Humor

By Marvin Ferguson

Everybody enjoys a good laugh and so do I. In fact, I've often heard it said that laughter is good medicine for the soul.

Some of my favorite humorous moments are watching an old film with Laurel and Hardy. Just thinking about them makes me laugh. See if you can identify with this one and enjoy it with me.

Following the First World War Stanley spent three months in a VA hospital recuperating from his wounds and totally separated from his friend Oliver Hardy. Now, it was time to pick him up and take him home.

While waiting for his ride in the hallway of the hospital Stan couldn't find a chair to get comfortable in. Ultimately, he found an old wooden wheelchair but couldn't get his feet to fit in the stirrups, so he sat on them.

Meanwhile, when Ollie finally arrived and noticed that his dear friend didn't have any legs, he insisted on wheeling him out to the car. After Ollie struggled to get Stan into the car, his dear amputee friend got out of his wheelchair and offered to help solve the dilemma by walking around to the other side of the car.

Shocked, Ollie said, "Wait just a minute. Why didn't you tell me you had legs?"

And looking very innocent like he always did, Stan replied, "Because you didn't asked me."

The comic role played by two superb actors kept me laughing all the way home.

Frequently Thought Responses to FAQ in Pregnancy

By Charis Seeley

My husband and I are expecting our second child in early September, and few things bother me quite so much as the grammatical implications of, “Do you know what you’re having?” A baby. It’s a baby.

 

 

Frequently Thought Responses to FAQ in Pregnancy

We’re due in September.

This is our second child.

No, we’re not having any more.

Oh, that’s nice. Yes. Mm-hm.

I’m glad having seven children worked out for you,
but I’m really sure two is enough for me.

More to love, yes.

No, two. I’m really extra sure on this.

What?

Oh, we think we’ll have a boy, but we’ll see.

It might be a velociraptor or a litter of kittens.

I guess you just never really know.

Yes, I am getting larger.

Thank you. Thank you so much for that.

All the mirrors at my house broke.

It’s so helpful to have people like you around.

Coffee

By Robin Steinweg

Good Norwegians
Equally good Swedes
All agree
They have their needs

Meat and potatoes
High on the list
Sweets come next
Well, you get the gist

But blowing the rest
All to smithereens
Is a drink they sip
From mugs, saucers, canteens

Morning, noon, night

Any time in between

Coffee’s integral to their cuisine



From what I have gathered

Or been able to glean

They’ll use any means

To get their caffeine





Savored cold or steaming
It’s their cure-all vaccine
The tonic they crave
Here’s cup number umpteen

How happy, how content
When they embody this scene
A fragrant cup
And a good magazine

Teacher, homemaker
Student or marine
Coffee is fixed in
Their daily routine

Although this black potion
Runs in my genes
I’m still of the notion
Coffee’s full of beans

Of Republicans, Democrats and Aliens

By Kristi Paxton

I have an idea, well, actually two of them. This would be the spot where my family would collectively groan and roll their eyes. You may join them if you like.

At age 58, I’m past the stage where I believe any president—Democratic, Republican, or Martian—can meaningfully change the way our political system works or fails. No election winner has profoundly changed the way I’ve lived my American life. What’s the popular quote: “If you keep doing the same things the same way you will keep getting the same results”?

We’ve all watched the ads. (Read “witnessed the wasting of millions of media dollars.”) We’ve all answered our phones. (Read “wasted countless hours on phone polls.”) We’ve all endured the debates. (Read “listened to hundreds of empty promises, both sides.”) Rah, rah, rah.

Once again we will elect a figurehead, and it doesn’t really matter which figurehead. Both candidates promise to fix the past, pave the way for a bright future. Blah, blah, blah. One man has the benefit of hindsight: he’s tried it, and knows it’s not that easy. The other man has the benefit of ignorant bliss: pure optimism where all dreams can be accomplished with a fresh start. Both men love their country and plan to make it better. They want the same results: more jobs, less national debt, improved education. They’ve said it themselves.

And now for my ideas for an improved election process. (I love creative license) My outline follows. A bunch of non-partisan smart people can work out the details.

Feel free to groan now, or choose the process you like best:

Process Number 1: The candidate who gets the most votes wins. The runner-up becomes vice-president. Force the two parties who claim to love their country to work together to improve it. You might say, "You stupid person. Dumb idea. Nothing would ever get done.” I may answer, “Soooooo. How is that different from any of the last ten administrations I’ve witnessed?”

Process Number 2: Forget the cut-throat, empty-promise, money-wasting TV ads. End the jangling phone polls. Instead, about six months before Election Day, broadcast black and white identically formatted television/newspaper/internet lists of 3-5 changes each candidate would make. Include concrete ways each would accomplish proposed changes.
Don’t picture candidate names, faces or political parties on the ads. Simply label them Candidate #1 and Candidate #2. Let people vote for the candidate they prefer based only upon his/her plan. Reveal the name of the winner after votes are tabulated.

And if the two candidate parties above really want to help their country, let them donate their campaign millions—saved by using the new low-cost processes—to the cause of reducing national deficit. (Or job production research or teacher salary increases)

Or maybe we should just elect the Martian.

Message to YOU, Wall: You're Not the Boss of Me!

By Gail P. Smith

"Sign, sign, everywhere a sign ~ Blockin' out the scenery, breakin' my mind~Do this, don't do that, can't you read the sign?"

“The show must go on.”

 

For a while now I’ve been feeling bombarded with messages from strangers and, stranger still, from inanimate objects.  These are not imaginary messages just running through my poor over-loaded brain.  Nope, these are actually commands, suggestions, exhortations and requests imploring me to DO things.

“March forward!” 

I suspect it all began innocently enough back in the sixties with this little guy:  Remember him (the shirt, not the model)?

Sometime during late sixties, early seventies he & his chirpy little entreaty appeared on t-shirts. “Hmmmm,” thought some manager somewhere, “Surely that phrase must be magical and will sell more pet rocks or cheese-whiz or tires,” and just like that it became more popular than “Here’s your change,” as a farewell from store clerks everywhere. Thus we all became accustomed to having strangers telling us what kind of day to have just because we'd purchased some toilet paper.

As I’m sure you know, the phrase caught on, and has now become more acceptable than “Bye-bye.”  If you don’t say it when someone is exiting from a brunch or a wedding or a car wash, you’re considered a Philistine unskilled in the finer points modern etiquette.

Of course the next step was T-shirts telling us what do to and some of them were NOT suggesting a nice day.  I’ll have to take on T-shirt wisdom in a different post. 

“Inspire Yourself”

What I’m wondering today is when did this “slippery slope” slide us down into deciding that we need the walls of our homes to “message” us.  And our friends and family as well as to any visitors who may wander over?  Surely I’m not the only one who has noticed this trend.

Behold:

 

 

AAAAHHHH!  Sure, it’s a nice suggestion with pretty fonts, but who wants to come home to this gigantic entreaty-way every day?  It's not that I don’t want all these fine things in my LIFE,  I just don’t want them on my walls, yelling at me every time I’m watching rubbish and eating junk food on the couch. Too much pressure. If the words really wanted to help couldn't they have said, "Think carefully before buying an uncomfortable looking chair in hot pink?"

(By the way, I do believe if you try to” laugh as much as you breathe,” it might cause some serious health issues, not to mention what your family will think. I’m just sayin'.)

 “Take charge and mean it”

In one room especially I do not care to be lectured.  That would be the bathroom.

 

 

Let’s leave this kind of nagging where it belongs, with the professionals—Moms.  Real moms don’t trust their walls do the work for them, especially in the “Flush” department.

Having said that I will confess to putting up my own code of conduct in the bathroom one summer when my children were young and trips to the pool were a daily occurrence as were wet towels on the floor:

“Hang up wet things,

That’s the pool rule

If you don’t

They’ll get mildewed” 

(And now you know why I never attempt poetry.  Bad poetry and all, it was effective.)

“Put a little strut in it.”

I had been trying to ignore all these subtle, subliminal, angst-inducing messages creeping into my subconscious, attempting to take a “live and let live” attitude, until last week when that final straw dropped into my lap in the form of a cough drop wrapper.

 

 Et tu, Halls?

Yes, indeed, even my cough drop was giving me orders and making such personal comments as:

“Tough is your middle name.”  (I thought it was Lynn)“It’s yours for the taking.” (shoplifting?) “Elicit some ‘Wows’ today.” (just scary to think what I'd have to do for "Wows")

What could be the reason for all these admonitions and advice? There it was right in the middle of the wrapper:

“A PEP TALK IN EVERY DROP.”

 

Oddly, this does, in some strange way, seem to make more sense to me than the other preaching I’ve mentioned.  After all, if one was ill and taking the cough drop for soothing cooling of the throat, wouldn’t some soothing comments for the day be appropriate?  Nevertheless, I really don’t want a cough drop that tells me what to do, do you?  It’s unseemly, given our brief acquaintance, the fact that we hardly know each other, and that I’m going to be consuming the product and pitching the comments.  After I take a picture of them, of course.

 

Please tell me I’m not alone in my pursuit to stop this madness where the entire world, including and especially inanimate objects, is now presuming to step in where our friends and family leave off, to advise, suggest and cajole one and all on how to live our life and conduct our business. 

Please join me in just saying “No.” You don’t have to put it on the wall. In fact, I'd rather you didn't. 

Oh, and don't forget to have a nice day.

“Turn ‘can do’ into ‘can did!’ “

 

 

 

All the little quotes in the middle courtesy of Hall's cough drops' Pep Talks.

I Ain't No Grammar Girl

By Lori Boruff

I am a writer but not the best

so I'm getting this off my chest--

I ain't no grammar girl!

My participles dangle                                                             

and I don't even no it,

I imagine the scene

but don't know how to show it.

Double negatives haunt me,

ellipses taunt me,

conjuctions I strut—

don't look at my big but!

I ain't no grammar girl!

I often compare my verbs to yours.

Am I a skinny or fat writer?

In my dreams I hear

Cec Murphey scream WRITE TIGHTER!

I ain't no grammar girl!

I suffer from split infinitives—

however, they're not readily contagious,

that's what I think about that!

Is that too many thats?

Will I grow up to be the grammar queen?

The bestest writer you've ever seen?

Practice makes perfect, I know that's true,

so look out grammar gurus—someday I may be like you!

Everyone is Afraid of Monsters

By Charis Seeley

Last April, I wrote a short story with a character called Ramsey who lives in a world where monsters are real and only your blanket will protect you when they prowl in the night. It turns out that Ramsey isn’t done with her story, so I’m happy to bring you the second part of her tale today. (Pssst, if you missed the first part, you can find it right here. http://qccwcblog.blogspot.com/2012/04/fire-under-my-bottom-and-bold-as-bull.html)

 Everyone is Afraid of Monsters

I killed my first monster when I was three, and Mother said we shouldn’t speak on it. But she couldn’t tell me what to think. My thoughts were all my own.

It was during my third year at the schoolhouse by the field of violets that I asked Teacher, “Where do monster come from?”

“From our closets!” Called a girl in my class named Gudytha.

Teacher, sitting at her desk, pulled off her spectacles and laid them on the cherry wood. She came around and faced the whole class. Her blanket, a raggedy thing that might have once been green but had turned grey with age, was folded neatly at the corner of her desk. I never saw her more than an arm’s reach away from that blanket.

She laced her fingers together and sighed. “The more you know, the more you’ll be afraid.”

From my desk, her shoulders seemed to curve up at the ends and I could see her nose hairs. She reminded me of a hawk that was always ready to take to the sky.

Teacher started again. “We have one story about where the monsters come from. At the end of world, over the great waters, balanced on the precipice—”

“What’s a precipice?” Asked Francine.

Fortune and Frideswide giggled on either side of her.

“Precipice means the edge of something,” Teacher answered. She cleared her throat. “Balanced on the precipice of the infinitely falling waterfalls that are the edge of the world, there is a cave. This cave winds down below the waters and into the darkness, where no fire can light the way. And at the bottom of the cave, there is a great green crystal.

“Children, when you wake up from a nightmare, and return to your sleep, and the nightmare is gone, that is because it has left you. When a nightmare leaves us, it flies away like smoke and goes to this cave. Nightmares have no eyes, so they have no need for fire to see by. When they reach the crystal, they go inside of it. More nightmares come and enter the crystal. When the crystal is full of nightmares, a monster is born.

“That is where monsters come from.”

I shot my hand up but I didn’t wait for her to look at me or call my name. “What if no one had nightmares?” I asked. “Would the monsters stop being born?”

Francine, Fortune and Frideswide all laughed.

“You can’t—” Francine said.

            “—get rid of—” Fortune said.

                        “—the monsters!” Frideswide said.

I remember looking at them and thinking that they were three heads of the same snake. Francine, Fortune and Frideswide were all pretty girls, and best friends. One of them was blonde, one brunette, and one red haired. But for all the salt I’m worth, I can’t remember which was which. It doesn’t really matter. You probably know girls like these. They were lovely and social, unlike me. Everyone wanted to be with them, unlike me. And, of course, they would date the sort of boys that a girl like me would haplessly fall in love with.

Teach quieted the trio. “They are correct, Ramsey. We can’t get rid of the monsters.”

“But I did! I killed one in my room when I was three.”

The whole class, except for a dark skinned boy name Oshbuert, erupted into laughter.

“Ramsey!” Teacher spoke like a whip. “You must not lie like that. You will stay with me after class.”

“It’s not a lie!” I was young and couldn’t understand why she would think I had lied. “I tied it up with my blanket because I wasn’t afraid of it. It burned when the sun rose. I don’t want to hide from them.”

Teacher smacked the desk with her hand. “Ramsey! You will stop these lies and I am never to hear of you killing monsters again. Understand me? Everyone in this room is afraid of monsters. I am, your classmates are, and everyone you’ll ever meet cowers under their blankets at night. Fear is the natural order of life.”

I stopped objecting to her. In fact, I said less than a dozen sentences in that schoolhouse after she fed me that line about fear being the natural order.

At the end of the day, everyone put on their sun goggles and another boy showed off his new steam powered watch. The thing was brass and ornate and it took up half his arm and he wouldn’t stop repeating how expensive it had been and that his father hadn’t even cared. In the end, the boys tied their boots and the girls laced up their practice waist corsets, and everyone chattered on about what they would buy at the penny store on their way home.

But I remained at my desk, head hung. My hands cupped my face and I cried quietly. Maybe if I was silent and small enough, everyone would forget I was in trouble.  Maybe they would forget I ever existed at all.

A small dark hand appeared on my desk. Oshbuert. He had black hair and his eyes were the same shade of brown as the chocolate Mother had given me for my last birthday.

“Hi, Osh.” I wished he would leave me alone. I didn’t want anyone to see me crying.

“I… I just want to say that I wish I was brave like you.”

Fortune squealed behind us. “Did you hear that? Osh-BUTT has a girlfriend!”

I buried my head further as the class laughed and mocked him.

“Do you like her?”

“Do you love her?”

“Are you going to marry her and have little freak-brave babies?”

“She doesn’t even have pretty hair!”

I heard Osh’s footsteps as he ran out of the schoolhouse and our teasing schoolmates followed him.

I could have died from the shame. I wanted to curl up into myself, disappear, and be forgotten forever.

“Ramsey,” Teacher said gently.

I wiped my tears and a line of snot ran up my arm. She walked over and handed me a handkerchief. “Clean yourself up, dear.”

I did.

“Do you see the coal bucket by the steam heater?”

It was as big as I was and higher than my waist. It would have been a nice place to hide.

I nodded.

“There is more coal in the cellar.” She placed a much smaller bucket on my desk. “Fill up the large bucket, please. Then you may go.”

I picked up the smaller bucket and walked toward the cellar door.

“Don’t forget your blanket,” Teacher said.

I went back and grabbed it.

Teacher sat at her desk, hunched over our recent spelling tests. She used one finger to tap her own blanket. “We must always be ready to hide.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I descended down the creaky cellar steps. It was too dark to see the whole room, but I made out some old tables and chairs and a cog-work clock that ticked unevenly. There was one crack of light, coming from the hatch in the ceiling that led outside. The light revealed a giant pile of coal and a large gathering of dust at the side of the pile.

I picked up pieces of coal, one by one, and let them clatter to the bottom of my bucket. Teacher never said I had to do my task quietly.

The pile of dust moved.

I wasn’t sure it was real. I dropped another piece of coal into the bucket.

A pair of red eyes opened and stared at me. The dust shifted, gathered, and rose like a pillar. I grabbed my blanket and jumped onto the coal. “Monster!”

Two hands, blacker than death, reached for my neck.

“Monster in the cellar!” I yelled and continued to climb over the mountain of coal toward the hatch door that led outside. The monster entered the thin strip of light and a tiny flame appeared above it’s eyes.

The hands came closer and I wrapped my blanket around them.

Teacher screamed from halfway down the steps.

“Open the hatch,” I cried.

She disappeared back upstairs.

The monster came closer. A hole appeared below it’s eyes, a sort of mouth. It opened and then it opened wider. Wider and wider until it was the size of my torso.

I dropped to my knees and rolled to the side. The monster, still tied up in my blanket, fell with me. It’s evil red eyes looked up at the ceiling. I forced my arms into the coal and felt some of my skin rip on the jagged edges. The maneuver had wrapped my blanket around the monster’s neck.

The hatch opened and the cellar was flooded with sunlight. The monster burst into flames and I yanked my blanket away. The blaze was intense but short.

“Ramsey!” Teacher reached down for me. “The coal. Take my hand!”

I took her hand, but I studied where the monster had died. Nothing was left of it but black ash and red embers. But, no, as I look closer, the embers weren’t from the monster, it was the coal. The heat of the monster burning had set the coal on fire. Teacher latched onto my outstretched arms and pulled me up. I scrambled onto the grass and sat outside the schoolhouse, clutching my blanket and shaking, trying very hard to catch my breath.

Teacher sat with me. Beside us, the schoolhouse was already on fire. “You can’t get rid of all the monsters,” she said, her hands and blanket clutched above her heart. “There will always be more.”

I thought of the green crystal and the cave where all the nightmares went. “Maybe there doesn’t have to be.”

A Good Increase

By Robin Steinweg

Here is a list of Things that Expand, Grow or Multiply:

§         Interest on an unpaid loan (a bad increase)
§         Yeast in warm conditions (good or bad, depends on where the yeast is growing)
§         Bunnies in all conditions (bad unless it’s a 4H project or you are a bunny)

 §         Harmful bacteria in a body (a bad increase)

§         Dirty dishes on the counter (a sad increase)
§         Baking soda and vinegar (a volatile increase)

§         One’s waistline as one ages (a battle-worthy increase)
§         Rumors (a bad increase)
§         The influence of our words (a sure thing, for better or for     worse)

 The last is not the least! Here are a few quotes about words:

Words are the most powerful thing in the universe… Words are containers. They contain faith, or fear, and they produce after their kind.” –Charles Capps

 “To make an apt answer is a joy to a man, and a word in season, how good it is!” –Proverbs 15:23 (ESV)

“A word is dead

When it is said,

Some say.

I say it just

Begins to live

That day.” –Emily Dickinson

If my words have such power and impact, I want them to be good words, encouraging words. Let the following good words be my prayer:

“Take control of what I say, O LORD, and guard my lips” (Psalm 141:3 NLT).

ODDS AND ENDS

 

By Nerola (Rolie) Grady

As the holidays draw near, my brain is filled with many loose end thoughts. Does anyone want to volunteer as a human Personal Reminder?  I didn’t think so.  To relieve the pressure, I’m going to share some observations about life on Lombard Street.

-Tomorrow I’ll travel to my home town for the funeral of a dear family friend, Carol “Toots” Youngwirth.   Toots was a delightful lady.  Creativity was her daily bread and butter.  One neighbor recalled how she made a purse out of potato chip bags.

 Toots and Johnny, her husband, had six kids and several pets to round out their family.  I’ll share two of their pet stories.  There was Dorothy, the white duck, who injured her leg and couldn’t walk.  Rather than get rid of her, Toots and Johnny brought her to the town doctor (my father). “Doc, see what you can do.  Dorothy needs help!”  Dad didn’t usually treat  animals, but he agreed  Dorothy was in a bad way.  While they held her beak shut, Dad put a splint on Dorothy’s leg.  She  got well and lived to waddle for many more years.

The next story is about Happy, their white Scotty dog.  He held center stage until his death  a year ago in January.  Since the backyard was frozen, they decided to delay Happy’s funeral until the spring.  Happy was stored in a chest freezer in the garage.  Johnny built a casket out of fine walnut, and a vault was purchased from the local funeral home.

In May, Toots planned a special ceremony  on Mother’s Day.  About 35 people came, along with ten of Happy’s doggy friends.  Of course, there was a viewing.  Then Dawn, their daughter, played “How Much Is That Doggy In the Window” on her accordion.  Several readings were also given before Toots served a luncheon for the visitors.

There are no words for good memories.  They are just part of life’s fabric.  Those moments weave together a melody of love that is sweet to hear.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

-A couple funnies from my Facebook page:

“I’m half Greek and half German.  I’m so upset with myself and am tired of bailing myself out.”  Tina Fey

“Persistence, thy name is small children.  If Guantanamo Bay had used 2-yr-olds to question suspects, they could close the prison down in no time flat.”  (Susan Stanley, my niece)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Thanksgiving Prayer

Father, thank You there is too much to remember.  Thank You for moments of seeing Your fingerprints on each day,  the beauty of human love, adventures in Your kingdom, and the awareness that You are MORE than enough for whatever I need.  Amen.

Humor is Grave Business

By Robin J. Steinweg

My mother and I visited the monument company to choose a headstone for my dad’s grave. We’ve cried enough tears the past five months to start a new river. We miss him. We know the verse from Psalm 116 that says “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints.” This is a solemn undertaking. Both of us recognize that. So how is it that so many things strike us funny at the wrong time?

The proprietor took us to the back room to see samples. A prominent sign displayed this boast:

“We guarantee all of our headstones for life.”

(Whose? Think about it.)

Mom has a propensity for popping off poetry at a moment’s notice. She dreamed this gem one night, and it was true of my dad: “I am a steamfitter, it’s the life I have led; stopping and starting and bumping my head.”

Mom wondered if we should engrave that on the back of the stone (which otherwise will be as bald as Dad’s head was). I mentioned it’s only fair to include a verse for Mom, too, since if the Lord tarries she might share the same resting place. She didn’t miss a beat: “Roses are red, violets are blue—I’m happy now, ‘cause I’m with you.”

Do you know any amusing epitaphs? I found a few:

Here lies Johnny Yeast. Pardon me for not rising.

I told you I was sick

Here lies Lester Moore—four slugs from a forty-four. No Les No More.

Here lies the body of Jonathan Blake—stepped on the gas instead of the brake.

I knew this would happen

Beneath this grassy mound now rests one Edgar Oscar Earl, who to another hunter looked exactly like a squirrel.

Owen Moore: Gone away owin’ more than he would pay

She always said her feet were killing her, but nobody believed her.

Here lies Ann Mann, who lived an old maid but died an old Mann

Johnny was a chemist, but he ain’t no more; what he thought was H2O was H2SO4.

On an atheist’s stone: All dressed up and no place to go

A Good Writer's Favorite Things

Learn everything you need to know about writing in two minutes and forty-five seconds. 
(To be sung to the tune of  "My Favorite Things." ) And a-one, a-two...

Show me, don’t tell me, write clearly concisely
Polishing, reviewing, re-reading, rewriting.
Sentences too long will never take wing

These are an editor’s favorite things.

Typewritten manuscripts with proper spacing,

Proof-read and re-read with accurate numbering

No run-on sentences with misspellings,

These are a publisher’s favorite things.

Authors with bios, a blog and a web site

Pictures professional, taken in good light,

Willing and ready to try anything

These are a marketer’s favorite things.

When you’re writing

Seems so frightening

When you’re feeling sad

Just simply remember these favorite things

And soon you’ll be feeling glad.

Use proper grammar, correct punctuation,

Be active, not passive, in all your creation.

Make sure each article tells just one thing.

These are a good writer’s favorite things.

“Don’t quit your day job, keep writing, keep trying”

Royalties, book lists and caffeine and whinning.
Words full of praise about all your writing,
These are a good writer’s favorite things.

Working at home in your bathrobe and PJs,

Feeling creative and smart on the good days,

Praising the Lord for the joy writing brings,

These are a good writer’s favorite things.

Tell your story,

For God’s glory!

Stop that feeling sad!

Just always remember these favorite things,

Trust God

And start feeling glad!

A Very Squirrelly Tale

 "It takes more guts than talent to write a blog" I told a friend today.  This post may prove that, but sometimes you just have to "write what you know," even if it's squirrelly.

You know the feeling—you’re sound asleep and suddenly you’re awake. What’s that, you wonder? What woke me up? I sat up in bed and sniffed—was that smoke I was smelling? Climbing out of bed I wandered downstairs to the basement. Yep, it smelled, very faintly, like hair was burning somewhere down there. But try as I might, I could find nothing even hot that might be causing the smell. Then, it was gone. Really, not a trace of smokiness in the air. A bit nerve-wracking. Have put out three fires in houses, I know where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

Repeat this scenario for several days, each time, smelling, searching, then nothing. I finally discovered the smell was coming from the CO vent on the top of the hot water heater. I could see nothing, but the smell was definitely very strong and coming out there!

Later that night when My Hero Hubby (MHH) came home, he heard a scratching sound coming from a door at the bottom of an old brick chimney in our basement. This is what the CO vent pipe from the water heater connects to. He opened the small door at the bottom of the chimney saw a bushy tail quivering. He quickly slammed the little door shut. After releasing two mice into the basement during a Christmas tree incident one year, he wasn’t anxious for a repeat of that adventure. Okay so we have a squirrel in the chimney. Is this “Rocky” so dumb that he not only got caught in a chimney but he keeps getting burned by the hot water heater venting?

I called the pest control guy (Squirrel Guy Mike) who came to investigate. With the help of an auger, we discovered that what was burning in the hot water heater was NOT fur, but feathers. Yuk. Since “Tweety” was no longer living, we decided I would take care of the feathered remains and SGM went home to get his squirrel gun for “Rocky,” both of us assuming the poor thing must be traumatized and close to death or at least a coma from lack of oxygen—hah!



JAIL SQUIRREL

As soon as SGM pointed that gun in the chimney, Rocky revived and scooted up straight up those old bricks. Why he couldn’t just keep on going up and out the top is a rodent mystery. So SGM set up a live trap covering the door out of the chimney, took his gun and left to catch a racoon across the way.  Sure enough, within a couple of hours curiousity got the better of  Rocky and there he sat, subdued but wary, looking hungry and thirsty. I placed the cage in the basement shower stall with water and sunflower seeds. By the next morning when SGM came to retrieve him, we had a feisty critter chattering up a storm. SGM was happy to be able to “Bring ‘em back alive” and took Rocky to release him into the wild, far away from our chimney.

Meanwhile MHH (My Hero Hubby) cleaned the leftover baked bird out of the vent for me. And for his birthday, I gave him a bird/rodent-proof hat for the top of the chimney.

So now I’m wondering what to do about the two chick-a-dees who are building a nest in my mailbox….

Just for fun, how about suggesting some spiritual applications for this squirrel saga.  I'll be looking forward to your comments and some great spiritual wisdom. 
About the best I can come up with is a verse we used to quote to our middle child who tended to wake up very crabby:
"All the days of the afflicted are evil, but he who is of a merry heart has a continual feast."
 Prov 15:15. 
Although afflicted with squirrels and birds, laughing and blogging about it makes it all better.


 

"Facebook is shutting down!! 3/11/11!!"

By Charis Seeley

If you have email, you’ve received chain mail. Chain mail consists of those horrible letters people send out en masse, usually to warn you of a nonexistent event or to aid a fictitious child. The most annoying people in an address book are the ones who only send these useless, false messages. If you’re like me, you’ve fantasized about sending them the worst chain mail ever written. So, I took stock of my e-mail, and what’s been born bears a strong resemblance to Frankenstein’s monster. While I can’t claim the following to be “The Worst Ever”, it’s certainly the most outrageous I’ve ever read.


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Attention Friend!

Due to the internet’s popularity, email has become over crowded! All email providers will be deleting any accounts that receive this email and do not forward it to all their contacts! You MUST forward this to EVERYONE you know, or they will think your account is UNNACTIVE!

Two weeks ago, a friend of mine was going to the grocery store. She got out of the car, locked it with her remote, and walked into the store. But before she even got a cart, she realized she left her grocery list in the car. When she went back out, there was a man in her car! He had used an electronic code grabber when she locked her car, and was stealing her GPS, phone charger, coupon books, you name it! She was able to scared him off with her keychain pepper spray. Frightened, she drove off and onto the highway.

She wasn’t on the highway for 5 minutes when an unmarked cop car flashed his lights at her. Still frightened from the thieving man, she remembered an email I sent her the week before. Pulling out her cell phone, she dialed *77 and got the local police dispatcher. The man over the phone told her it WASN’T a cop behind her, and she should keep driving. When the imposter realized she wasn’t going to pull over, it sped up and began pacing her. The car was full of gang members! They opened fire on her! Still on the phone with the police dispatcher, she ducked behind the wheel until they passed. One of the bullets was contaminated with semen, it pierced her abdomen and she is now pregnant with a gang baby!

An ambulance came to get her, and at the hospital she gave her statement to the police. They said there are a lot of new gangs in the area, and they’re all doing initiations. The Police Impersonation isn’t their only tactic. The police warned her that these gangs will be doing more shooting in the coming weeks. Their targets include young mothers and their children at Wal-Mart and any cars who flash their high-beams on the highway to alert the gang that their headlights are off. The police also said these gangs have been known to use elderly people in distress and the audio recording of a crying baby to lure women out of their homes and into unsafe areas! My brother’s, mother-in-law’s, youngest daughter’s son is in one of these gangs, and he says no one is safe during initiation!!

We aren’t the only ones experiencing this wave in violence, it’s happening all over the country. Presently, in an effort to help, Bill Gates will donate .01 cents to fighting crime for every time this email is sent. It may not seem like much, but if it saves even one life it is WORTH IT!

Fortunately, there is also a Nigerian Prince who is helping the fight against violence. He will match anything you send by 1,000%. If you donate just $5, he will donate $5,000! Just e-mail GregUdofia@NPSN.com with your full name, credit card info (number and date!!), social security number, maiden name, home phone number, cell phone number, home address and work schedule! This information will make the transaction smoother, and it’s completely safe!

I know 97% of the people who read this won’t pass it on, even though it is GOD’s will!! If you’re part of the 4% that love and fear GOD pass this to everyone you know! If you don’t, then you HATE GOD!! Pass it on to all your friends/family/children/coworkers/wives and especially all the women you know!

Let’s put an end to code grabbing, coupon thieving, police impostering, bullet babies, and Wal-Mart gang initiations!!! If you don’t know very many people, send it to the same people over and over again!

I Don’t Like Spam

…pure doggerel from the pen of Robin J. Steinweg


I don’t like Spam in a can, I don’t like the taste.
I don’t like Spam in an e-mail—the time that it wastes.

Whether pink and wet and slimy or not,

Ground or sliced, cold or hot—

Innocent-looking but nasty inside,

When I see Spam I want to hide.

I don’t like Spam.

I don’t like Spam in a can, I don’t like the feel.
I don’t like Spam in an e-mail—the rot it can conceal.

To get Spam in a can, you must drive somewhere.

Spam in my e-mail floats in on the air.

Spam in a can is a choice you can make.

Spam in my e-mail sneaks in like a snake.

I don’t like Spam.

I don’t like Spam in a can, I don’t like the smell.
I don’t like Spam in an e-mail—makes me wanna yell.

Gelatinous mass of unpleasant stuff

                       Or

Abominable tonnage of verbal duff…

              I don’t like Spam.

Spam in an e-mail can bear my name.

It can look like one thing yet be nothing the same.

But Spam in a can you cannot disguise;

Chop, grind or casserole it, your nose will be wise.

So if the time came that I must choose
Between Spam in a can and the Not-so-nice News,
I think that I might just make the choice
To toss my can opener… and lose my voice.

                       I don’t like Spam!

EPILOGUE: I loved my password. I called it my own from the first e-mail I ever wrote. My fingers flew over the keys to type it. It was a word that had fond associations for me. I loved my password. Then one day a Spam message arrived with my return address on it. I opened it, curious. My own face smiled at me from a message I would not dream of typing. I was forced to rummage in the attic of rejected possibilities for a new password. Alas.

Though I might reflect on the futility of railing at Spam with my words, the exercise has at least given vent to my feelings. I have taken a stand against both a culinary fixture of my parents’ generation, and against one of mine. Then or now, I don’t like Spam.

Robin J. Steinweg delights in the Lord homeschooling; writing children’s books; directing, writing and arranging music; teaching students 5-85; leading worship; and listening for the Music of the Master’s voice. Among other things, Robin writes devotionals for the online magazine The Christian Pulse.

Have Car—Will Travel?

 By Marie Tschopp

I have a peculiar problem. It takes me five whole minutes just to back my car out of the garage.  No matter how careful I am when I pull my vehicle inside, I cannot back it out straight.  I had no trouble exiting when I drove a compact car, but my width and depth perception vanished when I purchased an SUV.  I start backing out and realize I’m too far to the right and about to smash into the door jamb with the right side mirror. I pull up and try again.  This time I am too far to the left and in danger of disembodying the left side mirror, so I pull in once more.  To anyone watching, my car is performing the cha-cha.  And the dance continues for four minutes more.  

Finally, I make it out of the garage only to face the sloping driveway.  My SUV is much longer than my former hatchback, and I have trouble seeing the tilt of the driveway over the backseat.  I look over my shoulder and notice I’m about to back into the mailbox. I adjust the wheel and head straight for the culvert.  I adjust the wheel again.  If my neighbors judged my tire tracks, they’d say I have a drinking problem. 

Okay.  I am out of the garage, down the driveway and on the road, but all is not well.  I get lost easily.  “Directionally impaired” is the term I use, and  I’m thinking of petitioning Congress about this condition to request funding—God knows I need it with all the gas I burn.  When I bought my SUV, my husband noticed the compass on the dashboard. “Look!” he said. “You will never get lost again!”  Yeah, right.  Giving a directionally impaired person a compass is like giving a dyslexic a dictionary.  To us, the “N” means “Not this way.”  “S” is “So sorry.”  “E” stands for “Exactly where you don’t want to be.”  And the “W” is “Wrong again.”  

Directionally impaired people need directions with landmarks such as, “Turn left at the pink house with the plastic pig lawn ornaments.”  Without landmarks, people like me drive in circles until we run out of gasoline.  That is, of course, if we manage to make it out of the garage, down the driveway and onto the street. 

On and off the road, I’ve learned to rely heavily on GPS—God’s Protective Surveillance.  God knows where I am, where I’m going, the best route, and what time I’ll arrive.  All I need to do is look up, relax and enjoy the ride.

Letter to the 20-something Me*

Dear 20-something Gail,  

Good news!  Today I started to write a list of things my newly turned 60 year-old wanted to do in the next five years and discovered I could only think of 3 things that I would really like to do that I haven’t done yet.  So that’s good news for you at the age of twenty-something. You get to do so many of the things you dream of doing and you're not the total loser you sometimes feel you are.

I thought the first sentence of this letter would be “What are you thinking?!”  That would be in reference to being such a perfectionist and also insisting things be done YOUR way all the time.  It takes courage, but letting go of the idea you must never be wrong will free you from the fear of failure and release you from the prison of perfectionism.

But it also has to do with your spiritual condition.  Instead of spending so much time trying to “do” things for God, try spending more time alone with the Father.  If Jesus found it necessary to spend time alone with His Father every day, do you really think you can manage without it?  The day you put into practice the words of Ron Dunn “Decide now that you will never again go to bed without reading God’s word” will be major, a life-changing, spiritual renewal.  Get serious about a daily quiet time.  Your life and your walk with God will be transformed into something beautiful that will sustain you in life.

Ladies Bible Study Fellowship will change your life, challenging you and growing you into a woman who LOVES God’s word and studying the Bible becomes a way of life for you.  Keep on going.

Guess what?  Even though in college you didn’t have the courage to pursue music as a career, by sheer persistence and availability you do manage to have a life filled with music, singing, leading choirs in churches, high school and community musicals, and even become a partner in a private studio.  So hang in there doing what you love.  God has provides opportunities you could never imagine.

Don’t worry so much about money.  God takes care of His children and you are His daughter.  God brings amazing opportunities to always work with friends.

More good news—that sweet guy you married because he was so nice and so hard to argue with is still the same sweet guy today.  Although you did manage to find ways to argue and the even the whole “peace at any price” thing did get annoying, you are both so stubborn that divorce is never really an option. 

Show your love for Rick more in words of support (his “love language”), respect and admiration for how he does his job instead of trying to tell him how to do it.  Brag about him.  Keep up your fierce defense of him always.

Forget about the disappointments, the hurts and mistakes. Hold on to the joy and fun. Keep on laughing together and being silly. Your marriage, at 40 years and counting, will be stronger and happier than ever.

20-SomethingGail, please realize that people show their love in many different ways.  The criticism you feel from your in-laws is just them treating you like a well-loved member of the family.  It's really a compliment.  BTW, things get MUCH better after the first grandchild.

Good for you for waiting to have children until you were ready.   Your children are the light of your life, but you will never regret that you waited.

Be easy to please as a mom, a friend, a teacher and a wife.  It’s a hard job, but God will move you next door to a wonderful friend who will model great parenting and become a permanent part of your life, blessing you with her wisdom and friendship.

About being a mom:

Be a thermostat, setting the climate in your home, not a ther-MOM-meter, acting hot and cold to everything around you.  The day you realize it’s up to YOU to set the attitude each moment, you and all the kids have a lot more fun!  You can act happy even when you don’t feel like it.  Believe me, the benefits are great.

There is some bad news—the hard parts of life really are necessary.  Once you are through them, you’ll be a stronger, better and more compassionate woman.  Sometimes your heart will break. Turn to Jesus and trust in God.  God loves the broken-hearted.  He is near the crushed in spirit. He will hold you and carry you through.

Start a journal.  Sorry to say it but your long-term memory stinks and time goes flying by.  A journal will help you remember the good and sort out the difficult.

Get over having your birthday in December.  You’re going to spend Dec 16 at so many rehearsals, work parties and performances you may as well accept it now. Whining is not becoming.  However, it IS okay to insist that birthday presents be wrapped in birthday paper.

Never sit on the washing machine and stretch your arm over your head trying to change a light bulb.  Just trust me on this one.

So 20-somethingGail, the best advice I can give you is to look for and embrace the love that surrounds you from your God, your husband, family and friends.  Let your life be ruled by that love and not by all the “what if” worries and fears that you struggle with.  The many things you're afraid of will never happen, so let go of fear and hold on to love.

You have the love of a good man, amazing, life-long friends, a dysfunctional, but intensely loving family, and most of all, an awesome God and Savior.

Remember “Write your sorrows in sand and your joys in stone.” 

“The days are long, but the years are short”.  So just be sure to show up each day ready to enjoy God’s gift of life.

See you in 40 years or so.

posted by 60-something Gail Smith

*My thanks to Cassie Boorn for sharing her great blog and ideas with the world.  Check out her blog for more letters from women to their 20-something selves. http://cassieboorn.com/about-me/