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!

Dear Gabby

 

• Have a problem? Write to “Dear Gabby” for insightful recommendations.

Dear Gabby: My wife has left me, and she took our dog with her. What shall I do?

I am so sorry for your tragic loss. A good dog is hard to replace. Perhaps, in time, you will recover to the point that your heart will be open to getting another one.

Dear Gabby: Every night I watch several news programs. Often, the politicians contradict one another. How can I tell when they're not being truthful?

Scientists have discovered a foolproof way to find out when politicians are lying. It's whenever they open their mouths.

Dear Gabby: I have horrible halotosis. I've tried every product on the market but to no avail. What can I do?

Learn to live with it. Remember, bad breath is better than no breath at all (then you would be dead.)

Dear Gabby: My wife calls me stupid nicknames. I hate them all. What should I do?

As long as she calls you for supper, don't worry about it.

Dear Gabby: My wife insists that I drive her mother to the senior center each day. How can I do this without losing my mind?

Perhaps you can find an old car that has a “rumble seat.”

Dear Gabby: I love popcorn, but my doctor has ordered me to eat no more than one bowl per day. That's not enough for me. Any suggestions?

Buy a larger bowl.

Dear Gabby: After years of back-breaking work, I purchased a coalmine and made a fortune. Now my wife wants a divorce. How much of my fortune do you think the judge will give her? What can I expect to keep?

If he/she is like most judges, she'll get the mine and you will get the shaft.

Dear Gabby: My wife says I'm two-faced. How should I respond?

Say to her: “Take a good look at me. If I had a second face, do you think I'd be wearing this one?”

Dear Gabby: I work with a guy who is a complete know-it-all jerk. What would you call such a person?

Boss.

Dear Gabby: When I met my future wife, I felt she was “Miss Right.” Now, three years later, I'm miserable. What could have gone wrong?

You did not realize her first name was “Always.”

Dear Gabby: My wife took me to a department store while she shopped for a new dress. After coming out of the dressing room, she asked if the outfit made her backside look big. Being honest, I answered in the affirmative. Now she won't talk to me. Where did I go wrong?

You went wrong by being truthful. If there is a Mrs. God, even He would fudge the truth in such a case. At times, honesty is not the best policy.

Dear Gabby: My wife was upset because she baked what she described as her worst bannana cream pie ever. Trying to help, I told her by far it was not her worst one. Then she smacked me in the face with the pie. Where did I go wrong?

You went wrong when you opened your pie-hole (mouth).

Dear Gabby: My friend told me that I'm better at bowling than I am at golf. I don't agree. What could be his reasoning?

Perhaps you lose fewer balls during a game of bowling than you do during a game of golf.

Dear Gabby: Do you believe in cow-tipping?

Absolutely. If she gives good service, give her a good tip. The same goes for pigs, chickens, goats, etc.

The Founding Fathers Speak

• “Keep your eyes wide open before marriage, half shut afterwards.” Benjamin Franklin.

 

• “To argue with a person who has renounced the use of reason is like administering medicine to the dead.” Thomas Paine.

 

• “When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.” Thomas Jefferson.

 

• “Among the many objects to which a wise and free people find it necessary to direct their attention, that of providing for their safety seems to be first.” John Jay.

 

• “It is far better to be alone than to be in bad company.” George Washington.

 

* ”Give me liberty or give me death.” Patrick Henry.

 

• “The best form of government is that which is most likely to prevent the greatest sum of evil.” James Madison.

 

• “Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.” Benjamin Franklin.

 

• “It is true, however disgraceful it may be to human nature, that nations in general will make war whenever they have a prospect of getting anything by it.” John Jay.

 

• “We must support our rights or lose our character, and with it, perhaps, our liberties.” James Monroe.

 

• “You cannot undermine police authority and then complain about rising crime.” Thomas Paine.

 

• “I have concluded that one useless man is a disgrace, that two become a law firm, and that three or more become a congress.” John Adams.

 

• “If the freedom of speech is taken away, then dumb and silent one may be led, like sheep to the slaughter.” George Washington.

 

• “I think the first duty of society is justice.” Alexander Hamilton.

 

• “Believe none of what you hear and half of what you see.” Benjamin Franklin.

 

• “The essence of government is power, and power, lodged as it must be in human hands, will ever be liable to abuse.” James Madison.

 

• “The truth is that all men having power ought to be mistrusted.” James Madison.

 

• “Why has government been instituted at all? Because the passions of men will not conform to the dictates of reason and justice, without constraint.” Alexander Hamilton.

 

• “Some people die at 25 and aren't buried until 75.” Benjamin Franklin.

 

• “Oppressors can tyrannize only when they achieve a standing army, an enslaved press, and a disarmed populace.” James Madison.

 

• “I hold the maxim no less applicable to public than to private affairs, that honesty is the best policy.” George Washington.

 

• “Tell me and I forget. Teach me and I remember. Involve me and I learn.” Benjamin Franklin.

 

Dad Took Over My Hiding Place

I was not a hermit. We boys in the neighborhood regularly played softball, basketball, and football, and except during the worst days of winter, we rode our bicycles around town. However, with that being said, I needed time for myself (and I still do.) Like other boys, I liked sports, movies, and dances, but quiet time with a good book was also important.

The perfect hideout for me was the fruit cellar. Amid the smell of preserves, I would sit for hours on a delapidated chair, reading books I had borrowed from the library. Hardly anyone else came into the room, so it was a perfect “get away” spot. (During my “super hero phase, I hid my costume there.)

Out of necessity, I have owned a library card from an early age. On Sundays, we'd visit some very old people (Now they seem like kids) who, to me at the time, seemed extremely boring. Moreover, we sometimes stayed at those boring places for five or six hours at a time.

Therefore, I persuaded Mom to take me to the local library. The plan was to bring along a good book whenever we visited boring places, so that I would have something positive to do. The first book I took with me was Mark Twain's Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

After socializing for a half hour or so, I went to the car and proceeded to read, believing I'd get a few chapters in before the “boss” decided to head home. Surprisingly, I read the book from cover to cover but still had to wait another hour before we left. After that, I brought along two books.

A year or so later, I was forced out of my fruit cellar reading center. Someone gave Dad a recipe for homemade beer, but evidently, they had listed too much sugar. Instead of beer, Dad had inadvertently invented his own rocket fuel.

One could be sleeping, watching TV, eating dinner, or reading the newspaper when a loud explosion, sounding much like a rocket attack, reverberated throughout the house. After such an attack, my secret reading room, from ceiling to floor, was covered with a strong-smelling brew. The beer was so potent that it ate the paint from the floor. Shards of glass were embedded in the walls and ceiling.

No longer could I use the room. During an attack, one could sustain serious injuries or perhaps could even be killed.

For four months, all but one of the beer bottles exploded. With a towel in hand, Dad retrieved the last bottle, bringing it upstairs to the kitchen. There, he opened it. A dark blue cloud escaped, along with a pungent odor. He gave me one sip. It burned my throat on the way down, and continued to do so while it sat gurgling in my stomach. “Mountain Dew” had nothing on this concoction.

The good news was that Dad never attempted to make another batch of home brew, so after the last bottle was consumed, I was able to move my reading quarters back to the fruit cellar. However, this arrangement didn't last long.

For his next adventure, Dad began making coleslaw. Each year, he would slice a few inches off my only good baseball bat before using it to smash the ingredients into a pulp. After five years of slaw-making, my bat was useful only for a two-year-old.

Unfortunately, Dad stored the big crocks of coleslaw in the fruit cellar. I tried reading in the cellar, but the smell was overwhelming. In desperation, I once tried nose plugs, but the smell was still suffocating, to say the least.

My next reading area was in the great outdoors. When good weather prevailed, I'd sit under a large tree in a wooded area behind our garage. The seating was uncomfortable, and at times the mosquitoes feasted upon me, but at least I didn't have to worry about flying shards of glass and stinky coleslaw.

On numerous occasions, our son heard the story about Grandpa's coleslaw operation.. When he was old enough to play baseball, he requested a glove and a bat. Specifically, he asked for a metal bat, just in case his grandfather decided to once again go into the coleslaw business.