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.”