I just happened to look at my page today while screwing around on the home computer. I was shocked to see that it had been over a year since I even posted to here. The craziness of lazyness took hold of me.
So for all 3 of you who ever read my musings I'll give you an update of what has happened in my life over the past 15 months since I last bored you to tears.
1) I bought a house. Now my wife will tell you that WE bought a house, but despite my religious zeal for Grammar Nazism, I reserve the right to interchange pronouns when it suits me. We'll just nevermind the fact that she may or may not have done most of the legwork when it came to dealing with banks and realtors to make this happen. As the landscape of American politics has shown, the facts don't really matter.
With the purchasing of my first home came a lot of other firsts. Like mowing my own lawn. I've mowed a few lawns in my day, but those lawns always belonged to someone else. I've also learned that if part of your lawn has Creeping Charlie and you mow over that stuff, it will spread to the rest of your yard. Much like I did to my parents' yard once I am contemplating a healthy dose of gasoline and a match to battle this scourge to my compound....only on purpose this time.
I've also installed my first ever section of wiring for a new dishwasher that had to be replaced because the warranty people wouldn't touch the old, less than up to modern standards wiring to hook it up. I've also installed 2 light fixtures for the first time, and one light switch. These things have taught me that I am handier than I thought I was, but still no engineering genius. Only a couple light jolts to the system to make sure my heart was still working properly. I also recently disconnected the DISH and reran the wiring to the antenna in an effort to save some money I was paying for a bunch of channels I never watch. I sure will miss those marathon days of That 70s Show on IFC and NCIS on USA. I'll get over it soon enough. I'll either addict myself to shows that were in syndication well before I was a twinkle in my dad's eye, or go back to reading more actual books like I used to do when I was younger.
The biggest realization that I've had, I've always known...This house is gonna suck me dry with all the improvements it will need. Recently a lot of people are saying the same thing with the new construction homes which are priced pretty damn well out of my price range to start and shabbily put up to boot in developments devoid of character or identity. I can't tell the difference between one house and the next 100 anymore. Very drab, very unoriginal, very...blah. This one was a steal for where we live, and it has character being an older home. So despite the next 30 or more years of trying to figure out which orifice I'm going to pull the money out of for these necessary improvements, I like my (yes I know, honey, OUR) choice.
2) I assumed the title of Operations Manager at my job. I assure you this is through no fault of my own, but the evil conniving mind of my boss who thought it was a good idea to put me in charge of people. After giving me some power to abuse he told me I better not fire a bunch of people I felt were substandard too quickly because I would end up having to cover their posts. Although I have had the pleasure of ridding the company of less than desirable employees from our little company, sometimes at the expense of my own sanity, reworking a schedule for a week to fill in the new openings can be hell. I can feel grey hairs trying to work their way into my normal appearance. I went from working day shift Monday through Friday, with nights and weekends free to spend with the family or go do something, to working nights and weekends again... which sucks! But money talks, and my wife and boss shoved me into taking the spot. All in all it isn't too horrible, but if the Lottery comes calling me saying I won big, I'm out of there!
3) I actually set myself up with some vacation time (that I will actually get paid for thanks to Item #2) that will allow me time to go see family out in California I haven't seen in over 18 years. My wife will get to meet some of my family she has yet to meet, my oldest son will see them again for the first time since he was 3, and my youngest son will get his first ever trip to California and meet that side of the family. I've been talking about going back for years, but my cousin Erin decided she liked a boy well enough to marry him, and forcing my hand to actually make the trip. Those guys at the TSA better not screw up my flight schedule!
Other random musings include that after I get back from the aforementioned vacation, I might possibly be looking at getting another dog. After almost a year of our Gracie having a boyfriend on each side, the renters have left their houses and now she has no boyfriends to cavort with. I think she is getting lonely and needs a playmate to help terrorize the cat, fight with for the attention of us humans residing here, and a companion to romp around the yard with and dominate like she did with the bigger boy toys (a Golden Retriever on one side and a Great Dane on the other) she enjoyed bullying before they moved away earlier this month.
The boys are getting bigger. The 17 year old is still lording over me, and recently started his first real job working as a host at a local Olive Garden restaurant. Much like I did when I had my first slew of jobs, but lived with my parents, he is seeing dollar signs and that excites him. I'm almost relishing the moment when he moves on and realizes how great it was to have the job with all the money rolling in and no real bills going out of anyone's wallets but his parents. And much like my dad, I will laugh heartily and tell him I have no sympathy... until he asks to move back in and eat all my food again. But first he has to get through his senior year of high school.
The 12 year old, while not lording over me is slowly beginning to gain on me in height. He is at that awkward age where he is still a kid and cute, but beginning to display the obnoxious behavior that comes with a junior high kid, which he will be this fall. Not like when we were kids and were perfect angels throughout our upbringing, bringing great amounts of pride to our parents and the joy they received when being able to tell all their friends what wonderful kids we were to raise. (You can stop laughing now mom and dad!) Whenever he has gone to someone else's place he always returns and they gush over what a polite young man he is, and what fun it is to have him in their home. And within a half hour I find open bottles of his beverages sitting about in random places, candy wrappers strewn around the house, crumbs denoting that "Corwyn was here". When asked to do something, snide remarks are heard, dirty looks given, or just plain silence of ignoring us abound. Apparently his daily allotment of goodness doesn't last a whole day.
I love these boys with all my heart and would never trade them in for the world, but some days I would consider selling them to any bidder!!! A thought that I know would never have crossed the minds of my parents...again, I was an angel. I'm sure they got their other-than-angelic ways from their mother. And I'm sure she'd disagree and say its the opposite, but hey, this is my blog.
On the last note for today, For those of you in and around Sac City, On Saturday May 28th, there is a scheduled planting of a memorial tree for Monte Burns at Tolan Field. As some of you know, Monte passed just a little over 2 years ago. Monte was like a second father to me, and his sons, Joshua, Jedidiah and Jerimiah were my brothers. They will be dedicating this tree in their father's name, along with my parents for Monte, specifically at the ballfield where he put in years of coaching the kids of Sac City's Little League teams. So if you knew Monte, or he coached you or one of your kids, I know the family would love to see you come out for this celebration of Monte Burns' life.
Showing posts with label Sac City. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sac City. Show all posts
Friday, May 27, 2016
Monday, January 19, 2015
Little Town Surviving
When I was growing up in Sac City, Iowa...
1) There was nothing to do...EVER
2) I gotta get out...as soon as humanly possible!
3) Add 1 and 2 together and EVERYTHING HERE SUCKS!
Of course these were the thoughts of a young kid who just assumed the rest of the world had to be better than what we had growing up. Guess that whole "grass always being greener on the other side" business starts at an early age.
When I was really little we had a movie theater in which I saw half a movie before mom dragged me out screaming and crying. In my defense, if she had just kept feeding me junior mints, I would've been good for the whole showing of Bambi.
We had a corner bakery, where if we were really good and mom had some extra cash, my sister and I could get some delicious cookies. Or mom had extra cash and shoving cookies into our faces was the best way to get us to shut up.
I wasn't very old when both of these places went away, so there was literally nothing left to enjoy in our small, and getting smaller, town. Sure we had the parade and the 4th of July fireworks, Chautauqua Days, and we had the Porktoberfest, and Halloween. So there were a few days out of the year where we could engorge ourselves full of one kind of food or another. But the other 300 and some odd days...nothing.
We had to entertain ourselves, either playing in the ravine, tearing around town on our bikes, swimming at the local pool, or playing football in Witte's yard. We had Little League and some other Summer Recreation programs. Eventually we got out own recreation center to go lift weights, play basketball, swim during the winter time, among other things.
Thinking back on things, I guess things didn't suck as bad as I once thought. For a small town we had a lot of things to do, whether it was on our own, or through programs and facilities that a lot of people put in hard work dedicated to giving us kids, as well as adults, things to do right there in our own little burg.
One of the places that always been a stalwart of the community for the most part under a few different owners, in the recreation area, was Indian Lanes, our local bowling alley. Now I only used the bowling alley sparingly. I was usually using most of my money to load myself up on Dr Pepper from the local Casey's, as if my hyperactive self wasn't already too much for some people to handle before the caffeine infusion. But it was always a place where adults could go and have their adult fun with friends, and still bring their kids who could play arcade style games, or you know, bowl a few frames.
I was recently back in Sac City for Christmas with my wife and my sons to see my parents as well as my sister's family who was up visiting from Florida. My best friend, Jed was also out with his family from Wyoming, along with his younger brother Jeremiah and his family coming up from my neck of the woods, to celebrate with the oldest brother Josh and his family. They did a family gift exchange at the bowling alley, which I had learned was now being operated by Josh and his wife, and I think along with a certain guy named Joe Zimmerman. I make the claim of Joe based on the fact that they have a Notre Dame flag hung up on a wall, and Joe is the only person I know who is truly a Notre Dame fan. Other than that small blemish (Sorry Joe!), the place looks pretty good.
Now Joe has always been the kind of guy who was made for small town living, and many days I can't blame him despite my living in the Des Moines metro area. I like to go back to my hometown just to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Joe did his time out of the area, but as expected he came back to his roots and his family and friends. Joe is always a friendly guy with a big goofy grin, a joke waiting on his lips to tell you, and a big old hug. I love the guy.
Josh Burns on the other hand... He was the big brother from another mother, the guy I loved to hate and hated to love. He was always there to put me in my place when I needed it, and also to pick me up when I needed that. He really is a chip off the old block that is his father, Monte, who I always regard as my 2nd dad. Monte always made time for us boys, and for everybody else, both personally, as well as being a longtime baseball coach for a multitude of kids who grew up in Sac City. Josh and I were never as close as Jed and I were, but he was always around. I never knew what his plans for life were, when he went off to college in Missouri, but he came back to live and work in the area. And now he runs the bowling alley. Like his dad, he's doing his part to help keep the small town of Sac City going.
Some people reading this may see Indian Lanes as just one business in a small town in the middle of nowhere. But to some of us who grew up there, it's nice to see that some places and some people are still there, just as they always were. And when you can find a place for the whole family to spend some fun time together for a few hours without breaking the bank, you want to keep that in any community. I think Indian Lanes fills that role. So if you get a chance, go to Indian Lanes, say hello to the owners, grab a bite to eat and something to drink, and bowl a few games. I promise you wont regret the fun time you'll have and you will support a locally owned business stick around for everyone there now and those to come.
1) There was nothing to do...EVER
2) I gotta get out...as soon as humanly possible!
3) Add 1 and 2 together and EVERYTHING HERE SUCKS!
Of course these were the thoughts of a young kid who just assumed the rest of the world had to be better than what we had growing up. Guess that whole "grass always being greener on the other side" business starts at an early age.
When I was really little we had a movie theater in which I saw half a movie before mom dragged me out screaming and crying. In my defense, if she had just kept feeding me junior mints, I would've been good for the whole showing of Bambi.
We had a corner bakery, where if we were really good and mom had some extra cash, my sister and I could get some delicious cookies. Or mom had extra cash and shoving cookies into our faces was the best way to get us to shut up.
I wasn't very old when both of these places went away, so there was literally nothing left to enjoy in our small, and getting smaller, town. Sure we had the parade and the 4th of July fireworks, Chautauqua Days, and we had the Porktoberfest, and Halloween. So there were a few days out of the year where we could engorge ourselves full of one kind of food or another. But the other 300 and some odd days...nothing.
We had to entertain ourselves, either playing in the ravine, tearing around town on our bikes, swimming at the local pool, or playing football in Witte's yard. We had Little League and some other Summer Recreation programs. Eventually we got out own recreation center to go lift weights, play basketball, swim during the winter time, among other things.
Thinking back on things, I guess things didn't suck as bad as I once thought. For a small town we had a lot of things to do, whether it was on our own, or through programs and facilities that a lot of people put in hard work dedicated to giving us kids, as well as adults, things to do right there in our own little burg.
One of the places that always been a stalwart of the community for the most part under a few different owners, in the recreation area, was Indian Lanes, our local bowling alley. Now I only used the bowling alley sparingly. I was usually using most of my money to load myself up on Dr Pepper from the local Casey's, as if my hyperactive self wasn't already too much for some people to handle before the caffeine infusion. But it was always a place where adults could go and have their adult fun with friends, and still bring their kids who could play arcade style games, or you know, bowl a few frames.
I was recently back in Sac City for Christmas with my wife and my sons to see my parents as well as my sister's family who was up visiting from Florida. My best friend, Jed was also out with his family from Wyoming, along with his younger brother Jeremiah and his family coming up from my neck of the woods, to celebrate with the oldest brother Josh and his family. They did a family gift exchange at the bowling alley, which I had learned was now being operated by Josh and his wife, and I think along with a certain guy named Joe Zimmerman. I make the claim of Joe based on the fact that they have a Notre Dame flag hung up on a wall, and Joe is the only person I know who is truly a Notre Dame fan. Other than that small blemish (Sorry Joe!), the place looks pretty good.
Now Joe has always been the kind of guy who was made for small town living, and many days I can't blame him despite my living in the Des Moines metro area. I like to go back to my hometown just to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Joe did his time out of the area, but as expected he came back to his roots and his family and friends. Joe is always a friendly guy with a big goofy grin, a joke waiting on his lips to tell you, and a big old hug. I love the guy.
Josh Burns on the other hand... He was the big brother from another mother, the guy I loved to hate and hated to love. He was always there to put me in my place when I needed it, and also to pick me up when I needed that. He really is a chip off the old block that is his father, Monte, who I always regard as my 2nd dad. Monte always made time for us boys, and for everybody else, both personally, as well as being a longtime baseball coach for a multitude of kids who grew up in Sac City. Josh and I were never as close as Jed and I were, but he was always around. I never knew what his plans for life were, when he went off to college in Missouri, but he came back to live and work in the area. And now he runs the bowling alley. Like his dad, he's doing his part to help keep the small town of Sac City going.
Some people reading this may see Indian Lanes as just one business in a small town in the middle of nowhere. But to some of us who grew up there, it's nice to see that some places and some people are still there, just as they always were. And when you can find a place for the whole family to spend some fun time together for a few hours without breaking the bank, you want to keep that in any community. I think Indian Lanes fills that role. So if you get a chance, go to Indian Lanes, say hello to the owners, grab a bite to eat and something to drink, and bowl a few games. I promise you wont regret the fun time you'll have and you will support a locally owned business stick around for everyone there now and those to come.
(712) 662-7467
Monday, November 8, 2010
Sample Chapter From Future Book
Just a note: I just wrote this chapter today for a book I've been writing about random events from growing up in Sac City Iowa. I started this project a couple years back doing small occasional essays for thesacnews.com back when it was a fledgling organization on myspace. Eventually I discontinued it from public view, started and stopped writing on it repeatedly. Have been editing some, and am preparing to start submitting to literary agents for representation in the hopes of getting a book published. So for those of you who used to follow the series, and those of you who are just curious, please enjoy one of my latests essays.
Urination and Lifesavers
Let’s just face facts right off the bat here. Boys find potty humor of all sorts funny. Well, basically we find anything the body can excrete highly interesting and amusing. Its funny when we do it, say it, read it, or write it. Snot, poop, pee, farts, blood. It’s all fair game to our strange sense of humor. We may be absolutely disgusted to the core when someone lets a nasty fart rip, and yet still amused. VERY amused. When someone steps in dog poop, again we are disgusted by it, especially if we are the ones to step in it, and yet we can’t help but laugh our heads off about it, especially when it’s someone else stepping in it. For the next couple short anecdotes, if you are a girl or highly sensitive to disgusting things, I’d suggest you skip this next part altogether because it gets pretty bad. What’s it all about? In one word, Pee.
Little boys and dogs are more alike than different. Dogs will wander about the neighborhood lifting a leg and peeing on everything in sight that they find to be valuable real estate. Growing up in Sac City, I knew a particular young boy we’ll call Miah, who acted just like this. Although to be honest, I don’t think he cared about the real estate he was marking. When he decided he had to go pee, he just went pee. On a bush, a fire hydrant, the sidewalk, on the tires of a parked car, on a moving car for that matter, your leg, his own leg, behind a tree, next to a tree, from up in a tree, or on your house, your cat, or your dog; you name it, Miah peed on it at least once. I think that if Miah found himself in the midst of a busy intersection and felt the need to go pee, even if it meant being squished by a semi truck, he was going to whip it out and go pee RIGHT there and RIGHT now. I’m pretty sure the only thing safe from getting peed on by Miah was an actual toilet. I don’t know if he had an allergy to porcelain or an affinity for peeing on everything else, but like a dog, he marked his territory wherever we went.
Little boys and packs of dogs also have something in common. There must be in any pack, an established Alpha male. One day while playing in the ravine with my friend Sonny, he was standing on the wall while I was below on the ground. I was busying myself with something or another when he called my name. I looked up in just in time to see a golden stream headed in my direction. An as though I was paralyzed I stood there while my t-shirt got soaked with Sonny’s pee. Clearly Sonny had established himself as the alpha male. He got in trouble as I did what any good young fighting warrior of a boy would do- I tattled to my mom. And while he was in trouble and stuck sitting on the couch until his mom came to pick him up, he still had a stupid grin on his face knowing he had marked me as his territory, and himself as the top dog.
Now everyone knows that dogs love to chase mail carriers. In Sac City we had one particular mail carrier that handed out lifesavers to the kids. Any kid who asked received a tasty fruity Lifesaver once a day. I managed to find out that by helping the mailman deliver mail to some of the houses on one side of the street while he walked down the other earned me one more Lifesaver for every stop back to the mail truck. On days when I was bored, I would spend a couple hours with the mailman, earning my lifesavers. My mom, realizing how much of his candy I was consuming, always made sure to buy him a big box of Lifesavers every Christmas just so other kids could have some as well.
One day, my best friend Jed and his little brother Miah caught me in the middle of doing important mail delivery. They wanted to play, but I blew them off, saying I would come over after I was done following the mailman around. When I finished I grabbed my sister and went over to where my friends were hanging out. Since I had blown them off they hatched a very evil plan to get me back. I found my friends, and they informed me that they had just gotten brand new released flavors of Mr. Juicy drinks. This time it came in lemon flavored. However, they said, it had been in the sun for a bit, so it was warm. Being my gullible and naïve 8 year-old self, I had no problem trusting my wonderful friends without any suspicions. Both my sister and myself began to sample the lemon flavored Mr. Juicy. My sister was thirsty and started to guzzle it down. The Mr. Juicy concoction entered my mouth, hit my taste buds, and I immediately knew I had been tricked.
“AUGH!” I cried out after spitting the nastiness onto the ground. “This tastes like piss!” To which my sister started gagging and trying to spit out the remainder that was in her mouth. She had clearly swallowed some already. My friends were laughing hysterically.
Hey! I warned you this was going to be disgusting! If you read this far and are sorry you did, fearing you may have just thrown up a little bit in your mouth, you only have yourself to blame. Don’t say I didn’t give you fair warning to skip ahead.
Thanks to my friends, I now had Miah’s pee inside of me! He literally gets it everywhere. After a few words were exchanged, I joined in and helped prepare more nasty drinks to see whom else we could trick. See what I mean? Yes, it’s definitely disgusting beyond belief, and yet still leads to the funny! Why does it lead to the funny do you ask? Because, we made it happen to somebody else too!
Urination and Lifesavers
Let’s just face facts right off the bat here. Boys find potty humor of all sorts funny. Well, basically we find anything the body can excrete highly interesting and amusing. Its funny when we do it, say it, read it, or write it. Snot, poop, pee, farts, blood. It’s all fair game to our strange sense of humor. We may be absolutely disgusted to the core when someone lets a nasty fart rip, and yet still amused. VERY amused. When someone steps in dog poop, again we are disgusted by it, especially if we are the ones to step in it, and yet we can’t help but laugh our heads off about it, especially when it’s someone else stepping in it. For the next couple short anecdotes, if you are a girl or highly sensitive to disgusting things, I’d suggest you skip this next part altogether because it gets pretty bad. What’s it all about? In one word, Pee.
Little boys and dogs are more alike than different. Dogs will wander about the neighborhood lifting a leg and peeing on everything in sight that they find to be valuable real estate. Growing up in Sac City, I knew a particular young boy we’ll call Miah, who acted just like this. Although to be honest, I don’t think he cared about the real estate he was marking. When he decided he had to go pee, he just went pee. On a bush, a fire hydrant, the sidewalk, on the tires of a parked car, on a moving car for that matter, your leg, his own leg, behind a tree, next to a tree, from up in a tree, or on your house, your cat, or your dog; you name it, Miah peed on it at least once. I think that if Miah found himself in the midst of a busy intersection and felt the need to go pee, even if it meant being squished by a semi truck, he was going to whip it out and go pee RIGHT there and RIGHT now. I’m pretty sure the only thing safe from getting peed on by Miah was an actual toilet. I don’t know if he had an allergy to porcelain or an affinity for peeing on everything else, but like a dog, he marked his territory wherever we went.
Little boys and packs of dogs also have something in common. There must be in any pack, an established Alpha male. One day while playing in the ravine with my friend Sonny, he was standing on the wall while I was below on the ground. I was busying myself with something or another when he called my name. I looked up in just in time to see a golden stream headed in my direction. An as though I was paralyzed I stood there while my t-shirt got soaked with Sonny’s pee. Clearly Sonny had established himself as the alpha male. He got in trouble as I did what any good young fighting warrior of a boy would do- I tattled to my mom. And while he was in trouble and stuck sitting on the couch until his mom came to pick him up, he still had a stupid grin on his face knowing he had marked me as his territory, and himself as the top dog.
Now everyone knows that dogs love to chase mail carriers. In Sac City we had one particular mail carrier that handed out lifesavers to the kids. Any kid who asked received a tasty fruity Lifesaver once a day. I managed to find out that by helping the mailman deliver mail to some of the houses on one side of the street while he walked down the other earned me one more Lifesaver for every stop back to the mail truck. On days when I was bored, I would spend a couple hours with the mailman, earning my lifesavers. My mom, realizing how much of his candy I was consuming, always made sure to buy him a big box of Lifesavers every Christmas just so other kids could have some as well.
One day, my best friend Jed and his little brother Miah caught me in the middle of doing important mail delivery. They wanted to play, but I blew them off, saying I would come over after I was done following the mailman around. When I finished I grabbed my sister and went over to where my friends were hanging out. Since I had blown them off they hatched a very evil plan to get me back. I found my friends, and they informed me that they had just gotten brand new released flavors of Mr. Juicy drinks. This time it came in lemon flavored. However, they said, it had been in the sun for a bit, so it was warm. Being my gullible and naïve 8 year-old self, I had no problem trusting my wonderful friends without any suspicions. Both my sister and myself began to sample the lemon flavored Mr. Juicy. My sister was thirsty and started to guzzle it down. The Mr. Juicy concoction entered my mouth, hit my taste buds, and I immediately knew I had been tricked.
“AUGH!” I cried out after spitting the nastiness onto the ground. “This tastes like piss!” To which my sister started gagging and trying to spit out the remainder that was in her mouth. She had clearly swallowed some already. My friends were laughing hysterically.
Hey! I warned you this was going to be disgusting! If you read this far and are sorry you did, fearing you may have just thrown up a little bit in your mouth, you only have yourself to blame. Don’t say I didn’t give you fair warning to skip ahead.
Thanks to my friends, I now had Miah’s pee inside of me! He literally gets it everywhere. After a few words were exchanged, I joined in and helped prepare more nasty drinks to see whom else we could trick. See what I mean? Yes, it’s definitely disgusting beyond belief, and yet still leads to the funny! Why does it lead to the funny do you ask? Because, we made it happen to somebody else too!
Monday, October 26, 2009
Fearing the Emerging Threats of Headless Chicken Attacks
When I was about 12, I had a kid I grew up with, Cole Long, scare the hell out of me twice in one day. First we traded bikes, and we made our way fom my house down the infamous Platt Hill. For those of you who have grown up in Sac City, you know how stepp Platt Hill can be. It starts off going down at about a 45-50 degree angle, and then about halfway down it gets worse. For a kid going down it for the first time on a bicycle, one would think it was a straight drop. Well, as we hit the hill, Cole informs me that his bike doesn't have breaks. Rather than being sensible and getting the bike to a full stop and walking it down, I attempted to slalom down first, ten found myself taking the ride of my life. As I near the bottom, I see the school bus coming up on the intersection with the cross street. I was too young to have my life flash before my eyes, so my mind played the reel of me plastering up against the side of the bus while the bike got crsuhed underneath the big old bus' wheels. At the last second, I make an amazing 90 degree turn and stop on a dime. As the bus passed by safely, and probably obliviously (it was a blind corner for the bus to look up the hill), I took a moment to check my pants and make sure I wasn't going to need a new change of superhero underwear. I came pretty close to beating the crap out of my cackling friend who stopped next to me.
Once everything checked out okay, we proceed over to his place. They had some animals on their property, including a penned up turkey. My experience with turkeys at this point was Thanksgiving dinner. Cole decided we would go inside the pen, as he "had to feed the turkey." My job was to just usher it to the back of the pen. Being the big tough boy that I am, I thought this was a legitimate responsibility that I could handle. I step through the gate, and then, it closes behind me. I hear first laughter, and then experience fright as I hear and see a demon turkey coming after me in this tightly confined pen within a small shack. After 11 thanksgivings of me partaking of the turkey portions, I guess this was karmic revenge. This turley was going to carve me up and have me for dinner. No doubt he would've spoken in Satanistic tongues as he gave thanks to the Dark Lord of the Poultry Underworld. After being let out, I again almost beat the crap out my friend.
Fast forward about 12 years from the Day of the Turkey, and I am working a security gig at an office building in West Des Moines. Geese had begun nesting in the tree islands of the park lot. While I was patrolling the building, apparently one of the workers leaving the office thought that getting an up close and personal look at the geese would be a good idea. Then she got too close to one that was nesting. Out of nowhere the Gander swoops in and goes chest to chest with this lady, flaps its wings once, and the lady was on her backside. And this was no stick of a woman. She was short and a bit shall we say, on the thick side of things, with a nice low center of gravity. It wasn't until that day that I realized both the level of protectiveness and strength in geese. But let me tell you, the footage from the security cameras was played over and over that night as I and my partner had a good old time laughing at replay after replay of this gander absolutely owning this lady! When I left work that night, under the cover of darkness in my big old black Cutlass Supreme, I decided to venture towards the nest with my car, safely tucked inside the 2000 lbs of American built steel. Once I got close, out of nowhere again this gander comes to his maiden's rescue. This damn bird was ready, willing and did go toe to toe with my tank of a car. Once he realized that he might get run over, he shifted from a full frontal attack to beating the crap out of the front quarter panel with his wings, as he ran into the car repeatedly. I decided for the safety of my aging vehicle that I would bow out of this competition, before it did any more damage than me or my buddy Jay had already done to the vehicle over the years.
Not exactly, Alfred Hitchcock's redition of The Birds playing out in real life, but quite clearly I have shown the active and aggressive prejudice that birds have against people.
So last night before we went to sleep, my wife was telling me about some instances in life when she was growing up on a farm. Well, okay let me backtrack just a bit. The other night I was hungry and I was felling liek having some chicken for dinner. Well, for a few bucks you can get a nicely prepared Rotisserie Chicken from the grocery store. I threw on my shoes and a jacket and grabbed the car keys. My wife asked me where I was going. I told her I was going to pick up a chicken. She looked at me as though I was stupid. "WHAT?!?!"
"I'm going out to pick up a chicken," I stated pretty matter of factly.
"We don't have room for a chicken," she replied.
"What do you mean we don't have room for a chicken? I'm getting a rotisserie chicken from the store to EAT!"
"Oh...I thought you meant-"
"NO honey, I'm not the kind of guy who would bring a chicken to our apartment as a pet," I said. What is it about men and women trying to communicate cross-species like this. I'm hungry, she assumes I'm just following up on a crazy thought in my head. For the record, I generally don't follow up on crazy ideas. I just blog them here, so that you people can keep a good eye on me and my insanity. Anyways, back to last night...
One of the chores out on the farm for my wife and here family was the eventual evisceration of the walking poultry I prefer to call White Meat or Dark Meat (and throw in some mashed potatoes and gravy on the side). She explained the (cool to observe) phenomena of chickens who had just recently lost their heads. Apparently the saying "running around like a chicken with it's head cutoff" is based on reality. They just run round and round for a while. My wife told me that once, even as she ran in a zigzag pattern attempting to evade one headless chicken, it just kept right on her tail chasing her wherever she went. Radar equipped chickens can be scary business. "Goose, I've got lock...too close for missiles, I'm switching to guns."
She also told me about how the heads will just lay there on the ground for a bit, eyes blinking and the beak opening and shutting, until the chickens biological systems finally give out. Now I know how the chicken chased her. It's head was still able to see a little blonde girl who had just whacked his head off with a machete, and was using its last moments to hone its remote guidance system and direct the body after the chicken killer, hoping for revenge before the lights went out for good.
And now, I have an idea to get rich. I'm going to petition the government for research funds. The idea is to see if the chicken is still capable of getting scared, if I pick up its severed head and scream in its face. I figure abpout $10 million in grants should be good enough. I'l whack some chickens, pick up their heads, scream at them...and then declare the stucy inconclusive, and walk away rich. My only worry is that the chicken will scream back at me when it sees my ugly face up close, and the study will be conclusive that I do scare chickens, but not nearly as much as they scare me. I'll be forever known as the scared little chicken boy, but I'll have my money!
Then strange ideas kept creeping into my head as Dani was telling me these stories. Yeah yeah yeah, I know, big surprise right? Strangely they were all movie based.
I answered the phone, and on the other end of the voice was Golden Plump, played by Anthony Hopkins. "Hello Mookie...have the chickens stopped screaming yet?"
Or,
A troop of headless chickens trapping me in the castle, chanting (or rather wheezing like a retarded manatee like they apparently do) carrying their big fancy spears as the Wicked Chicken of the Midwest comes to snuff me out before I can get to to wonderful wizard in the Land of Oz, and go back home.
Or, in honor of my watching westerns:
Traveling in my Conestoga Wagon heading west, when all of a sudden the entire Foster Farms Nation came showing up on the ridge line. Headless chickens, everyone of them savage beasts, began to bear down on our little prairie party. As they approached, I prayed for God to breakout a thunderstorm and have these headless mongrels get dstracted by it and drown.
Or the zombie side of life:
We can't go outside just yet. We're safe here. We've got enough food to survive until help can come, and these old shotguns to defend ourselves should the zombie chickens attack. Just remember, body shots won't help. You have to separate their heads from their bodies, just like you learn in any good zombie flick.
"But Bob...They have no heads!"
"Well Sam, I guess that means we're just %$^&ed" Bloody gore ensues, part from the people being murdered by headless chickens...part from the blood coming up out of the headless chickens necks.
Or, a more happy story...
If You Build It They Will Come!!! Having toiled long and hard on a brand new state of the art chicken coop, I looked over yonder to the field of corn about 20 meters away. And then suddenly, headless chickens emerged from the cornfield. Strange that they had baseball gloves on their wings, and the ball caps kind of sat funny atop their necks. But the voices were right, I had built it and here they were Of course, I won't spoil the ending here, but lets say it has something to do with Chuck Norris jumping down from a nearby tree wielding a machete in each hand...I'll spare you the graphics and let you see the movie when it comes out.
Peacelovers everywhere would like to assume headless chickens are just misunderstood, and that we should all just get along. But when it comes to headless chickens, once I get over the laughter so hard that makes me giggle incesantly like a third grade girl for about 15 or 20 minutes before I can get ahold of myself, I am a hatemonger. I recognize those little bastards for what they are: Sadistic human-hating, feathered warmongers, plotting there revenge.
Mark my words, it will happen. You'll be outside enjoying the weather, maybe with your kids playing off in the distance. And then suddenly you'll get the feeling someone is watching you. You'l glance over and see a chicken head laying on the ground nearby, just blinking. You'll be distracted by this, and then, when you realize what's happened, it's too late. Your kids are gone. Out of the tree line, they come fast, neck skins flapping all over the place as headless chickens in a full sprint come to put you out of your miserable existence. People will look to the farmers as the one group of people capable of stopping this new scourge, but don't realize that the farmers were already taken out. Murdered in their sleep by vengeful Dark Meat Special Ops teams. And, these are powerful headless chickens. Raised up by Dr. Chickenstein himself, they thirst for one thing, well three things. They want you dead, some hot to trot hens, and a sasparilla. Because everyone knows that headless chickens can't deny themselves the tasty treat on a hot day of a Sioux City Sasparilla.
Once everything checked out okay, we proceed over to his place. They had some animals on their property, including a penned up turkey. My experience with turkeys at this point was Thanksgiving dinner. Cole decided we would go inside the pen, as he "had to feed the turkey." My job was to just usher it to the back of the pen. Being the big tough boy that I am, I thought this was a legitimate responsibility that I could handle. I step through the gate, and then, it closes behind me. I hear first laughter, and then experience fright as I hear and see a demon turkey coming after me in this tightly confined pen within a small shack. After 11 thanksgivings of me partaking of the turkey portions, I guess this was karmic revenge. This turley was going to carve me up and have me for dinner. No doubt he would've spoken in Satanistic tongues as he gave thanks to the Dark Lord of the Poultry Underworld. After being let out, I again almost beat the crap out my friend.
Fast forward about 12 years from the Day of the Turkey, and I am working a security gig at an office building in West Des Moines. Geese had begun nesting in the tree islands of the park lot. While I was patrolling the building, apparently one of the workers leaving the office thought that getting an up close and personal look at the geese would be a good idea. Then she got too close to one that was nesting. Out of nowhere the Gander swoops in and goes chest to chest with this lady, flaps its wings once, and the lady was on her backside. And this was no stick of a woman. She was short and a bit shall we say, on the thick side of things, with a nice low center of gravity. It wasn't until that day that I realized both the level of protectiveness and strength in geese. But let me tell you, the footage from the security cameras was played over and over that night as I and my partner had a good old time laughing at replay after replay of this gander absolutely owning this lady! When I left work that night, under the cover of darkness in my big old black Cutlass Supreme, I decided to venture towards the nest with my car, safely tucked inside the 2000 lbs of American built steel. Once I got close, out of nowhere again this gander comes to his maiden's rescue. This damn bird was ready, willing and did go toe to toe with my tank of a car. Once he realized that he might get run over, he shifted from a full frontal attack to beating the crap out of the front quarter panel with his wings, as he ran into the car repeatedly. I decided for the safety of my aging vehicle that I would bow out of this competition, before it did any more damage than me or my buddy Jay had already done to the vehicle over the years.
Not exactly, Alfred Hitchcock's redition of The Birds playing out in real life, but quite clearly I have shown the active and aggressive prejudice that birds have against people.
So last night before we went to sleep, my wife was telling me about some instances in life when she was growing up on a farm. Well, okay let me backtrack just a bit. The other night I was hungry and I was felling liek having some chicken for dinner. Well, for a few bucks you can get a nicely prepared Rotisserie Chicken from the grocery store. I threw on my shoes and a jacket and grabbed the car keys. My wife asked me where I was going. I told her I was going to pick up a chicken. She looked at me as though I was stupid. "WHAT?!?!"
"I'm going out to pick up a chicken," I stated pretty matter of factly.
"We don't have room for a chicken," she replied.
"What do you mean we don't have room for a chicken? I'm getting a rotisserie chicken from the store to EAT!"
"Oh...I thought you meant-"
"NO honey, I'm not the kind of guy who would bring a chicken to our apartment as a pet," I said. What is it about men and women trying to communicate cross-species like this. I'm hungry, she assumes I'm just following up on a crazy thought in my head. For the record, I generally don't follow up on crazy ideas. I just blog them here, so that you people can keep a good eye on me and my insanity. Anyways, back to last night...
One of the chores out on the farm for my wife and here family was the eventual evisceration of the walking poultry I prefer to call White Meat or Dark Meat (and throw in some mashed potatoes and gravy on the side). She explained the (cool to observe) phenomena of chickens who had just recently lost their heads. Apparently the saying "running around like a chicken with it's head cutoff" is based on reality. They just run round and round for a while. My wife told me that once, even as she ran in a zigzag pattern attempting to evade one headless chicken, it just kept right on her tail chasing her wherever she went. Radar equipped chickens can be scary business. "Goose, I've got lock...too close for missiles, I'm switching to guns."
She also told me about how the heads will just lay there on the ground for a bit, eyes blinking and the beak opening and shutting, until the chickens biological systems finally give out. Now I know how the chicken chased her. It's head was still able to see a little blonde girl who had just whacked his head off with a machete, and was using its last moments to hone its remote guidance system and direct the body after the chicken killer, hoping for revenge before the lights went out for good.
And now, I have an idea to get rich. I'm going to petition the government for research funds. The idea is to see if the chicken is still capable of getting scared, if I pick up its severed head and scream in its face. I figure abpout $10 million in grants should be good enough. I'l whack some chickens, pick up their heads, scream at them...and then declare the stucy inconclusive, and walk away rich. My only worry is that the chicken will scream back at me when it sees my ugly face up close, and the study will be conclusive that I do scare chickens, but not nearly as much as they scare me. I'll be forever known as the scared little chicken boy, but I'll have my money!
Then strange ideas kept creeping into my head as Dani was telling me these stories. Yeah yeah yeah, I know, big surprise right? Strangely they were all movie based.
I answered the phone, and on the other end of the voice was Golden Plump, played by Anthony Hopkins. "Hello Mookie...have the chickens stopped screaming yet?"
Or,
A troop of headless chickens trapping me in the castle, chanting (or rather wheezing like a retarded manatee like they apparently do) carrying their big fancy spears as the Wicked Chicken of the Midwest comes to snuff me out before I can get to to wonderful wizard in the Land of Oz, and go back home.
Or, in honor of my watching westerns:
Traveling in my Conestoga Wagon heading west, when all of a sudden the entire Foster Farms Nation came showing up on the ridge line. Headless chickens, everyone of them savage beasts, began to bear down on our little prairie party. As they approached, I prayed for God to breakout a thunderstorm and have these headless mongrels get dstracted by it and drown.
Or the zombie side of life:
We can't go outside just yet. We're safe here. We've got enough food to survive until help can come, and these old shotguns to defend ourselves should the zombie chickens attack. Just remember, body shots won't help. You have to separate their heads from their bodies, just like you learn in any good zombie flick.
"But Bob...They have no heads!"
"Well Sam, I guess that means we're just %$^&ed" Bloody gore ensues, part from the people being murdered by headless chickens...part from the blood coming up out of the headless chickens necks.
Or, a more happy story...
If You Build It They Will Come!!! Having toiled long and hard on a brand new state of the art chicken coop, I looked over yonder to the field of corn about 20 meters away. And then suddenly, headless chickens emerged from the cornfield. Strange that they had baseball gloves on their wings, and the ball caps kind of sat funny atop their necks. But the voices were right, I had built it and here they were Of course, I won't spoil the ending here, but lets say it has something to do with Chuck Norris jumping down from a nearby tree wielding a machete in each hand...I'll spare you the graphics and let you see the movie when it comes out.
Peacelovers everywhere would like to assume headless chickens are just misunderstood, and that we should all just get along. But when it comes to headless chickens, once I get over the laughter so hard that makes me giggle incesantly like a third grade girl for about 15 or 20 minutes before I can get ahold of myself, I am a hatemonger. I recognize those little bastards for what they are: Sadistic human-hating, feathered warmongers, plotting there revenge.
Mark my words, it will happen. You'll be outside enjoying the weather, maybe with your kids playing off in the distance. And then suddenly you'll get the feeling someone is watching you. You'l glance over and see a chicken head laying on the ground nearby, just blinking. You'll be distracted by this, and then, when you realize what's happened, it's too late. Your kids are gone. Out of the tree line, they come fast, neck skins flapping all over the place as headless chickens in a full sprint come to put you out of your miserable existence. People will look to the farmers as the one group of people capable of stopping this new scourge, but don't realize that the farmers were already taken out. Murdered in their sleep by vengeful Dark Meat Special Ops teams. And, these are powerful headless chickens. Raised up by Dr. Chickenstein himself, they thirst for one thing, well three things. They want you dead, some hot to trot hens, and a sasparilla. Because everyone knows that headless chickens can't deny themselves the tasty treat on a hot day of a Sioux City Sasparilla.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
An excerpt from my hopefully upcoming book
City Confidential: Criminal Idiocy (also titled: Not As Slick As We Thought)
For adults, like I am now, there is a saying out there that “nothing good ever happens after 2am”. Well, after attaining the age in which our parents let us stay out past the streetlights coming on, that time might as well have been “after 8pm”.
During the summertime, we would spend our time looking for the town cop, and then running away from him like we were guilty of something. It relieved us of our boredom and gave him something to do, when the local kids driving the loop weren’t speeding and driving recklessly all over the place. And sometimes we were guilty of being out after curfew, which really gave us some exercise. We would walk out on Main Street, wait for the cop to drive up on us and begin to turn around. And suddenly we would bolt like our lives depended on it. Sometimes we just dodged through yards and behind people’s houses. Other times you could find us running from the old Corner Store all the way downtown, and hiding in the big spools of wire behind the telephone company building. Lucky for us, the cops weren’t too keen on getting out of their patrol cars for something as dumb as a couple kids running around. This activity only lasted so long, as I think the cop finally caught on to what we were doing, and left us alone on purpose. It kind of took the fun out of staying out late.
The wintertime was a whole different ballgame. My best friend, Jed, and I had a little rivalry going on with who we thought was an unsuspecting ex-school teacher. Every winter around Christmas we stole a light out of the decorated trees in his yard. He had the strands that if one light went out the whole strand went dark. So we took great pride in putting a dark spot in those lighted trees. And every day he would go and replace them. It was a nightly game of back and forth. We even took extra care to approach the yard from behind the trees and out of view of his windows. After a while of him replacing the lights successfully every single time, we thought we could outsmart him. Instead of taking the bulb out altogether, we began to take a little extra time to loosen a bulb, thinking that it would make it harder for him to get them replaced. And every night, to our dismay, we would find that he thwarted the previous night’s plans. My buddy and I always thought we were anonymous in our after dark activities. It wasn’t until we were in our mid teens that we found out this just wasn’t so. I was working at the Carlson House restaurant in the kitchen, and Jed also worked there as a busboy. One night, Mr. Harklau, his wife and another couple came in to dine at our establishment. As Jed was pouring them all some water, Mr. Harklau looked up at him and proclaimed, “Well, good to see you have a job. Now you and that Lovell kid can afford to buy your own damn Christmas lights instead of stealing mine!”
This statement goes to show the common sense approach of small town folks and that of an older generation. Harmless fun doesn’t warrant calling the cops, or lining up a lawyer to sue the pants off a kid’s parents. He’d just bide his time and deal with it on his own. Although I’m sure, had he caught us in the act, rather than finding us in a highly public setting of a restaurant, he may very well have throttled us to within an inch of our lives. To save face, we would’ve left the cops out of it, and if our parents inquired, out of pride we would concoct a story about being jumped by a big group of, oh, say a dozen kids we didn’t recognize.
Anyways, Jed came back to the kitchen to relay what had just happened. Both of us were in shock. Again, our sneaky factor was far below where we thought it was supposed to be. But then again, I guess everyone thinks they’re more mysterious than they truly are. Of course this didn’t stop us from our little shenanigans. We still went out confiscating decorations from time to time. We just chose different targets, in other areas of town, occasionally returning to the Harklau’s for old time’s sake. Eventually our collection of lights and lighted ornaments became the decorations for us. Pretty stupid thing to do, but that’s the life of bored children in a small town. It was enough entertainment for us to avoid going beyond petty crime. Of course nowadays, as an adult with kids of my own, I settle for merely looking at other people’s decorations. Somehow stealing with my kids in tow doesn’t seem to be the example to set. But as we’re out admiring the decorations, I sometimes find myself smiling about the old days when I wouldn’t have thought twice about doing a little collection work! The kid is still alive and well in me. I just have a better moral compass now, when it comes to the action part anyways.
For adults, like I am now, there is a saying out there that “nothing good ever happens after 2am”. Well, after attaining the age in which our parents let us stay out past the streetlights coming on, that time might as well have been “after 8pm”.
During the summertime, we would spend our time looking for the town cop, and then running away from him like we were guilty of something. It relieved us of our boredom and gave him something to do, when the local kids driving the loop weren’t speeding and driving recklessly all over the place. And sometimes we were guilty of being out after curfew, which really gave us some exercise. We would walk out on Main Street, wait for the cop to drive up on us and begin to turn around. And suddenly we would bolt like our lives depended on it. Sometimes we just dodged through yards and behind people’s houses. Other times you could find us running from the old Corner Store all the way downtown, and hiding in the big spools of wire behind the telephone company building. Lucky for us, the cops weren’t too keen on getting out of their patrol cars for something as dumb as a couple kids running around. This activity only lasted so long, as I think the cop finally caught on to what we were doing, and left us alone on purpose. It kind of took the fun out of staying out late.
The wintertime was a whole different ballgame. My best friend, Jed, and I had a little rivalry going on with who we thought was an unsuspecting ex-school teacher. Every winter around Christmas we stole a light out of the decorated trees in his yard. He had the strands that if one light went out the whole strand went dark. So we took great pride in putting a dark spot in those lighted trees. And every day he would go and replace them. It was a nightly game of back and forth. We even took extra care to approach the yard from behind the trees and out of view of his windows. After a while of him replacing the lights successfully every single time, we thought we could outsmart him. Instead of taking the bulb out altogether, we began to take a little extra time to loosen a bulb, thinking that it would make it harder for him to get them replaced. And every night, to our dismay, we would find that he thwarted the previous night’s plans. My buddy and I always thought we were anonymous in our after dark activities. It wasn’t until we were in our mid teens that we found out this just wasn’t so. I was working at the Carlson House restaurant in the kitchen, and Jed also worked there as a busboy. One night, Mr. Harklau, his wife and another couple came in to dine at our establishment. As Jed was pouring them all some water, Mr. Harklau looked up at him and proclaimed, “Well, good to see you have a job. Now you and that Lovell kid can afford to buy your own damn Christmas lights instead of stealing mine!”
This statement goes to show the common sense approach of small town folks and that of an older generation. Harmless fun doesn’t warrant calling the cops, or lining up a lawyer to sue the pants off a kid’s parents. He’d just bide his time and deal with it on his own. Although I’m sure, had he caught us in the act, rather than finding us in a highly public setting of a restaurant, he may very well have throttled us to within an inch of our lives. To save face, we would’ve left the cops out of it, and if our parents inquired, out of pride we would concoct a story about being jumped by a big group of, oh, say a dozen kids we didn’t recognize.
Anyways, Jed came back to the kitchen to relay what had just happened. Both of us were in shock. Again, our sneaky factor was far below where we thought it was supposed to be. But then again, I guess everyone thinks they’re more mysterious than they truly are. Of course this didn’t stop us from our little shenanigans. We still went out confiscating decorations from time to time. We just chose different targets, in other areas of town, occasionally returning to the Harklau’s for old time’s sake. Eventually our collection of lights and lighted ornaments became the decorations for us. Pretty stupid thing to do, but that’s the life of bored children in a small town. It was enough entertainment for us to avoid going beyond petty crime. Of course nowadays, as an adult with kids of my own, I settle for merely looking at other people’s decorations. Somehow stealing with my kids in tow doesn’t seem to be the example to set. But as we’re out admiring the decorations, I sometimes find myself smiling about the old days when I wouldn’t have thought twice about doing a little collection work! The kid is still alive and well in me. I just have a better moral compass now, when it comes to the action part anyways.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)