Going to the Fair

I think it's something in their blood. For some reason, my wife Bev and her family absolutely love fairs. Several years ago, at the state fair, we went through the animal barns so often that the critters learned our names. After several hours at the fair, the kids began asking when we were going home; a couple of hours later, the husbands were asking the same thing.

Both the children and the spouses were told in no uncertain terms that we would not be leaving until the ladies “got their money's worth.” I'm not saying we stayed a long time, but eventually the guy in charge handed my wife the key to the main gate and told her to lock up whenever (if ever?) we were ready to leave.

Okay, as my brother-in-law would say, I exaggerate, but it is true that once my wife and her family members get into a fair, it's quite a task to get them to leave. If you are married to one of my in-laws, I suggest you purchase comfortable walking shoes, a bottle of pain pills, and a copious amount of liniment.

I doubt any doctor has ever sent a patient to a fair to improve their diet. Although much of the food is delicious, a lot of it can clog your arteries about as quickly as a big clump of hair can plug your bathroom drain. All I know is that my wife craves fair food.

In my opinion, the worst food we ever bought at the fair was maple ice cream covered with bacon bits. This was the first time I've ever thrown away ice cream. What a waste.  Don't get me wrong; I like both bacon and ice cream, but not when they are served together. Certain foods should be kept away from each other, such as ketchup and peaches; prunes and pizza; and potato chips and gravy.

During our latest visit, Bev ordered deep-fried olives and lemon meringue deviled eggs. I do not like olives in any form; eating stuffed olives dipped in waffle batter and then deep-fried would just hasten my second open-heart surgery, which would not be a fun activity. I do like deviled eggs and lemon meringue pie, but like with ice cream and bacon, I prefer to consume them separately.

Evidently, since fair-goers are a captive audience, the proprietors feel they can charge the most outrageous prices, even for the strange things my wife likes to eat. Therefore, I suggested we eat at a restaurant before entering the fairgrounds, but Bev argued that no restaurant had all the “special” things she wished to eat, like ice cream with bacon, deep-fried olives, and lemon meringue deviled eggs. She's right; I know of no restaurant that serves such “delicacies.”

After spending what seemed like a small fortune on some strange foods, we went to the main auditorium to be entertained by a very good country and western singer. Country songs are often about lost loves-especially about losing wives and girlfriends. The saddest songs lament losing both the wife and the girlfriend. (My wife says this is not funny. I'll let you decide.)

On the way to the fair, we heard on the radio that scientists and engineers are making great progress when it comes to developing self-driving vehicles. Therefore, I think it's just a matter of time until we hear a country singer's sad lament about his truck leaving him:

“I gave her the best oil and the top grade of gas I always checked her air pressure before we went fishing for bass.  But today, when I looked in the garage, she was gone from her comfort zone.  My pickup hit the road.  She's all on her own.  I've lost two wives and eight girlfriends,  but they don't really count. For the love of my pickup is what love is all about.” (At this point, you may wish to yodel.)

Now back to the fair. On top of it all, I had to deal with the barkers as we strolled along the midway. One of them pointed to me and yelled, “You are 125!” “Sorry, buddy, but I weigh a little more than that,” I replied. “I wasn't guessing your weight,” he said. “I was guessing your age.”

I'm not complaining about sore feet, an aching back, a thinner wallet, or a sense of boredom. Spending hour after hour at the fair is worth it if that's what makes my wife happy. Furthermore, I'd rather be in a boring situation with my wife than in the most exciting one without her by my side.

Now if only I can get her past the deep-fried chocolate-covered strawberries dipped in lard, on the way to the parking lot. The animals told us to hurry back and hoped we would have a safe trip home.

You're a Young Whippersnapper if...

*You have never driven a car with a standard transmission.

*You never owned a black and white TV set.

*You've never made a call from a telephone booth.

*You do not know what a telephone booth is.

*You never owned an automobile without air conditioning, power brakes, and power steering.

*You never bought a Bing Crosby record.

*You have no idea what a record is.

*You have never heard of Bing Crosby.

*You don't remember the Ed Sullivan Show.

*Your parents or grandparents didn't force you to watch the Lawrence Welk Show on Saturday nights.

*When a kid, you couldn't buy candy “cigarettes” and “cigars” made from bubble gum.

*You attended a middle school instead of a junior high.

*Your teachers didn't own and use paddles.

*You have never heard of Bazooka Joe.

*You have never read Mad Magazine.

*You have never slept in the basement on hot summer nights.

*You didn't watch the Roy Rogers Show on Saturdays.

*You don't remember ladies wearing can-cans under their dresses.

*The highlight of your day is not a nap.

*Your doctors are older than your underwear.

* Instead of doctors, police officers are telling you to slow down.

*Due to grade inflation, all your school classmates' grades were above average.

*Your children are not yet retired.

*Your neck does not yet look like a turtle neck sweater.

*You still have more hair on your head than in your ears.

*A friend with benefits is not a person who can still drive.

*You didn't fall asleep while reading this article. 

Who Needs Scary Movies When You Have the Real Thing?

From about the age of five, I began watching “monster” movies during Halloween time. There was Frankenstein, The Mummy, Dracula, and even humorous monster flicks starring Abbott and Costello. Evidently, I'm still a kid at heart, for I still watch these shows during the Halloween season. However, once during my childhood, just a month or so before Halloween, I had a real-life experience that was scarier than anything Hollywood could ever invent.

It was what seemed like a typical Saturday afternoon. I had just finished playing softball with my buddies and was looking forward to watching the Baseball Game of the Week with Dizzy Dean and Pee Wee Reese, but first, I needed a bath.

Our bathroom was at the top of the stairs. If one took a left out of the bathroom, they would see a bedroom on the right and another one at the end of the hall. Anyone going into or out of either of those rooms had to either walk past the bathroom or somehow fly through an upstairs window. (We did have an “old bat” living in the neighborhood. Could she have been the culprit?)

While relaxing in the warm water, there was nothing sinister going on in my mind. As a matter of fact, I was wondering if Mickey Mantle would hit a home run or if Whitey Ford would be pitching.

It seemed like a perfect day. Except for Mom, who was in the kitchen, I had the house to myself. My sisters weren't around to ruin the day by demanding to watch some kind of goofy girl stuff on the TV set.

While running all that baseball stuff through my brain, I began to hear the back- and- forth motion of the old rocking chair in my parents' room at the end of the hall. Thinking perhaps one of my sisters or my brother had come home, I cried out: “Who's out there?”

The only reply was the continuing rocking of the chair. Either I was dim-witted or just deeply into baseball, for I still had no fear. Instead, I once again asked: “Who's out there?” The rocking continued.

After quietly exiting the tub, for modesty's sake, I wrapped a towel around myself before proceeding to the bathroom door. There, with my right hand on the knob, I could still hear the creaky old chair doing its thing. My plan was to hurriedly open the door, exposing the culprit.

However, in the split second it took to throw it open, the noise had stopped. The chair was perfectly still and empty. No one could have gotten out of that chair so quickly, and if somehow they had magically done so, the only escape was to go past me.

I checked under the bed, in the closet, and even behind the set of drawers, but no one was there, at least no one I could see. Talk about slow on the draw! At that point, I was still not scared; baseball and lunch still dominated my mind. Therefore, I shrugged my shoulders and went back to the bathroom to continue my bath.

Within seconds, the rocking recommenced. That's when fear struck me like a punch to the face. Practically in one motion, I jumped from the tub, grabbed my towel, and then sprinted down the stairs in what must have been a new personal speed record. Going into the kitchen, I explained the weirdness upstairs before asking Mom to sit at the top of the steps until my bath was finished. She obliged, but let it be known that the rocking was due to a kid's imagination running wild. Later that evening, the rest of the clan agreed that I was simply imagining things, but I knew better.

A few nights later, upstairs in the other bedroom, one of my sisters was awakened by a rocking sound. Looking over at the tiny rocker next to the bed, she saw what she described as a grayish figure that was shaped like an old person. She then awakened my other sister, who was in the same bed; she heard the rocking but refused to take a peek. (Smart move!)

Since the upstairs bathroom was the only one we had, when nature called, one had no choice but to climb those steps. No doubt, I set more speed records for using the bathroom. As a matter of fact, I didn't take the time to wash my hands. After hitting about every third step on the way downstairs, I headed to the friendlier confines of the kitchen. That's where the hand-cleaning took place for the next couple of months..

After those occurrences, old Hollywood films seemed lame. Yet, I'd rather watch them than be once again scared out of my wits with the real stuff! 

You Are Really Old If...

 

*Your underwear is older than some of your doctors.

*You remember when most cars had no seat belts, air conditioning, or power steering.

*Boy Scouts begin helping you across the street.

*You used a slide rule in math class.

*A friend with benefits is considered to be someone who can still drive.

*You often use the phrase, “Back in my day.”

*You call young people “whippersnappers.”

*Most of the names in your little black book are followed by “M.D.”

*You remember watching “My Little Margie” on TV.

*Folks working in restaurants and department stores begin calling you “honey” and “sweety.”

*Your son or daughter is about to retire.

*Your grandchild asks if you voted for Lincoln.

*You answer your grandchild's question in the affirmative.

*You owned a Roy Rogers lunchbox.

*You can read cursive writing.

*You remember when churches were usually full on Sundays.

*You had teachers with paddles who were more than willing to use them.

*A hot bowl of soup trumps a hot date.

*A nap is the most rewarding part of the day.

*Any person under the age of sixty you call a “kid.”

*Someone compliments your turtleneck sweater, but you're not wearing one.

*Your “get up and go” has “gotten up and left.”

*The children and grandchildren think “your” music stinks.

*You think their music should be outlawed.

*You grew up listening to Lawrence Welk.

*Most of your exercise comes during the night when you go to the bathroom several times.

*You really start to believe your youthful years were the “good old days.”

The Kids Enjoyed my "Whoppers"

I miss the days when my daughter and son were kids. If it were possible, I'd love to live that segment of my life again. Some of the greatest memories centered around me telling them some of the most unbelievable whoppers. The kids knew these were tall tales, but they loved to hear them. My objective was twofold: To entertain them and to spark creativity.

I told the children they didn't realize how old Mom was. During her childhood years, she would pack a lunch, stand along the road, and then wait for the school stagecoach to arrive. Furthermore, I added, fire drills and tornado drills did not yet exist. Instead, when an alarm sounded at the school, Mom and her classmates grabbed their rifles and headed to their assigned slots in the wall, where they would repulse Indian raids.

It is no secret that my wife and her family love fairs, zoos, and circuses. Several years ago, when the kids were little dudes, we traveled to the state fair with my sister-in-law, brother-in-law, and their children. After a few hours at the fair, the kids wanted to go home, but the sisters aggressively vetoed that idea. A couple of hours later, the men suggested it was time to go, but to no avail.

From this true story, I exaggerated just a bit. I told the kids that Mom and her sister once went to a fair and refused to leave. They went through the animal barns so often that the critters soon greeted them by name. Eventually, the fair manager handed my wife the keys and told them to lock the main gate when and if they ever decided to leave.

One aspect of comedy is exaggeration. My wife and her family love popcorn, especially when it is drowned in butter, so I told the kids that many years ago, she was accidentally locked in a popcorn factory over the weekend. By the time of her release on Monday, she weighed over 500 pounds and had to be retrieved from the factory with a forklift. Of course, after her visit, there was no popcorn left in the building.

We talked about how dogs can be trained to track missing persons and escaped criminals. The children did not know, however, that their mother had even more amazing skills than this. If the wind was blowing just right, she could pinpoint a popcorn factory from up to seventy miles away!

My father-in-law was one of the most wonderful human beings I've had the pleasure of knowing. His daughter told the family on numerous occasions that he proudly could proclaim that alcohol had never touched his lips. Therefore, I informed the kids that their grandfather had simply used a straw. They thought that was funny; my wife, not so much.

I told the kids I could read their minds. Naturally, they didn't believe me. However, they had to agree with me when I announced they were thinking I couldn't tell what they were thinking.

The children were impressed when I informed them that their mother held the North American speed record for backing out of a driveway. In fact, I insisted, her car's speedometer, rather than in miles per hour, was listed at Moch 1 and Moch 2. Furthermore, by law, I explained, she had to file a flight plan before taking a trip.

Thanks to me, I informed the kids, a miracle took place at our church. When I began singing, folks in their 90s, some of whom were wheelchair-bound, for the first time in decades were able to get up and sprint from the church. For some reason, my adult children believe this particular story could be true. I guess they've heard me sing!

The kids were informed that long ago, I had a tryout with the New York Yankees. I told them only three little, inconsequential factors kept me from being signed: I couldn't hit, run, or throw. However, I looked great in a Yankee uniform. The kids found it hard to believe I looked great in pinstripes.

They laughed about the story in which I claimed their mother thought I should be a member of royalty. They did, however, agree that at times she probably wished to crown me. As a matter of fact, since I love hamburgers so much, she has dubbed me “Sirloin of Beef.” How's that for a royal title?

Most importantly, the kids knew this: Both their mother and I love each other, and we love them unconditionally. There was never any kidding about that.

Except for Sports, My Wife is Nearly Perfect

My wife is the most wonderful person I've ever met; she's intelligent, kind, generous, and hardworking. However, when we met, she had one glaring deficiency: she didn't know the difference between a baseball bat and a hockey stick. Unbelievably, sports had no place in her life.

The ancient Greeks and Romans were passionate about sports, despite some of their contests being brutal and inhumane. According to their writers, intellectuals, and religious leaders, the gods had created such events as wrestling, boxing, foot races, and even gladiator fights. How can anyone, I ask, ignore sports when they are created by the gods?

My idea of a fulfilling Saturday afternoon is to make a sandwich, pull a cold beverage from the refrigerator, and then settle down in front of the TV set to watch several hours of baseball, basketball, or football, depending upon the sporting season. (This is how sporting nuts view the seasons of the year. We do not need to refer to such antiquated terms as “November” or “Spring.”)

My wife shared a lack of passion with my father when it came to sporting events. Dad, who grew up an orphan during the Great Depression (What was so great about it?), had little time to play games or even learn about them, so during his adult years, he'd carefully read every section of the daily newspaper, including the advertisements, with one exception-he'd skip the sports edition.

I, on the other hand, fell head over heels in love with baseball, basketball, and football. Until my teenage years, we were the proud owners of one TV set, so when Dad came home, one could either watch what he had chosen or go do something else. (Mom also gave us a choice at mealtime: Take it or leave it.)

Dad worked on Saturdays, so if my favorite college basketball teams played in the daytime, I could leisurely watch them. However, if a game was played at night, I was out of luck. Then, Dad closed in our front porch, turning it into a fine extra room. Besides equipping it with a sofa and chairs, he added a portable TV set.

For some still unknown reason, he did not have a heat duct extended to the new enclosure, so in the winter, he stayed in the living room. Of course, that situation got the wheels turning in my little brain.

So when one of my teams played a night game, I'd put on my coat, hat, and gloves before secretly departing through the kitchen door. Carefully, I unlocked the door to the new room. Dad was sitting in his favorite recliner on the other side of the wall, so I couldn't turn on any lights or even turn the TV's volume much higher than a whisper. So, while sitting inches from the set and shivering uncontrollably, I watched the game before silently retreating to the kitchen.

By the age of ten, I could list the statistics of every Major League player, pro and college basketball performer, and football star. For instance, in 1961, baseball great Roger Maris hit .269 while knocking in 142 runs and hitting a then-record 61 home runs. Those memories seem to be impressive, but on the other hand, I have no idea what I ate for breakfast this morning. (Did I eat breakfast today?)

Then I married this most wonderful lady who barely knew anything about the world's three greatest sports. Naturally, I took it upon myself to educate her in this most important aspect of life. She's progressed, but still has a way to go.

Last week, she kept me shopping for a good hour after the big football game had started. Once at home, I made a peanut butter sandwich and grabbed a cold brew before rushing to the TV set. My honey came in a few minutes later, asking about the score. When I told her it was 0-0, she smiled and replied: “See, you didn't miss a thing.”

In a couple of days, her alma mater and my alma mater will go to war on the football field. I asked her which team she'll root for. Her answer: “I'm going to root for both.”

I can't wait until kickoff to see how she accomplishes this feat: “Catch it; no drop it! Intercept it; no, get a touchdown! That was an awful call; it was also a great call! Make that tackle! No, miss the tackle.”

Now I know how Dr. Frankenstein felt, for I've created a monster! What if this catches on and sports fans across the country begin rooting for their teams and their opponents? It's not natural, I say. 

Nothing but the Truth?

 As little kids, we were told that our two greatest presidents, George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, were always honest. Try as they may, they could not tell a lie. Somehow, I find that hard to believe.

First of all, we must remember that both Mr. Washington and Mr. Lincoln were politicians, and furthermore, Lincoln was a lawyer. I’m not saying that lawyers lie more often than do other members of society, but they do ignore or try to obliterate any part of the truth that might hurt their clients. Notice that Congress has strict penalties against lying to it, but some politicians have made a nice living by distorting the truth (members of both parties have been guilty).

There’s a funny commercial where Mrs. Lincoln asks her husband if a bustle on the back of her dress made her look fat. Poor Lincoln wanted to spare her feelings, and moreover, he tried to avoid his wife’s wrath. The poor guy finally admitted that it made her look “just a little” fat. No doubt the Great Emancipator slept on the sofa for several nights.

Supposedly, a young George Washington chopped down his father’s favorite cherry tree. When asked about the incident, George admitted to his father that he was the culprit. Thanks to his honesty, the story goes, George escaped punishment.

However, there’s another story about a boy who pushed the family outhouse over a cliff. The youngster admitted to his father that he had done the terrible deed. As the Old Man began to remove his belt to give the kid a good tanning, the son exclaimed: “Dad, when George Washington confessed to cutting down his father’s cherry tree, he was not punished.”

“This is different,” said the father. “George’s dad wasn’t in that cherry tree when it was chopped down.”

Imagine that your spouse has spent several hours preparing a special meal for your birthday. While he or she watches anxiously, you sample the steak, mashed potatoes, vegetables, and homemade bread. Unfortunately, the meal is not very good. Eating cardboard would have been an improvement.

You have two choices. You may decide to be brutally honest and say something like: “Thanks for spending all that time in the kitchen, dear, but to tell the truth, it didn’t taste very good. Sorry.“ Now you’ve upset your spouse; no doubt this will add an extra strain on the marriage, and you can bet that the bad place somewhere below us will freeze over before he or she ever does anything special for you again!

Here is the second option, the well-known “white lie:” “This was so thoughtful of you, dear! Did I like it? This was one of the best meals I’ve ever had! Thank you, sweetheart!” In this case, a statement that veers slightly off the road of truth has given a shot of self-esteem to your spouse, and you’ve earned some brownie points against the next time you forget to carry out the garbage or read the meter, or take out the dog.

There are times, of course, when one would be stupid to lie. Be perfectly honest when it comes to paying taxes. That way, you can sleep peacefully and know that you’ve paid your fair share. Don’t lie to the doctor. For example, don’t tell her you feel fine when in reality you’re having chest pains. And as I mentioned earlier, don’t lie whenever you’re under oath; judges, Congressmen, and other government types don’t take kindly to those kinds of actions.

But sometimes honesty is not the best policy. And that’s the truth!