Thanksgiving is next week and for many of us the thought of the holiday brings back happy memories. Like the time Uncle Chuck staggered in, grinning, just as the amen’s floated heavenward after grace. Under his arm, scrawny neck thrust forward and beady eyes piercing inhabitants of the dining room, was a 23-pound live turkey named Waldo. True, Chuck had asked if he could bring his friend Waldo to dinner and even admitted “he’s a real turkey.” Still, everyone at the table was shocked that Waldo wasn’t wearing a tie.
Every Thanksgiving comes with its own memories, such as the time my daughter misread the directions and thought she was supposed to cook the turkey in a 160 degree oven until the bird reached a temperature of 350. It was almost Friday by the time we ate.
Many of my favorite memories revolve around Canada Thanksgivings, which are on Oct. 12. For years we have been on our annual waterfowl hunting trip in Nokomis, Saskatchewan, at that time so we join a group of local friends and outside hunters at a farm for a potluck dinner and trap shoot. It’s an experience.
Grungy hunters arrive after the morning’s duck shoot garbed in camo and carrying potholdered pans and pots. Still searching for birds, gundogs nose the ground in front of them. The main culinary contribution is meat garnered from Mother Nature: shish-kabobbed pheasant, venison, souped-up hun, and sharptail and goose fixed in all sorts of ways.
These men, who wouldn’t dream of turning a page in a Betty Crocker cookbook, glean cooking information from hunting buddies who are experienced wild game chefs and have the dirty aprons to prove it. Most recipes start out with the basics: “Pluck the duck. Hunk it up. Get yourself a can of mushroom soup…”
A big crock-pot is essential for most wild game chefs. No fuss. No muss. You just dump in your soup. Dump in your duck. Throw in an onion, some water and turn it on high. Before serving, skim off the feathers floating on top. The real advantage of a crock-pot is that the slow boiling action causes the shot to sink to the bottom, where it can easily be scooped up and dumped in the can on the reloading bench.
My husband’s prize recipe is for gourmet goose. The trick is in the orange pop. The original recipe came from a Tennessee fellow who not only saves feathers to make his own pillows but is a champion award-winning goose caller…one of the reasons, perhaps, why he is divorced.
I don’t really like wild game. Well, except for sheep, buffalo and pheasant. Men like the stuff because they bagged it and dragged it home. Kids like it because Dad shot it. Wives like it because it saves money.
Wild game is like fine French cuisine. I’m not a drinker but I think each category has an alcoholic beverage that compliments its particular flavor. Kind of like the way red wine goes with red meat and white with poultry.
Beer goes best with buffalo or moose burgers, the quantity of cans depending on two things: toughness and the proximity of the animal to the rutting season at the time of its demise. Wine, a nice blush, goes well with pheasant or grain-fed ducks and geese. If the birds are slough- or swamp-dwellers, it is advisable to move up to a more potent beverage such as sake or Jim Beam.
Venison definitely calls for a hearty glass, or perhaps a bottle, of Jack Daniels. Mutton, which isn’t really considered wild game except for its tendency to crawl out of the pan when it’s being cooked, requires liberal doses of Everclear, or, if the person isn’t a drinker, a few Valium tablets an hour before dinner.
Tequila goes well with wild meat that has any of the following flaws: an abundance of feather-wrapped shot; portions that are bloodshot; excessive hair that requires more than a plastic Bic razor for removal; liver flukes; and a roast with a head, foot, or tail still attached.
Actually, much wild game goes well with a bald lie, such as: “Gee, I really like leg of mountain lion but recently I acquired an enzyme/anachtroidal deficiency which makes it impossible for my digestive system to absorb the chromosomal qualities of some wild game. I’d try it but I can’t really afford the corrective surgery it would require right now.”
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
Up or down: the never-ending saga of the toilet seat
Troy and I recently spent time on a goose/duck hunting trip at our place in Saskatchewan. Troy’s friend, John, was with us. I was outnumbered two to one. Since they were the hunters and I was the tag-along who had to do some badly-needed household chores after being away from the place for six years, I didn’t gripe about the toilet seat.
The Canada house only has one bathroom. In our normal lives we have two bathrooms that are basically his and hers. He always keeps the toilet seat down in mine but I rarely use his so I really don’t care if it is up or down or sideways. He can keep it up and use that toilet for a wading pool for all I care.
The toilet seat in the Canada house – which I fondly call House of the Whispering Floors because of the creaky old wood floors – seemed to always be up. My husband wasn’t being his normal chivalrous self. Maybe it was the hunting testosterone kicking in.
In the middle of one night, feeling the need to visit the john, I padded through the living room and made my way to the bathroom and sat down. Every woman who has done this knows the exquisite feel of a bed-warmed derriere plunged into a pool of ice water. First of all, the bowl is much larger than the seat so you are at least six inches deep in frigid water. Secondly, the bowl is quite a bit closer to the floor than the seat, which causes wrenching pain to the back and hip area.
After a bit of creative cursing and wiping myself dry with a towel, I grumbled back to bed. My first instinct was to shake him awake and ask if HE was the one who left the seat up. But I knew it wouldn’t be a meaningful conversation, just a series of huh? huhs? as he tried to come up from sleep fog to figure out what I was talking about.
Have you ever had fleeting fantasies that just send you into gales of laughter? I do that quite often, frequently in the middle of the night. In this case I was silently laughing so hard I was shaking the bed.
The fantasy was to just simply remove the toilet seat. Just unscrew the plastic bolts and retire it to the shed or the dump. And the next time he wanted to do the toilet ritual that involved sitting down he’d holler, “Where the heck’s the toilet seat?”
“Oh that?,” I’d yell back, “Since it’s always up and not used I figured it wasn’t needed so I hauled it away to the nuisance grounds (At our little town of Nokomis the dump is called the “nuisance grounds.”)
“What?!”
“I’ll tell you what,” I’d holler with great pleasure. “why don’t you just sit down there and do your business underwater, like you expect me to do.”
Until the end of time there will probably always be a war on whether the toilet seat should be up or down. Maybe we females should be like a woman I know who has her male-dominated family trained. Her guys all sit on the toilet instead of anointing it from a standing position.
It should, of course, be put down, and I’m not saying this from simply a female perspective. Men are taught to treat women with respect and courtesy and the toilet seat thing goes along with opening doors and being polite and chivalrous. It is simple good manners.
And if they can’t do that? Put a lock on the bathroom door and hide the key. There are a lot of trees out there.
The Canada house only has one bathroom. In our normal lives we have two bathrooms that are basically his and hers. He always keeps the toilet seat down in mine but I rarely use his so I really don’t care if it is up or down or sideways. He can keep it up and use that toilet for a wading pool for all I care.
The toilet seat in the Canada house – which I fondly call House of the Whispering Floors because of the creaky old wood floors – seemed to always be up. My husband wasn’t being his normal chivalrous self. Maybe it was the hunting testosterone kicking in.
In the middle of one night, feeling the need to visit the john, I padded through the living room and made my way to the bathroom and sat down. Every woman who has done this knows the exquisite feel of a bed-warmed derriere plunged into a pool of ice water. First of all, the bowl is much larger than the seat so you are at least six inches deep in frigid water. Secondly, the bowl is quite a bit closer to the floor than the seat, which causes wrenching pain to the back and hip area.
After a bit of creative cursing and wiping myself dry with a towel, I grumbled back to bed. My first instinct was to shake him awake and ask if HE was the one who left the seat up. But I knew it wouldn’t be a meaningful conversation, just a series of huh? huhs? as he tried to come up from sleep fog to figure out what I was talking about.
Have you ever had fleeting fantasies that just send you into gales of laughter? I do that quite often, frequently in the middle of the night. In this case I was silently laughing so hard I was shaking the bed.
The fantasy was to just simply remove the toilet seat. Just unscrew the plastic bolts and retire it to the shed or the dump. And the next time he wanted to do the toilet ritual that involved sitting down he’d holler, “Where the heck’s the toilet seat?”
“Oh that?,” I’d yell back, “Since it’s always up and not used I figured it wasn’t needed so I hauled it away to the nuisance grounds (At our little town of Nokomis the dump is called the “nuisance grounds.”)
“What?!”
“I’ll tell you what,” I’d holler with great pleasure. “why don’t you just sit down there and do your business underwater, like you expect me to do.”
Until the end of time there will probably always be a war on whether the toilet seat should be up or down. Maybe we females should be like a woman I know who has her male-dominated family trained. Her guys all sit on the toilet instead of anointing it from a standing position.
It should, of course, be put down, and I’m not saying this from simply a female perspective. Men are taught to treat women with respect and courtesy and the toilet seat thing goes along with opening doors and being polite and chivalrous. It is simple good manners.
And if they can’t do that? Put a lock on the bathroom door and hide the key. There are a lot of trees out there.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
OUT WITH THE OLD, IN WITH THE NEW
We met several times and did a sort of pseudo-practice on each other, crawling around on the floor and finding the push-spot on strange chests and pretending to blow air in strange mouths.
For all of us, this new CPR thing was remarkable and it was a heady thing, knowing we could save lives. After the training I kept my eyes open for any poor soul who dropped to the floor from a heart attack. If anyone in a store looked a little suspicious I would follow closely. It didn’t occur to me that before the training I never encountered a single person having a heart attack.
Then one day it happened. I was driving to Kalispell and pulled off to the side of the road was a battered old clunker with a man slumped over the wheel. I screeched to a halt and raced to the car door and pounded the window. He didn’t respond. I jerked it open, the whole time going over the routine in my head.
The stench reached me in seconds, before the guy lifted his head and looked at me through bleary eyes. He was drunker than seven skunks and had puked all over himself. His clothes were filthy, the car was trashed, and he obviously hadn’t visited a shower or bathtub in a long time. Booze and cigarettes and vomit notwithstanding, the guy stunk.
I wandered back to my car, chagrined at the knowledge that even if he had been in a medical crisis there was no way I was going to slap my lips over his.
In case you missed it, a recent Parade Magazine had a marvelous article about the new CPR where you don’t have to do the lip-to-lip thing. Like me, most people were reluctant to do mouth-to-mouth on a collapsed stranger. In an effort to determine if there was a way to encourage CPR, studies were done which proved that chest compressions were enough. There is enough oxygen in the blood that as long as it is kept circulating there’s no need for doing more than compressions. In fact, the studies showed that chances of survival were greater if you didn’t take the time for the breaths.
The key to saving a life is to call 911 and then performing 100 chest compressions a minute and not stopping until help arrives.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Great ideas warm hearts
Sometimes it seems like I’m surrounded by good ideas. They’re swirling and dancing around me like enigmatic sylphic nymphs, their gossamer wings too feathery and swift to fully grasp and study them.
The home and garden channel is like that to me… one good idea after another after another. I mentally get out the paint brushes and fuchsia and orange paint and plot a project when it’s overtaken by the idea of putting random pieces of wallpaper on a floor and preserving them forevermore with varathane. Gorgeous! But wait – here’s a better idea….get yourself some old toilet paper tubes and then you…
You get the gist.
Recently, the best idea in a sea of great ideas was handed to me by my daughter, Lisa.
Her husband, Rick’s birthday was last week. Besides a gift she gave him a Thanksgiving dinner. A Thanksgiving dinner! Now isn’t that just a fabulous idea?!
Lisa’s life has been so blessed by this man and she wanted to thank him for being a wonderful caring husband and an awesome father. So she and the kids bought a whopping big turkey and when he came home from work last Wednesday he encountered a Thanksgiving feast all the trimmings, right down to the green bean casserole.
Sometimes the best ideas are the simplest, and the ones that come from the heart. Maybe your husband or wife or your entire family needs the loving surprise of a Thanksgiving dinner. If my husband didn’t know about Lisa’s idea I’d be planning such a dinner myself. So what if he doesn’t like turkey. He’d love the pumpkin pie.
The home and garden channel is like that to me… one good idea after another after another. I mentally get out the paint brushes and fuchsia and orange paint and plot a project when it’s overtaken by the idea of putting random pieces of wallpaper on a floor and preserving them forevermore with varathane. Gorgeous! But wait – here’s a better idea….get yourself some old toilet paper tubes and then you…
You get the gist.
Recently, the best idea in a sea of great ideas was handed to me by my daughter, Lisa.
Her husband, Rick’s birthday was last week. Besides a gift she gave him a Thanksgiving dinner. A Thanksgiving dinner! Now isn’t that just a fabulous idea?!
Lisa’s life has been so blessed by this man and she wanted to thank him for being a wonderful caring husband and an awesome father. So she and the kids bought a whopping big turkey and when he came home from work last Wednesday he encountered a Thanksgiving feast all the trimmings, right down to the green bean casserole.
Sometimes the best ideas are the simplest, and the ones that come from the heart. Maybe your husband or wife or your entire family needs the loving surprise of a Thanksgiving dinner. If my husband didn’t know about Lisa’s idea I’d be planning such a dinner myself. So what if he doesn’t like turkey. He’d love the pumpkin pie.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Lorraine, is that you?
I went to the store the other day and there was a card table set up in front of a toilet paper display. The red-smocked woman behind it was giving away free samples of pineapple.
Never one to pass up a free sample – isn’t that why most of us shop at Sam’s Club after all? – I stood in line. Well, that’s not true. I was the only one in line, which proved that it must not have been a fruity day.
I felt a bit sorry for the woman in red and her lack of customers. My mind jumped to my last visit to Costco when a wiry fellow with an extravagant comb-over was handing out tiny paper cups of some watery concoction made out of seaweed and vitamins and guaranteed to have been dipped straight from the Fountain of Youth. He declared it was mighty tasty but I declined his proffered cup – politely, of course.
I really didn’t want a slice of pineapple but my daughter insisted I get one so I wandered up to the line and the lady in red. She looked up from where she was straightening her wares and her face broke into a delighted smile.
“Lorraine!” she declared, holding out her arms as if to hug me from afar.
I shook my head. “Nope. Jan. My name is Jan,” I told her.
She looked doubtful. “You’re not Lorraine?”
Maybe she thought I’d forgotten my name that morning…left it home along with the checkbook and the little wad of Kleenex that was slated for the car.
I smiled and told her again that no, my name was Jan, not Lorraine. She peered closely and frowned. “You look just like Lorraine,” she informed me, and then added, “I just saw Lorraine a few minutes ago. Did you change clothes?”
Clearly, she was convinced that I had somehow misplaced my name and that, given time, my mind would pop back to normalcy and I would realize that, by gum, I really was Lorraine.
“Can I have some of that pineapple?” I asked, hoping to get her mind off of the name thing and back to the important task at hand.
She thought about it and finally fished out a little packet of pineapple. She handed it over, but with a bit of trepidation because clearly I was not coming clean with my identity. Maybe she didn’t want to feed a liar.
“You look just like her,” she stated accusingly, with her head cocked just a bit to the left as if maybe a new view of my face would either confirm or deny that I was Lorraine.
“Lorraine works here,” she said, adding that she did think it was odd that Lorraine could walk by just minutes before in her little uniform and suddenly, quick as a wink, be wearing shorts and a t-shirt and sandals and wandering the store just like a normal person.
I thanked her heartily for my pineapple and walked away. I could feel her eyes on me and the arrows of animosity piercing my back. It was not very kind of Lorraine to do this, after all, to pretend she was someone else. As I left the store, the woman in red was totally flummoxed and still staring after me. I’ve wondered ever since what she thought when she encountered the real Lorraine.
Recipe for skunk
You sometimes find the oddest things at garage sales. In this case, along with tables of stuff, a woman was offering skunk recipes. It seems the dog of one of her customers had a close encounter with a little black and white furry beast. The woman used the traditional tomato juice remedy, which did little more than give a tomato scent to the overpowering skunk scent. According to the garage sale woman, this is a better recipe:
1 quart hydrogen peroxide
¼ C baking soda
Dash of Dawn soap
Mix together and wash your pet with a washcloth. Then sit the little bugger down and tell him about skunks.
Quote of the week
Speaking of dogs…
They say the dog is man’s best friend. I don't believe that. How many of your friends have you neutered? (Larry Reeb)
Never one to pass up a free sample – isn’t that why most of us shop at Sam’s Club after all? – I stood in line. Well, that’s not true. I was the only one in line, which proved that it must not have been a fruity day.
I felt a bit sorry for the woman in red and her lack of customers. My mind jumped to my last visit to Costco when a wiry fellow with an extravagant comb-over was handing out tiny paper cups of some watery concoction made out of seaweed and vitamins and guaranteed to have been dipped straight from the Fountain of Youth. He declared it was mighty tasty but I declined his proffered cup – politely, of course.
I really didn’t want a slice of pineapple but my daughter insisted I get one so I wandered up to the line and the lady in red. She looked up from where she was straightening her wares and her face broke into a delighted smile.
“Lorraine!” she declared, holding out her arms as if to hug me from afar.
I shook my head. “Nope. Jan. My name is Jan,” I told her.
She looked doubtful. “You’re not Lorraine?”
Maybe she thought I’d forgotten my name that morning…left it home along with the checkbook and the little wad of Kleenex that was slated for the car.
I smiled and told her again that no, my name was Jan, not Lorraine. She peered closely and frowned. “You look just like Lorraine,” she informed me, and then added, “I just saw Lorraine a few minutes ago. Did you change clothes?”
Clearly, she was convinced that I had somehow misplaced my name and that, given time, my mind would pop back to normalcy and I would realize that, by gum, I really was Lorraine.
“Can I have some of that pineapple?” I asked, hoping to get her mind off of the name thing and back to the important task at hand.
She thought about it and finally fished out a little packet of pineapple. She handed it over, but with a bit of trepidation because clearly I was not coming clean with my identity. Maybe she didn’t want to feed a liar.
“You look just like her,” she stated accusingly, with her head cocked just a bit to the left as if maybe a new view of my face would either confirm or deny that I was Lorraine.
“Lorraine works here,” she said, adding that she did think it was odd that Lorraine could walk by just minutes before in her little uniform and suddenly, quick as a wink, be wearing shorts and a t-shirt and sandals and wandering the store just like a normal person.
I thanked her heartily for my pineapple and walked away. I could feel her eyes on me and the arrows of animosity piercing my back. It was not very kind of Lorraine to do this, after all, to pretend she was someone else. As I left the store, the woman in red was totally flummoxed and still staring after me. I’ve wondered ever since what she thought when she encountered the real Lorraine.
Recipe for skunk
You sometimes find the oddest things at garage sales. In this case, along with tables of stuff, a woman was offering skunk recipes. It seems the dog of one of her customers had a close encounter with a little black and white furry beast. The woman used the traditional tomato juice remedy, which did little more than give a tomato scent to the overpowering skunk scent. According to the garage sale woman, this is a better recipe:
1 quart hydrogen peroxide
¼ C baking soda
Dash of Dawn soap
Mix together and wash your pet with a washcloth. Then sit the little bugger down and tell him about skunks.
Quote of the week
Speaking of dogs…
They say the dog is man’s best friend. I don't believe that. How many of your friends have you neutered? (Larry Reeb)
Friday, August 14, 2009
The joy of diet and exercise
I have to give credit to a recent change in lifestyle to Gary Black, my ex-News-Miner editor. An email from him declared I needed a new mug shot to go with my weekly column.
OK, I have to admit a lot of the credit also goes to my daughter. Lisa is like one of those ex-smokers who are out to change the world, one cigarette at a time.
Diet and exercise was her sermon. All you need is diet and exercise.
I would mentally nod and verbally agree and say, “Mftmpha.” Translated around a mouthful of McDonald’s chocolate chip cookie, this meant, “Uh huh.”
“Tomorrow” is a pre-dieter’s favorite word. We’ll start the blasted diet and exercise thing tomorrow….after the dinner out with friends, the church potluck, when the rhubarb cake is gone.
Tomorrow we’ll start eating lettuce leaves carrots and fat free cheese. Tomorrow we will put on sneakers and huff for a half mile. The trouble for me is that tomorrow never came. I had started “tomorrowing” at least a year before and was happily eating my way into wider jeans.
It took the email from Gary to “tip the scale,” so to speak. Could I come into the office in a couple days for a new mug shot?
What? A couple of days? I dashed to the mirror and took stock. Good grief! This wouldn’t work at all. I needed a haircut and a dye job and, good Lord, what about that chin thing. And those pudgy cheeks?
And what was wrong with my old mug shot that was taken at least six years before, after a lengthy bout of flu yanked off enough pounds to make me at least appear almost thin?
Nope. Gary insisted. I begged for a small reprieve and he, feeling sorry for me, granted me one.
I went into high gear. Out went the bags of cookies and the ice cream in the freezer. The candy bars hidden in the towel drawer were ripped open, thrown in the garbage, and covered with coffee grounds and leftover tomato soup to quell any temptation to dig them back out.
I stocked up on fruit and vegetables and good stuff. I started walking a mile at noon and walking after work. When I was laid off from my job at Alyeska I hiked up the exercise. Five months later I was 30 pounds lighter.
For my birthday in June I got a Bodybugg. Lisa had one and convinced Troy that I would love it. She was right.
A Bodybugg is a slick little doohickey. It velcroes comfortably on my upper left arm and tracks every bit of movement I make. At night the information is downloaded and up pops a graph that looks like an EKG with peaks and valleys. I can see exactly when and how long I did that staggering run/walk. If I zoning out on TV it is pretty much flat-lined.
The Bodybugg is something like 98 percent correct in calculating exercise and calories burned. Food intake is put in by hand and shows the consumption of fat, carbs, and protein. The goal is to burn more calories than you eat.
The funny thing about all this is that the new mug shot never happened. The new job in Wasilla and giving up my News-Miner column took care of needing one.
Update on Lisa
After all sorts of tests, including a heart catheterization, we know that our daughter has a perfectly healthy heart and lungs. Her low pulse rate is a puzzle but doctors do have some clues as to the problem, which thankfully isn’t life or lifestyle threatening. Thank you to everyone who prayed for her.
And finally…A preacher went to his church office on Monday morning and discovered a dead mule in the church yard. He called the police. Since there did not appear to be any foul play, the police referred the preacher to the health department. They said since there was no health threat that he should call the sanitation department. The sanitation manager said he could not pick up the mule without authorization from the mayor.
Now the preacher knew the mayor and was not to eager to call him. The mayor had a bad temper and was generally hard to deal with, but the preacher called him anyway.
The mayor did not disappoint. He immediately began to rant and rave at the pastor and finally said, "Why did you call me anyway? Isn’t it your job to bury the dead?"
The preacher paused for a brief moment and then replied: "Yes, Mayor, it is my job to bury the dead, but I always like to notify the next of kin first."
OK, I have to admit a lot of the credit also goes to my daughter. Lisa is like one of those ex-smokers who are out to change the world, one cigarette at a time.
Diet and exercise was her sermon. All you need is diet and exercise.
I would mentally nod and verbally agree and say, “Mftmpha.” Translated around a mouthful of McDonald’s chocolate chip cookie, this meant, “Uh huh.”
“Tomorrow” is a pre-dieter’s favorite word. We’ll start the blasted diet and exercise thing tomorrow….after the dinner out with friends, the church potluck, when the rhubarb cake is gone.
Tomorrow we’ll start eating lettuce leaves carrots and fat free cheese. Tomorrow we will put on sneakers and huff for a half mile. The trouble for me is that tomorrow never came. I had started “tomorrowing” at least a year before and was happily eating my way into wider jeans.
It took the email from Gary to “tip the scale,” so to speak. Could I come into the office in a couple days for a new mug shot?
What? A couple of days? I dashed to the mirror and took stock. Good grief! This wouldn’t work at all. I needed a haircut and a dye job and, good Lord, what about that chin thing. And those pudgy cheeks?
And what was wrong with my old mug shot that was taken at least six years before, after a lengthy bout of flu yanked off enough pounds to make me at least appear almost thin?
Nope. Gary insisted. I begged for a small reprieve and he, feeling sorry for me, granted me one.
I went into high gear. Out went the bags of cookies and the ice cream in the freezer. The candy bars hidden in the towel drawer were ripped open, thrown in the garbage, and covered with coffee grounds and leftover tomato soup to quell any temptation to dig them back out.
I stocked up on fruit and vegetables and good stuff. I started walking a mile at noon and walking after work. When I was laid off from my job at Alyeska I hiked up the exercise. Five months later I was 30 pounds lighter.
For my birthday in June I got a Bodybugg. Lisa had one and convinced Troy that I would love it. She was right.
A Bodybugg is a slick little doohickey. It velcroes comfortably on my upper left arm and tracks every bit of movement I make. At night the information is downloaded and up pops a graph that looks like an EKG with peaks and valleys. I can see exactly when and how long I did that staggering run/walk. If I zoning out on TV it is pretty much flat-lined.
The Bodybugg is something like 98 percent correct in calculating exercise and calories burned. Food intake is put in by hand and shows the consumption of fat, carbs, and protein. The goal is to burn more calories than you eat.
The funny thing about all this is that the new mug shot never happened. The new job in Wasilla and giving up my News-Miner column took care of needing one.
Update on Lisa
After all sorts of tests, including a heart catheterization, we know that our daughter has a perfectly healthy heart and lungs. Her low pulse rate is a puzzle but doctors do have some clues as to the problem, which thankfully isn’t life or lifestyle threatening. Thank you to everyone who prayed for her.
And finally…A preacher went to his church office on Monday morning and discovered a dead mule in the church yard. He called the police. Since there did not appear to be any foul play, the police referred the preacher to the health department. They said since there was no health threat that he should call the sanitation department. The sanitation manager said he could not pick up the mule without authorization from the mayor.
Now the preacher knew the mayor and was not to eager to call him. The mayor had a bad temper and was generally hard to deal with, but the preacher called him anyway.
The mayor did not disappoint. He immediately began to rant and rave at the pastor and finally said, "Why did you call me anyway? Isn’t it your job to bury the dead?"
The preacher paused for a brief moment and then replied: "Yes, Mayor, it is my job to bury the dead, but I always like to notify the next of kin first."
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Last Thursday our daughter, Lisa, visited her doctor for a routine exam. The nurse took her pulse, frowned, and took it two more times before calling in the doctor who also checked it. Her pulse, which should have been between 80 and 100, was 36. This has caused a flurry of medical activity, including five EKGs, two echocardiograms and monitored overnights in ICU. It’s a puzzle and one the cardiologist should be able to figure out tomorrow.
Through all this the phone calls and emails have been abundant. As parents, her father and I are appropriately concerned and there are hundreds of people all over the country praying. Concern causes the voices of friends to be somber and quiet and attentive. No joking here. Things are serious.
Since Troy and I are smack dab in the middle of moving from our beloved Interior Alaska to city life in near-Anchorage, this Lisa news has put things in perspective. I’m not bothering to clean for the movers and will head south tomorrow. Troy declares he can handle the movers and all the rest of the moving ordeal himself. I know he can and that he will do a dandy job of it.
When you’re in the middle of “bad days” or “bad times” it’s easy to let it overwhelm you and take over. It’s hard to step back from it all and look at the whole of things and remember what is important and what isn’t. Work is a means to provide for the things that ARE important… spouses, children, grandchildren (and for me, church and God).
It is easy to get tangled up and stressed over things that aren’t worthy of the attention. Invariably, when we look back a couple of weeks later, we can see how insignificant these things were, how unimportant, how unworthy of the stress. Pretty much none of it is THAT important or THAT vital or even that upsetting unless we choose to make it so.
Bad days can be changed to good days when you think of your family, your future, your health, and the countless thousands of blessings in your life. Work problems, as emotionally expensive as they can be, are nothing more than pesky gnats in the light of all that is good and wonderful.
This afternoon our 11-year-old granddaughter Alex, who has Downs syndrome, visited her mother in the hospital. Lisa was hooked to all sorts of wires and lines and monitors and was hooked up to oxygen. Alex stopped in the doorway, took one look at her, and said, “Holy Mackerel, what are you doing?”
And with those words, one little girl managed to put things in perspective and show us that we always have to hang on to humor and hope and love. We have an awesome God and no matter what happens he is in control and his love for us is as boundless as the eternity he created.
Quote of the blog
Struggle is the stress that makes you strong, the pressure that produces perseverance, the experience that leads to wisdom, the trial that makes you tough, the challenge that leads to triumph, the battle to be the best, the race that you must run, the war that you must win. Nobody can do it for you. You must do it on your own. But you are not alone because... everyone goes through some kind of struggle. (Craig R. Miles, Allen, Texas)
And finally…
From the church bulletin: Ladies, don't forget the rummage sale. It's a chance to get rid of those things not worth keeping around the house. Bring your husbands.
Also, the peacemaking meeting scheduled for today has been canceled due to a conflict.
<
Through all this the phone calls and emails have been abundant. As parents, her father and I are appropriately concerned and there are hundreds of people all over the country praying. Concern causes the voices of friends to be somber and quiet and attentive. No joking here. Things are serious.
Since Troy and I are smack dab in the middle of moving from our beloved Interior Alaska to city life in near-Anchorage, this Lisa news has put things in perspective. I’m not bothering to clean for the movers and will head south tomorrow. Troy declares he can handle the movers and all the rest of the moving ordeal himself. I know he can and that he will do a dandy job of it.
When you’re in the middle of “bad days” or “bad times” it’s easy to let it overwhelm you and take over. It’s hard to step back from it all and look at the whole of things and remember what is important and what isn’t. Work is a means to provide for the things that ARE important… spouses, children, grandchildren (and for me, church and God).
It is easy to get tangled up and stressed over things that aren’t worthy of the attention. Invariably, when we look back a couple of weeks later, we can see how insignificant these things were, how unimportant, how unworthy of the stress. Pretty much none of it is THAT important or THAT vital or even that upsetting unless we choose to make it so.
Bad days can be changed to good days when you think of your family, your future, your health, and the countless thousands of blessings in your life. Work problems, as emotionally expensive as they can be, are nothing more than pesky gnats in the light of all that is good and wonderful.
This afternoon our 11-year-old granddaughter Alex, who has Downs syndrome, visited her mother in the hospital. Lisa was hooked to all sorts of wires and lines and monitors and was hooked up to oxygen. Alex stopped in the doorway, took one look at her, and said, “Holy Mackerel, what are you doing?”
And with those words, one little girl managed to put things in perspective and show us that we always have to hang on to humor and hope and love. We have an awesome God and no matter what happens he is in control and his love for us is as boundless as the eternity he created.
Quote of the blog
Struggle is the stress that makes you strong, the pressure that produces perseverance, the experience that leads to wisdom, the trial that makes you tough, the challenge that leads to triumph, the battle to be the best, the race that you must run, the war that you must win. Nobody can do it for you. You must do it on your own. But you are not alone because... everyone goes through some kind of struggle. (Craig R. Miles, Allen, Texas)
And finally…
From the church bulletin: Ladies, don't forget the rummage sale. It's a chance to get rid of those things not worth keeping around the house. Bring your husbands.
Also, the peacemaking meeting scheduled for today has been canceled due to a conflict.
<
Friday, April 10, 2009
The message of Easter – seeing things differently
Tomorrow is Easter – the day where Christians around the world will remember with thankfulness that Jesus Christ died on the cross so that they can have life everlasting.
I was thinking about that the other day – how horrific the crucifixion of Christ must have been for the disciples and the first believers. This faithful band walked with the son of God and watched as he healed lives and made the blind to see and the lame to walk. They watched as he cast out demons and performed miracle after miracle. The sat at his feet and listened and learned as he told parables about how to rejoice and grow and live as a Christian. They loved him. They revered him. They knew without a doubt he was the son of God – the same God who had strewn the stars across the Heavens and created the fishes of the sea and birds of the air and all life on earth.
And here they were, this motley band of new Christians, watching in horror as the son of God was stoned and spat upon and beaten until the ground was red with holy blood. They wept and internally rebelled as he was crucified but were ultimately so filled with terror that they denied him. And when it was finished they carried away his mutilated body, gently washed him, and sorrowfully placed him in a tomb. It was finished. Ended before it started.
And then…
On the third day he rose again! And they beheld his glory and rejoiced.
So many times in our lives we view things with earthly eyes. Sometimes our life events are big unexpected things: a job is lost, a house burns, a child is born with disabilities. Sometimes they aren’t life-changing but are simply annoying: a missed plane, a flat tire, a promise not kept. Other times they keep us awake at night: financial difficulties, teenagers gone amuck, a cancer diagnosis.
We see the obvious and weep and sorrowfully place our woes and tragedies in a tomb.It isn’t until long afterwards, maybe years, that we realize that we also rose again and that life was, indeed, glorious despite it all and that there was cause to rejoice. The disabled child is the light of our lives, the lost job made way for a new career, the house burning while we were away meant we were safe, a flat tire meant not being involved in an accident ahead, and having cancer meant walking with God and treasuring life as never before.
No matter what happens in life, we are blessed and we must live with faith and without fear and worry. God really does know what he’s doing.
“I am the resurrection and the life,” Jesus said. “He who believes in me will live, even though he dies, and whoever lives and believes in me will never die.”
So why do Jesus’ followers gather in churches on Easter morning? To show off their Easter finery? Of course not. It is to celebrate the victory of life over death, and to declare that Jesus Christ is Lord indeed!
******************************
God sometimes has other plans
Upon reading the above, I am reminded of a pivotal day in my life that goes to show that sometimes even one of life's frustrations can turn out to be a true blessing.
It was a beautiful day in July, 1964, and life was wonderful. I had just turned 18, had just graduated from high school, and was back home after a job as a waitress in Glacier Park. I had a date with a guy from the park whose name I can't even remember now. He stood me up. Didn't show. Didn't call.
This had never happened before and I was not very happy. I drove to Gordy's Drive-In, the local teen hangout in Whitefish, Montana, to drown my sorrows with a GVA burger and a pineapple milkshake.
Before long, a red motorcycle pulled up next to me and although I'd never talked to him, I recognized the guy. He was from nearby Columbia Falls -- very tall and handsome and chased by half the females in Flathead Valley. As I watched he got off his bike, took a comb from his back pocket, and hunkered down to look in his motorcycle mirror and comb his hair. To this day I think it was the sexiest thing I've ever seen.
He came over and introduced himself and soon he was in my car and we were driving. We drove and talked for miles. For hours. We couldn't talk fast enough to get everything in. It was like we had been in a desert and were dying of thirst but had suddenly encountered this fountain that was reviving and refreshing us and bringing us back to life.
Do I believe in love at first sight? Yup. He told me that night that he loved me and he was going to marry me. A year later I said "I do" to Troy Elic Thacker. On July 2 we will celebrate our 44th year of marriage.
I was thinking about that the other day – how horrific the crucifixion of Christ must have been for the disciples and the first believers. This faithful band walked with the son of God and watched as he healed lives and made the blind to see and the lame to walk. They watched as he cast out demons and performed miracle after miracle. The sat at his feet and listened and learned as he told parables about how to rejoice and grow and live as a Christian. They loved him. They revered him. They knew without a doubt he was the son of God – the same God who had strewn the stars across the Heavens and created the fishes of the sea and birds of the air and all life on earth.
And here they were, this motley band of new Christians, watching in horror as the son of God was stoned and spat upon and beaten until the ground was red with holy blood. They wept and internally rebelled as he was crucified but were ultimately so filled with terror that they denied him. And when it was finished they carried away his mutilated body, gently washed him, and sorrowfully placed him in a tomb. It was finished. Ended before it started.
And then…
On the third day he rose again! And they beheld his glory and rejoiced.
So many times in our lives we view things with earthly eyes. Sometimes our life events are big unexpected things: a job is lost, a house burns, a child is born with disabilities. Sometimes they aren’t life-changing but are simply annoying: a missed plane, a flat tire, a promise not kept. Other times they keep us awake at night: financial difficulties, teenagers gone amuck, a cancer diagnosis.
We see the obvious and weep and sorrowfully place our woes and tragedies in a tomb.It isn’t until long afterwards, maybe years, that we realize that we also rose again and that life was, indeed, glorious despite it all and that there was cause to rejoice. The disabled child is the light of our lives, the lost job made way for a new career, the house burning while we were away meant we were safe, a flat tire meant not being involved in an accident ahead, and having cancer meant walking with God and treasuring life as never before.
No matter what happens in life, we are blessed and we must live with faith and without fear and worry. God really does know what he’s doing.
“I am the resurrection and the life,” Jesus said. “He who believes in me will live, even though he dies, and whoever lives and believes in me will never die.”
So why do Jesus’ followers gather in churches on Easter morning? To show off their Easter finery? Of course not. It is to celebrate the victory of life over death, and to declare that Jesus Christ is Lord indeed!
******************************
God sometimes has other plans
Upon reading the above, I am reminded of a pivotal day in my life that goes to show that sometimes even one of life's frustrations can turn out to be a true blessing.
It was a beautiful day in July, 1964, and life was wonderful. I had just turned 18, had just graduated from high school, and was back home after a job as a waitress in Glacier Park. I had a date with a guy from the park whose name I can't even remember now. He stood me up. Didn't show. Didn't call.
This had never happened before and I was not very happy. I drove to Gordy's Drive-In, the local teen hangout in Whitefish, Montana, to drown my sorrows with a GVA burger and a pineapple milkshake.
Before long, a red motorcycle pulled up next to me and although I'd never talked to him, I recognized the guy. He was from nearby Columbia Falls -- very tall and handsome and chased by half the females in Flathead Valley. As I watched he got off his bike, took a comb from his back pocket, and hunkered down to look in his motorcycle mirror and comb his hair. To this day I think it was the sexiest thing I've ever seen.
He came over and introduced himself and soon he was in my car and we were driving. We drove and talked for miles. For hours. We couldn't talk fast enough to get everything in. It was like we had been in a desert and were dying of thirst but had suddenly encountered this fountain that was reviving and refreshing us and bringing us back to life.
Do I believe in love at first sight? Yup. He told me that night that he loved me and he was going to marry me. A year later I said "I do" to Troy Elic Thacker. On July 2 we will celebrate our 44th year of marriage.
And as to the guy who stood me up? I am so very grateful! God clearly had other plans in mind.
*******************************************
Resurrection Cookies
1 c whole pecans
1 tsp vinegar
3 egg whites
pinch salt
1 c sugar
Preheat oven to 300 degrees F. (this is important - don't wait until you are halfway done with the recipe!)
Place pecans in a zipper bag and let children beat them with a wooden spoon to break into small pieces. Explain that after Jesus was arrested he was beaten by the Roman soldiers.
Read John 19:1-3 Let each child smell the vinegar. Put 1 vinegar into mixing bowl. Explain that when Jesus was thirsty on the cross he was given vinegar to drink.
Read John 19:28-30. Add egg whites to vinegar. Eggs represent life. Explain that Jesus gave His life to give us life.
Read John 10:10-11. Sprinkle a little salt into each child's hand. Let them taste it and brush the rest into the bowl. Explain that this represents the salty tears shed by Jesus' followers, and the bitterness of our own sin.
Read Luke 23:27. So far the ingredients are not very appetizing. Add 1 sugar. Explain that the sweetest part of the story is that Jesus died because He loves us He wants us to know and belong to Him.
Read Ps. 34:8 and John 3:16. Beat with a mixer on high speed for 12 to 15 minutes until stiff peaks are formed. Explain that the color white represents the purity in God's eyes of those whose sins have been cleansed by Jesus.
Read Isa. 1:18 and John 3:1-3 Fold in broken nuts. Drop by teaspoons onto wax paper covered cookie sheet. Explain that each mound represents the rocky tomb where Jesus' body was laid.
Read Matt. 27:57-60. Put the cookie sheet in the oven, close the door and turn the oven OFF. Give each child a piece of tape and seal the oven door.Explain that Jesus' tomb was sealed.
Read Matt. 27:65-66. GO TO BED! Explain that they may feel sad to leave the cookies in the oven overnight. Jesus' followers were in despair when the tomb was sealed.
Read John 16:20 and 22. On Easter morning, open the oven and give everyone a cookie. Notice the cracked surface and take a bite. The cookies are hollow! On the first Easter Jesus' followers were amazed to find the tomb open and empty.
Read Matt. 28:1-9. HE HAS RISEN!
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Just Being Real Takes Less Work
When I paid my telephone bill a while back I couldn’t help but notice the fingernails on the woman who took my money. They were about a foot long. Hideous fingernails that made me cringe. They were painted bright blue and had doodads imbedded in the paint. They clicked with every move she made.
She couldn’t pick anything up with her fingertips, this woman, but curled her fingers up and used the pads and sides. I couldn’t help but wonder how she got dressed and if her husband was afraid to get close to her in the night.
Sometimes I have quarter-inch long fingernails, especially on my left hand, which I don’t use as much as my right. More often my fingernails are broken and chipped. Except when I'm overcome with a strong feeling of feminity or a special event, I gave up polish a few years ago.
I tried Lee Press On Nails once. Their commercials convinced me that even Lefty Jordan down at the local garage could put on these fake nails and look like the Empress of China. It took a whole afternoon to put them on. It was a special occasion, we were having company for dinner and I wanted to look elegant.
The right thumbnail fell off as I buttered my roll. It looked like a blob of red blood splashed against the white tablecloth. Then the right index fingernail came off when I lifted my coffee cup. Finally, the left index nail decided to join in. It was a little embarrassing. The guests pretended not to notice but how could you not notice three blood-red fingernails lying on a table?
Sometimes I’m tempted to have my nails professionally done but then I think my fingernails are small items on a body that could use a beat deal of beautifying in other places.
Back in another lifetime I owned a $35 genuine human hair wiglet that I perched on top of my head sometimes. I never owned a wig. But I borrowed one once and spent the evening terrified someone would pull it off. I kept remembering sixth grade and how Bubby Lodinoff and Dick Brown tossed my purse back and forth during recess. What if two drunks got hold of my wig? Besides that, my head felt like it was wrapped in an ace bandage.
There was also a time when I fell into the fake eyelash fad. Every day I’d get up and glue on the eyelashes. By midmorning the edges would boing free and bob in the wind.
When you really think about it, it’s really strange, putting on all this fake stuff. Isn’t it odd to wear fake hair over perfectly good real hair, or to cover up real fingernails and eyelashes with plastic versions? Besides, all these things are a trap. I mean, how can you have stubby fingernails one day and the next day show up with 3-inch red ones with diamonds in the middle? How can you have long, thick, luscious hair one day and the next day be seen with your real, limp, patchy pathetic hair?
It’s like the summer I was 12 and "borrowed" one of Mom’s bras and stuffed it so full of Kleenexes I looked like Dolly Parton. Before that memorable day I was just one of the guys, climbing trees and wading in Cow Creek. But after the Kleenexes I suddenly was noticed by every male in our neck of the woods, trying to figure out why they hadn’t noticed my “blossoming” before. I stuffed that bra for the next week.
Going back to Fanny Flat Chest wasn’t easy, but I knew I couldn’t keep stuffing Kleenexes. It might be years before I grew chesty enough to stop. Besides, the Kleenex wads kept working their way out and falling down inside my shirt, leaving me lopsided up top and with a lump on my belly. So I sneaked the bra back into the drawer and, wow!, it felt good to be free of it!
After the snickering died down it was great being back to myself and knowing I could throw a knife and string a bow and build a tree fort as well as anyone else. I wasn’t ready to be a Dolly Parton yet.
She couldn’t pick anything up with her fingertips, this woman, but curled her fingers up and used the pads and sides. I couldn’t help but wonder how she got dressed and if her husband was afraid to get close to her in the night.
Sometimes I have quarter-inch long fingernails, especially on my left hand, which I don’t use as much as my right. More often my fingernails are broken and chipped. Except when I'm overcome with a strong feeling of feminity or a special event, I gave up polish a few years ago.
I tried Lee Press On Nails once. Their commercials convinced me that even Lefty Jordan down at the local garage could put on these fake nails and look like the Empress of China. It took a whole afternoon to put them on. It was a special occasion, we were having company for dinner and I wanted to look elegant.
The right thumbnail fell off as I buttered my roll. It looked like a blob of red blood splashed against the white tablecloth. Then the right index fingernail came off when I lifted my coffee cup. Finally, the left index nail decided to join in. It was a little embarrassing. The guests pretended not to notice but how could you not notice three blood-red fingernails lying on a table?
Sometimes I’m tempted to have my nails professionally done but then I think my fingernails are small items on a body that could use a beat deal of beautifying in other places.
Back in another lifetime I owned a $35 genuine human hair wiglet that I perched on top of my head sometimes. I never owned a wig. But I borrowed one once and spent the evening terrified someone would pull it off. I kept remembering sixth grade and how Bubby Lodinoff and Dick Brown tossed my purse back and forth during recess. What if two drunks got hold of my wig? Besides that, my head felt like it was wrapped in an ace bandage.
There was also a time when I fell into the fake eyelash fad. Every day I’d get up and glue on the eyelashes. By midmorning the edges would boing free and bob in the wind.
When you really think about it, it’s really strange, putting on all this fake stuff. Isn’t it odd to wear fake hair over perfectly good real hair, or to cover up real fingernails and eyelashes with plastic versions? Besides, all these things are a trap. I mean, how can you have stubby fingernails one day and the next day show up with 3-inch red ones with diamonds in the middle? How can you have long, thick, luscious hair one day and the next day be seen with your real, limp, patchy pathetic hair?
It’s like the summer I was 12 and "borrowed" one of Mom’s bras and stuffed it so full of Kleenexes I looked like Dolly Parton. Before that memorable day I was just one of the guys, climbing trees and wading in Cow Creek. But after the Kleenexes I suddenly was noticed by every male in our neck of the woods, trying to figure out why they hadn’t noticed my “blossoming” before. I stuffed that bra for the next week.
Going back to Fanny Flat Chest wasn’t easy, but I knew I couldn’t keep stuffing Kleenexes. It might be years before I grew chesty enough to stop. Besides, the Kleenex wads kept working their way out and falling down inside my shirt, leaving me lopsided up top and with a lump on my belly. So I sneaked the bra back into the drawer and, wow!, it felt good to be free of it!
After the snickering died down it was great being back to myself and knowing I could throw a knife and string a bow and build a tree fort as well as anyone else. I wasn’t ready to be a Dolly Parton yet.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Litter SUPER bugs
A few years ago, just a few blocks from my house in North Pole, and right in the median of the Richardson Highway, were the remains of a black couch. It was an ugly corpse, a half dozen jumbled pieces of wood, fabric, and stuffing. It took a few days for me to even figure out what it was.
Not long before there was a freezer reclining on its side along the road between Fairbanks and North Pole, and for months a lone couch cushion lingered near a clump of bushes. It wasn't unusual to see broken bits of what used to be bookcases or dresser drawers or beds. Bags of garbage were so common they didn't warrant a second glance.
This year there isn't as much junk along the road and that gives me a bit of hope for my fellow citizens. Maybe the litterbuggers have moved to Florida or California.
The strange thing about these oversized pieces of junk is that they never seem to get picked up. They stay there, week after week, month after month, until May comes and the fleets of good citizens hit the highways and byways and pick up other people's trash.
It’s like people don’t notice their belongings are missing.
Let’s say a guy is moving and borrowed his buddy’s pickup truck for the big event. He piles it high and drives off down the highway. When he gets to his new place and unloads, wouldn’t you think he’d realize the couch was gone? Like when he wants to take a break and catch an rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond and goes into the living room to sit down and there’s nothing but the coffee table to park his behind on?
How about the person who has a couch with only two cushions? Instead of going back and retrieving the third one from the side of the road does she just stuff an old pillow into the vacant area?
Somewhere in Fairbanks there are people who are using milk crates to hold their underwear because the dressers they once owned jumped out of trucks or off trailers and came to crashing deaths. There are people with only three chairs around their dinette table.
It’s understandable that a person can take a six-month collection of stinking garbage bags to the landfill and, on the journey, not notice that one slipped off the pile. It’s not understandable that someone can lose a couch, or a chair, or a dresser and not realize it. Especially when the person undoubtedly frequently drives by the remains.
“Enid, doesn’t that look a bit like our old dresser?”
“Come to think of it, Earl, it does. I wondered what happened to that thing. It just sort of disappeared during the move.”
If these people have friends wouldn’t you think the friends would notice that the black couch in the ditch looks familiar, that the living room looks a bit empty, and put two and two together?
“So, Jim, what happened to that pink fuzzy sofa you and Gloria used to have?”
“Got to the first stoplight when we moved and looked back and it was gone. Someone musta stole it off the truck.”
“There’s one all smashed in the ditch a mile or so down the highway looks just like it.”
“That so? Wow! What you ‘spose the odds of that are—that there’d be two of them fuzzy pink sofas in Fairbanks?”
Most people, if they lost so much as a cardboard box along the road, would stop, turn around and go back and retrieve it. It’s the honorable, good-citizen thing to do. Just like it’s a good thing to automatically bend over and pick up stray garbage we encounter as we venture through life.
Sometimes you've just got to wonder about some people.
Not long before there was a freezer reclining on its side along the road between Fairbanks and North Pole, and for months a lone couch cushion lingered near a clump of bushes. It wasn't unusual to see broken bits of what used to be bookcases or dresser drawers or beds. Bags of garbage were so common they didn't warrant a second glance.
This year there isn't as much junk along the road and that gives me a bit of hope for my fellow citizens. Maybe the litterbuggers have moved to Florida or California.
The strange thing about these oversized pieces of junk is that they never seem to get picked up. They stay there, week after week, month after month, until May comes and the fleets of good citizens hit the highways and byways and pick up other people's trash.
It’s like people don’t notice their belongings are missing.
Let’s say a guy is moving and borrowed his buddy’s pickup truck for the big event. He piles it high and drives off down the highway. When he gets to his new place and unloads, wouldn’t you think he’d realize the couch was gone? Like when he wants to take a break and catch an rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond and goes into the living room to sit down and there’s nothing but the coffee table to park his behind on?
How about the person who has a couch with only two cushions? Instead of going back and retrieving the third one from the side of the road does she just stuff an old pillow into the vacant area?
Somewhere in Fairbanks there are people who are using milk crates to hold their underwear because the dressers they once owned jumped out of trucks or off trailers and came to crashing deaths. There are people with only three chairs around their dinette table.
It’s understandable that a person can take a six-month collection of stinking garbage bags to the landfill and, on the journey, not notice that one slipped off the pile. It’s not understandable that someone can lose a couch, or a chair, or a dresser and not realize it. Especially when the person undoubtedly frequently drives by the remains.
“Enid, doesn’t that look a bit like our old dresser?”
“Come to think of it, Earl, it does. I wondered what happened to that thing. It just sort of disappeared during the move.”
If these people have friends wouldn’t you think the friends would notice that the black couch in the ditch looks familiar, that the living room looks a bit empty, and put two and two together?
“So, Jim, what happened to that pink fuzzy sofa you and Gloria used to have?”
“Got to the first stoplight when we moved and looked back and it was gone. Someone musta stole it off the truck.”
“There’s one all smashed in the ditch a mile or so down the highway looks just like it.”
“That so? Wow! What you ‘spose the odds of that are—that there’d be two of them fuzzy pink sofas in Fairbanks?”
Most people, if they lost so much as a cardboard box along the road, would stop, turn around and go back and retrieve it. It’s the honorable, good-citizen thing to do. Just like it’s a good thing to automatically bend over and pick up stray garbage we encounter as we venture through life.
Sometimes you've just got to wonder about some people.
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