget that ever appeared on the TV.  Once she even tried a blow torch.  Well it wasn’t a real blow torch, just one of those little hand held butane torches you use to start a brush fire.  It did the trick alright, for a while, but the moustache grew back long before her eyebrows.  So I’m going to give you the same advice my Mama gave her.  Save those moustache cups you get for Christmas every year and one day when you get Wi-Fi, you can sell your antique moustache cup collection on e-bay for hundreds of dollars.  Course in your case that wouldn’t work.  Have you tried employment in the circus?

To Congress.  Quit.  Go home.  That’s the best advice I can give you for the good of the country.

To Johnny Football.  Yes, I think they are after your body so run, boy, run.  Oh, and hold out for the Sports Illustrated Male Swimwear edition. I know they don’t have one yet, but the women of America will be heard and soon.

To Confused in Utah.  Yes, yes, no, maybe and I don’t think that is legal even in Utah.  Try it in Nevada,

To Invaded by Blow-ups.  Some people call it yard art.  Yes, 65 Christmas blow-up decorations in the yard next door may sound like Darth Vader with a severe case of asthma but stop being a Scrooge and join the fun…or get a pellet gun.

Well, that’s all the advice I have for right now.  If I stepped on your toes, too bad, You Asked For It!"

Thank you, Cousin Earletta, I think.  Remember if you need advice just e-mail Cousin Earletta at grinsandgroans (at) yahoo.com

A Rose by Any Other Name is Called Something Else

 
By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for court costs for legal name change.

New grandmothers and grandfathers get to pick the name they want their grandchildren to call them or so I’ve learned.  My friends can decide to be Nana, Grandmaw, MeMaw, Big Mama (although I certainly would not pick that one for myself even though it would fit), Mimi or Pop, Gramps, G-daddy, PawPaw, Poppa etc.

I had several names picked out for myself, grand names for a grand mother…such names as Grand MaMa with the accent on the last Ma pronounced with a slight French accent.  It didn’t matter.  The first grandchild had her own ideas about what she would call me.  Early on I thought I would be forever known as BeeBee.  Then she got tubes in her ears and I became Mimi.  Then we adopted her and her brother and after a lot of confusion and explanation to their friends, I became just Mama which is what I had called my grandmother.

Recently, and with no indication we would be going into the Witness Protection Program anytime in the future, the seven-year-old has dubbed me “Heymama” as in:

“Hey!  Mama! Watch this.”

“Hey!  Mama!  Wanna see what I caught?”

“Hey!  Mama, can I have a Dr. Pepper?”

At some point “Hey, Mama” became “Heymama”.  Maybe my hearing is declining (duh,  really?) and he thinks he must first get my attention by yelling  “HEY” and when I turn toward the sound he follows up with “Mama”.

But I won’t fret about it.  It could be worse.   He could have called out “Oh, Mama!”

The Case of the Frying Squirrel

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for cremation

With eight kids, there was always something going bump in the night: doors, the occasional kid bumping into the wall or falling off the bed, books, toys falling from laps even tree branches hitting the roof.  We are now down to two kids and the bumps in the night are fewer and farther between.

That is why I was startled when I was awakened at 1a.m. with the bump-bump-flutter-scratch-scratch sound coming from the bedroom fireplace.  We haven’t had a fire in this fireplace in ten years.  Dang, must be a mouse that got into the firebox from the outside ash door.  That would account for the scratching.  Bump-bump-flutter-flutter.   Ok, maybe a bird.  Birds make that flutter sound when they come down the chimney and get trapped. But bump-bump?  And bump-bump-flutter-scratch-scratch?  Ok maybe a mouse, a bird, and a what?  A bat?  Time to wake up Dr. Hubby.

“There’s something in the fireplace.  Kill it!”

“If it’s in the fireplace, it can’t get out.”

“I don’t care.  Wake up, Daniel Boone, and KILL IT”.  At that point membership in ASPCA and PETA meant nothing.

Of course when he finally found the flashlight and investigated, the noise had stopped.  “Wait for it.  Wait for it” and yes bump-bump-flutter-scratch-scratch.  And there it was a flying squirrel.

 “I’ll get my gun.”

“Stop.  Gun, bird shot, metal firebox, ricochet.  No gun.”

“Ok, I’ll start a fire.  That should run him out.”

Like I said, there hadn’t been a fire in the fireplace in ten years but there was still wood in there.  He lit a match.  The fire started up and so did the smoke.

“Damper! Damper!”  I had read that in emergency situations short commands are best.

“Did! Did!”  He had read the same article.

“Not! Not!”

He finally remembered that up was open and down was closed but by that time the room was thick with smoke.  I opened the patio door and he turned on the central heating unit fan.  You could see the smoke hesitate and hang in the air as it was torn  between going up and out with the central fan unit, or down out the patio door, or retreating through the chimney. At that moment the gentle rain turned into a cloud burst and water was splashing onto the bedroom carpet from the open patio door.

He opened the fireplace glass doors to encourage the smoke to go up the chimney.  I remembered he said “it” couldn’t get out if the glass doors were closed so I armed myself with a broom in case the critter tried to escape.  More newspapers made for a hotter fire, less smoke, and more fluttering and flopping as the flying squirrel tried to avoid being the frying squirrel.  It must have been a male squirrel.  I was giving him directions on how to get safely out but he wasn’t listening.

After turning a weeks’ worth of newspapers into ash, the fluttering stopped.  In its place we were treated to the smell of burning fur, wet carpet, and frying squirrel.

After thirty minutes the fire died down, the bump-bump-flutter-scratch-scratch had turned into  sizzle-sizzle-fizz-fizz-oh-what-a-relief-it is.  I said a quick prayer for the deceased.

Then bump, bump, slam, slam.  Child number seven staggers from wall to wall down the hall into the bedroom.  “What’s all the noise?”  Bump, bump, thud, thud.  Child number eight wanders into the room, eyes wide shut.  “What’s that smell? Is it morning?  Is Mama cooking breakfast already?”

“Nothing to worry about.  Mystery solved.  Just the wind”….and the rain and the smoke and the previously flying now frying dead squirrel.  “Go back to bed.”

The Case of the Frying Squirrel was closed…and cremated.   

Over the River and Through the Woods...to Grandma's Condo

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved so Currier and Ives can adopt Aunt Lurlean

If you are of the Boomer generation, pre or slightly post, you probably grew up seeing Currier and Ives Christmas cards displayed around the house or on the tins holding the ten ton fruit cake.  Christmas Eve or Christmas Day found you at Grandma’s with plenty of room to run around with all the cousins. Later you would be seated at the “kids” table for real mashed potatoes, string beans, and ham or chicken and dressing, before diving into the mounds of Christmas presents piled under a real Christmas tree.  At least that is how I remember it, but families have changed since Currier and Ives as my friends and neighbors will tell you.   

  “We had the grandkids for five days.  I’m plumb wore out.”

 “Glad this is over with.”

 “Why would you put people who don’t even speak to each other during the entire year together in the same room on the same day and expect them to be civil to each other? It is just stupid.”

 “I know there were only six of them, but it felt like a whole herd had moved in.”

 “Whee, I’m free!  No more cooking three meals a day for four days for twelve people in a kitchen designed for two!” 

“I hinted to my son-in-laws that the pine needles on my roof needed sweeping off…they agreed.” 

“We managed to get through it.”

 “Over the River and Through the Woods” kept playing in my head against a snowy Currier and Ives backdrop. Time to read between the lines and remind myself they didn’t have an Aunt Lurlean, at least that they would admit to.

 First, if you could get to Grandmother’s house in a horse drawn sleigh over snow without freezing to death, she must not live very far.  No five hour trips in a car.  Unless that sleigh was from “Back to the Future” there were no electronic games or DVD players in that sleigh so rather than bickering or aiming their blaster ray guns at each other, siblings would huddle together for warmth and encourage each other to cross the imaginary DMZ line drawn in the middle of the seat.  The one horsepower sleigh would get good hay mileage, so no thirty minute detour hunting for a gas station so Aunt Lurlean could save 2 cents a gallon on gasoline.  “The horse knows the way…” thus avoiding backseat driving or complaining from Aunt Lurlean that the On Star guy’s accent is not Southern.

The farmhouse is pictured as a two story job with a candle glowing in every window, obviously low maintenance.  Aunt Lurlean would require a generator as backup to avoid stress over possible downed power lines resulting in a semi-microwaved turkey.  The barn offers a place for the children to expend their energy.  Today Grandma may live in a condo and more than likely the pool and game room will be closed for the holidays forcing Aunt Lurlean to invent new games to occupy the children:  Monotonous, Scraping, Family Feuding, Twisted, Name that Dish, Repo Man, Dueling-in-laws, and Angry Bird-Brains.

Currier and Ives would have their family gathered around the Christmas tree and all would be able to trace their family tree with multiple branches down to one root.   Today’s family tree would resemble a stick with so many grafts that no one knows where the original root system began, well except for Aunt Lurlean and she’s keeping those skeletons locked in the closet ... temporarily.

 “Over the river and through the highway to Granny’s condo we go.   Lurlean knows the way to avoid the tolls through the gray and slushy snow, oh.”   Ok, so that’s not the words.  But we didn’t have Currier and Ives Christmases either. The only thing today that resembles a Currier and Ives Christmas is those tins with the fruitcake in them.  I think it is the same fruitcake.