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