All Humorous

These pages reflect stories with humor in them. That is not to mean you will find the humor, though I hope you will, it means I had fun writing it.

If Only I Were a Car

Posted on by kwundrow

As a guy, I have always been prone to getting attached to my cars. Before you question that statement, just consider that men approach cars so differently than women. We give them feminine names. We care for them as if they were are pets. We even speak of them in sexual connotations, just don’t ask me to get into specifics on that one. Men know what I mean. But even with all this said, I have always espoused to a set belief when it came to cars. I would date my car for two to three years, five years tops if I was really in love with her, and then I would trade her in for a slightly newer model with fewer miles and that shiny sexier frame and then start up a new love affair.

If only I were a car. If that were true, I could trade myself in for a newer model with a few less years on it, hell, maybe a lot fewer years on it. As I approach my next birthday, a birthday as yet not named, my body is showing signs of the well driven years I have put on her. Oh, she still tries to have that new car smell and sure, she shines up real nice when we are going out on the town, but truth be told, she lacks some of that get up and go she had when I first started driving her. She’s a little slower out of the gate in the morning and her tires are looking worn. Don’t get me wrong, I suspect she still has some good years left in her, but you know, if only I could trade her in.

When I posed this idea to my wife, she immediately wanted to know how many models I was planning on stepping up and just how low a number of years was I considering? I assured her I was intending to be reasonable, maybe a couple of model years up and oh maybe somewhere between thirty-five to forty years on her. Not too surprisingly, after visualizing the new me, she was all in.

Now, if only I were a car,

The Call of the Road Trip

Posted on by kwundrow

The road trip has been talked about for generations. When I was growing up the best road trip one could take, was Route 66. This one was so famous, they wrote books about it and even made a TV show with Route 66 as the premise. The idea of a road trip offered a chance to see America close up and if you really wanted to see the out of the way, you had to take the by ways and avoid the free ways.


During my lifetime I have taken my share of road trips. The first road trips were relatively short in that they didn’t even leave the state. Later, my road trips expanded beyond the borders of my state and several took me all the way across the country. I have driven to San Francisco on one coast and New York on the opposite. One trip reached the tip of Cape Cod, while another the tip of the Florida Keys at Key West. Two took me out of the country to Quebec City on the Atlantic side and Edmonton, Alberta on the western side of Canada. Each and every one of these trips hold very special memories. Memories of driving with my small children. Bonding trips with friends from college. Several long trips with my wife as copilot. In the end, I brought home lots of photos and souvenirs, but more importantly, incredible memories of the places and views as well as new friends made along the way. I could never pick one favorite trip, but there certainly were some great ones. 


There is one trip that does stand out from the rest for it’s sheer audacity. It was the summer of 1977, I had just resigned from my first teaching job and had moved back home before I would start my new one that fall. My brother had some vacation time coming and asked if I were up for a road trip. We would load the car and head west eventually reaching Sacramento where we would drop in on our sister. We had zero plans but big ideas. With my little red mustang loaded with the few things we thought we might need, we said good by to our mother and headed west. We reached Omaha, Nebraska sometime in the wee hours of the next morning and passed Lincoln around sunrise. Some small Nebraska town out in the middle of nowhere became our first pit stop. It seems the Nebraska State Patrol believes one should drive slow enough to truly enjoy the amazing scenery their state has to offer. After paying for our share of that view, we were back on the road. We eventually crossed the Rockies, the Great Salt Lake, and the Sierras arriving at our destination, my sister and brother-in-law’s home in Sacramento. It had taken us most of two days and I am not even sure I remember where we stopped for the night or even if we did. All in all, we spent the better part of two weeks on that trip. We toured Sacramento, took in one of my brother-in-laws stock car races, made several new acquaintances curtesy of the Sacramento night scene, and re-established our significance to our sister.


Our return trip back across the country was equally noteworthy. Safe to say, we still went more or less by the seat of our pants when it came to planning. Night one found us rolling out our sleeping bags under a moonlit Oregon sky only to be awakened soon after by rather large animal sounds, at least they sounded large. Back in the car, we decided we were not cut out to be cowboys sleeping under the stars. We reached Yellowstone by morning and actually made Mt Rushmore in time for the evening lighting of the monument. I still remember Keith asking if the one day park sticker we had bought that morning in Yellowstone, also got us into Mt Rushmore. The look on the ranger’s face said it all. I believe his exact words were, “You’re covered on the park entrance fee, but maybe I should be giving you a speeding ticket instead.” After a good laugh, we were granted entrance to the park. Our intent that night was to pitch a tent and start back on our trip home the in the morning. Our intent was valid, but after a night out in Keystone, two more new acquaintances, and a trip to an abandoned gold mine at three am, it was already dawn when we got to our tent. Our camp ground neighbors commented on how impressed they were with our being such early risers. We left them believe that.

 
That trip sticks out in my mind as being the event that re-bonded me with my brother. Sharing all that time, and yes, adventures with him, renewed our brotherhood. That is what road trips are meant to do. We get to reacquaint ourselves, we discover new places and new people, we adventure. The open road cannot be seen from 30,000 feet up. It needs to roll beneath the tires of your vehicle. It needs to be seen from the windshield of your car and it needs to invite you to pull over, get out, and experience it first hand. Every road trip I have taken has afforded me those priceless opportunities. Next time someone offers you the chance for a road trip, don’t hesitate. Throw a few things in the back of the car, buckle your seatbelt, and hit the road.

                                 Queet’s Beach, Washington.  One of many great road trips with my daughters

Thank you Cat Stevens for Reminding me!

Posted on by kwundrow

I just returned from meeting my daughter and son-in-law at the airport. They were returning from a quick five day kid free vacation and we were returning their prodigy. Where had the kids been you ask? Why with us for their own five day staycation with Mimi and Opa.

It became obvious early on that we would be camp directors. Events were planned, clearly not enough of them. Activities were put in the schedule, not always their idea of fun. And sleeping arrangements were made, not to be followed. For the next five days, I swam in our pool more than I had in the last five years. I watched My Little Pony, two entire seasons! My co-director and I took turns reading every Berenstain Bears book, just praying it would put them to sleep, it didn’t. And we learned that strawberry milk and ice cream actually can be breakfast foods, like we were going to do battle over proper dietary intake, though we did broach the subject once only to surrender our entire force at the first sign of trouble. I leave it to their parents to reestablish any semblance of control, in my opinion, an appropriate lesson for sending us all those pictures of them hiking by beautiful mountain lakes while we manned the castle walls.

During my grandpa sitting adventure, I ignored the forty plus emails in my inbox. I shirked my volunteer duties completely. I pushed every request for my attention aside with “I am tied up for the next five days” as my all too literal excuse. I skipped meetings, rearranged appointments, and in general shut out the outside world. In other words, sheer stress free bliss.

For the past five days, I played, laughed, wrestled, made up games, and learned more than I ever thought I could about Minecraft and building robots. For long hours each day, I was a kid again. At one point, to negotiate one child who wanted to fish while the other wanted to swim, we wound up fishing in our swimming pool. No I didn’t stock the pool, just removed the hook, tied on a washer, and two of us would play the role of fish, mermaid in Adela’s case, while the third member of our fishing excursion would cast the line and reel us in. I can hear you laughing and I know what you are thinking and I am here to tell you, yeah it looked that silly, but the sheer pleasure of the game and the laughter of my two grandchildren was worth it even if my wife someday posts the video on Facebook.

If I had a wish, I would want everyone to at least once in a while have the chance to play with a grandchild. To experience the complete release that not having a work schedule, not worrying about what anyone thinks of them, not sweating the little things, actually feels like. To have the chance to just be a kid, if even for a little while.

I leave you with this thought, The Cat’s in the Cradle and the Silver Spoon! Don’t miss the message imbedded in the song.

Turns out you can teach an old dog new tricks

Posted on by kwundrow

For over sixty years, friends, relatives and even strangers have tried to teach me how to fish. I have been taken out in countless boats only to be taken back to shore and dropped off for distracting them with my excessive pacing on their too small for that boat. I was simply too impatient with the process. Though my impatience has certainly been part of the issue, my general attitude was the greater problem. Why would I want to spend a good portion of my vacation throwing a line at fish who never showed much interest in biting what I was offering. There were so many other things I could do that seemed more productive. Even chasing a golf ball around the course seemed more entertaining and much more likely to offer the greater exercise.

Don’t get me wrong. Over the history of my near fishing career, I have managed to catch the occasional fish that others told me they could use as bait. I even managed to “suck” a fish out of my dad’s pond with a cane pole but telling that story will have to be a blog of its own. The bottom line is that I never came close to qualifying as a fisherman, let alone to own or deserve my own pole.

All that changed last year. My seven-year-old grandson, Jackson, wanted to fish. Unfortunately, I was the only one available to teach him. Reluctantly, I decided to try. I started by digging out my daughter’s old pole, she had lost interest almost as fast as I had with the only difference being that she at least made it to the owning a pole level. Next stop, the bait shop and a dozen Canadian Crawlers, hopeful this was the way to go. And then, poorly outfitted, I took him down to the end of our dock. What happened next was magic. He caught a fish on his second cast, and he was hooked. By the end of the summer, he was asking how he could catch the really big fish, you know, the kind you have to carry one of those heavy-duty nets and a baseball bat to defend yourself. I started to hear walleye, northern, and muskie being bandied about with regularity. I could only hope taking him to local sports bars to show him monster mounted muskies and northerns would dissuade him in his dangerous quest. It didn’t. Other seasoned fisherman would slide by in their boats and Jackson would engage them in fish conversations. “What have you caught?”, “I just caught a smallmouth bass, but I got a largemouth yesterday.” Until we started these lessons, I didn’t know mouth size was such a big deal. My wife asked him if he had caught a loudmouth bass and I didn’t even catch her faux pas. As the conversation between these fishermen carried on, I dreaded being asked my role for fear that I would have to admit I was only his bait caddy.

It is now year two of these so-called fishing lessons and the strangest thing is happening, I am finding myself liking this fishing gig. Not only has Jackson made me appreciate the art of fishing, but he has also hooked me on the sport, yes, I just called it a sport. He started me out small, a couple of crappies here, a bluegill there and then it happened, I caught a smallmouth bass. I was ready to have it mounted for display in one of those sportsman’s bars right next to the 52-inch Muskie, but I quickly came back down to earth as I heard Jackson casually say, “Nice job Opa, you caught a smallmouth.”

Today, Jackson and I spent an hour in a bait shop staring at the countless lures and fishing gear as if it were a candy store, and tonight, while everyone was finishing dinner, I caught myself wandering down to the dock and casting a line. To my sheer delight, I caught two nice smallmouth bass. I reveled in the fight and beamed with pride as I pulled each one to the surface. Later, as we all sat around the campfire, I found myself drawn once again back to the dock. As I cast my line out unto the lake’s surface, softly shadowed in the twilight glow of a northern Wisconsin evening, I came to the realization that I was in, hook, line, and sinker. I guess now I’ll have to buy myself a pole.

All I can say Jackson ….. you really did teach this old dog a new trick.

Story of a Fighter

Posted on by kwundrow

Every now and then I just write in this blog for the enjoyment of telling a story. This is the story of a chicken named Jerome.

Jerome came to be as part of an experiment in my high school sophomore biology class. The experiment involved injecting growth hormones into several fertilized chicken eggs. One egg, Jerome’s, hatched out early that spring. What emerged was more or less this super chicken. Within a very short time, Jerome began to strut, crow, and gain weight. He soon surpassed any of the non-injected eggs hatchlings and was becoming a handful for the biology lab. Eventually fearing that he would break out of the lab and terrorize the rest of my high school, the biology teacher suggested that someone needed to take him home or he would have to be dealt with. Being the farm kid in the class and part of the team that had created this problem, I was soon tasked with finding Jerome his new home.

Within a week or so of getting him placed in our hen house on the farm, he was quite literally ruling the roost. His flock of hens cowered in the corner every time he began his strut. It became apparent that he would need his own coop and so he was relegated to an old chicken coop with an outside penned area for him to strut his stuff. This is when he determined that he could fly and soon flew the coop. We found him the next day, firmly re-entrenched in the hen house, ruling his ladies from the roost. This was now time for desperate measures. Jerome’s wings would be clipped.

Our first attempt proved fruitless and he again flew the coop and returned to the hen house. After two more clippings he was finally grounded, or at least flightless. So how was it that we found him the next morning back in the hen house? We would need to become spies. Within minutes of him believing we had left, he made his escape, not by flying but rather by literally using his beak and claws to scale the chicken wire of his coop. It was at this point that my dad threw up his hands and said “we tried, he won.” Jerome was a free bird, truly a range free chicken well before his time.

Jerome soon became infamous. He not only ruled the hen house by night, but he ruled the entire farm by day. Exaggeration at this point would be, well, pointless. Jerome so scared the locals, that the mailman, if he had to drop off a package, would honk the horn for us to come get the mail. There was no way he was going to leave the safety of his vehicle while Jerome strutted back and forth on the hood, stopping occasionally to beat on the windshield with his stubby wings. We would race out, wrangle Jerome off the vehicle and then and only then would the driver step out. At one point, while having a new TV antennae installed on our second story farmhouse, the installer very nearly fell off the roof when to his sheer horror Jerome stood inches away from him beating his wing threateningly on the roof line ridge. It was discovered later, that Jerome had found the installer’s ladder and leveraged himself up to the rooftop. The farm and surrounding buildings were his turf and he would beat back any attempt at a siege by his imagined attackers. If you couldn’t stand up to him, you were at his mercy.

And so it went around our farm that summer. But there was one person not willing to bow to his authority. My grandmother lived with us in the farmhouse and each morning, after breakfast had been cleared, she would take the table scraps out to the barnyard where they would be disposed of. This required a long walk across the front lawn and driveway and then out to the barnyard. What ensued each and every time was a battle royale between my grandma and Jerome. Jerome would meet her at the door and block her way by menacing her with the now famous wing beating technique he had mastered. She would eventually give him a kick and he would swing around and re-engage. Eventually, my grandmother would take her cane, tiring of this constant parrying, and use it like a golf club. Jerome would be knocked sideways rolling across the ground only to get back up and rejoin the fight. This sparring would go on all the way out and all the way back. None of us were sure if either one of them had won, but it was obvious that both persevered. In Jerome’s view, this was a battle to the death. Every day offered a new chance to finally settle this turf dispute.

(This is a picture of the actual cane my grandma would use in her defense against Jerome. Note the missing chunk in the handle, evidence of the battle.)

Fortunately for our family, my grandma outlived Jerome by a great many years. Jerome would meet his end in battle, but not on my grandma’s battlefield. Each evening, Jerome would return to the hen house where unbeknownst to us, he was now standing guard over his ladies. One morning, late that fall, we arrived at the hen house to collect the eggs, only to find a weasel lying in the doorframe. It was clear that he had been in a battle for his life that it had not ended well for him. Alarmed at what destruction we might find inside, we were surprised to see all of our hens alive and well. It was only on closer inspection that we saw him. He had retired to the back of the chicken house where he had apparently succumbed to his injuries, but not before saving his wards. Jerome, the terrorizer of so many, had died a hero.

Before you mourn his passing, understand that as I think back on this tough old bird, I can think of no better way for him to go than in the fight of his life. I can only imagine how into the battle he must have been. He had finally found, other than my grandma, someone who offered him a challenge. Jerome was a fighter, and to go out in a blaze of glory has made his story worth telling, and that story has been told and retold within our family so many times over the years. Had he just withered away of old age, where would be his fame? Jerome was a chicken who was never chicken. Jerome was a fighter, persistent is his right to rule and defiant to anyone who thought he was wrong. When the cause is worth the fight, may we all be so willing to stand our ground. Just be prepared if you take on a Jerome.

Groundhog’s Day

Posted on by kwundrow

One of my favorite movies is Groundhog’s Day. I think it is the idea that if you could have a day over now and then, you could maybe make everything right. Bill Murray’s problem was that it took so many repeats for him to finally get it right. Still, the premise is tempting.

Covid-19 has been like Groundhog’s Day. We started out with the false perception that it would be a little sacrifice for maybe three or four weeks and then everything would return to normal. Now approaching a full year of not normal, every day being another day dancing with the virus, we are nearing the end. Well, at least closer to a return to life without a pandemic.

I have spent my year working on improving many things. For starters, I have been taught how to fish by my grandson, Jackson. I never had the patience it required but ironically, an energetic, inquisitive, on the go six-year old, showed me the way to patience and the art of catching fish. And then there was the walking. Prior to the pandemic and its isolation demands, I would only walk to get somewhere. Now, thanks to my wife, I walk several times a day, aimlessly around our neighborhood circuits. I find it strange that the answer to “where are you going”, is home no matter where I am on the walk. Good thing home is where the heart is.

During this Covid-19 journey, I have put more effort into everything I do. My volunteer work has benefited from renewed vigor and a lot of Zoom. I finally rebuilt my deck after years of putting it off. My garage has been organized and reorganized, and, after years of drawing and redrawing it, my wife now has her Little Library complete with a dedication ceremony and neighborhood library cards for the children.

But there begs one more activity to be visited here. Several years ago, I procured a pool table from a very dear friend. With all this in home time in lieu of our travel plans, I have worn the felt thin on that table with several games a day. My wife, a reasonable pool shark, will play the occasional game but for the most part, I am left playing my imaginary opponent. As I am a slightly competitive type, I tend to take these games, even tournaments, quite serious. We ironically have very similar game strategies and styles. Skill wise we are very evenly matched. So lately I have become quite frustrated with my inability to beat him. I will miss an easy kill shot only to have him follow up with a seemingly impossible rail shot or combination. I checked the records recently and I believe that he is beating me at a ratio of two to one. What is his secret to success? What makes him such a confident shot. Why am I getting angry at his obvious luck, wishing he would blow the next shot …… flat out cheering against him? The irony here is that I’m the one taking ALL the shots. This is apparently what the pandemic and isolation has reduced me too. I’ve lost my mind and I’m not even bothering to mount a search party.

Seriously, the pandemic has been a journey. We have been given the chance to truly appreciate the things we have by making us put them on hold. We have become more resilient, more hopeful than expectant, more appreciative of the little things, and definitely more creative. In my case, I have created an imaginary pool player to while away my free time.

The end of all this is in sight. If we are patient and persevering, we will make it to the finish line. We will leave some of our new found ways behind and trade them for our old normal. At the same time, we have adopted new habits and attitudes that we should definitely take forward with us. Good can always come from adversity if we recognize it.

But it’s getting late and my pool playing buddy has the balls racked and is calling me over. I plan on mixing his drink extra strong tonight and with a few good shots, I think I can beat him. Wish me luck.

It’s Playtime

Posted on by kwundrow

On a recent weekend I found myself the designated grandchildren adhoc guardian for the afternoon while my wife and daughter went shopping. One hour they told me. Certainly I could handle the responsibility for one hour. Well, Jackson was easy. He lately has been into games of strategy and wanted to play solitaire on my phone and who was I to deny him that. Adela was a bit more of a challenge. She is into role playing, imagination and, as a three year old, silly games.

We began with a game I can only describe as “stay on your island”. She would sidle up against one wall of the hallway and order me to the opposite side. Without warning, she would leap to the opposite side and after several failed attempts, I determined I was to mirror the leap to the other opposite side and anticipate her next leap. This went on for, oh let’s say, longer than I was ready, when Adela eventually announced a new game.

Her new game would involve us throwing balls into the laundry bin, but not until she had ample time spent wearing the laundry bin over her head all the while bouncing off the walls blinded by its canvas sides. This new game of “laundry ball” wound up requiring several trips to the playroom to retrieve additional balls of varying size, “no taking the balls back out Opa.” Though interesting for a short time, it was no where near as fun as wearing the laundry bin and was thus not destined to last long.

After several trips to her playroom, sweet Adela emerged with two super hero costumes. She commanded me to put on the green one. I took one look at what she had rolled up in her hands and plotted my escape from this potentially embarrassing playtime activity. My poorly framed excuse was to announce that there was no way I would fit into whatever it was she had for me. With hands on her hips and a look of scorn that could bring down a charging rhino, she proclaimed, dripping with the sarcasm of a three year old, “It’s just a cape Opa.” Jackson, looking up from his solitaire intelligently affirmed that anyone could fit into a cape and warned me that I was going to do some running. Great, they have teamed up on me and I have become the victim.

After donning my cape and having my mask correctly placed on by Adela, how was I to know it was upside down, I was given my instructions. Over the next fifteen minutes we would circle the rooms of the house chasing away the bad guys as super heroes are destined to do. Up one hallway and down the other, through the kitchen and circle the living room, I was unsure I could last. But, I surprised even myself and managed to keep up with my relay mate, Adela.

As I drove home later that day, I mused on having been an almost seventy year old, playing unashamedly with my granddaughter. I started to think back on my own father and asked myself, did he play like that? Now it is only reasonable that I offer a disclaimer. I was raised on a small dairy farm and my dad barely had time to do much of anything other than run the dairy operation, crop the fields and hold down at least two additional part time jobs in an effort to give my five siblings and I the best life he could. It is hardly fair to have expected him to don a cape and run around the house with us, though I must say in hindsight that he deserved a chance to play and a cape for all he did. My dad instead spent his time teaching us how to manage our time, how to be responsible, and how to fix the things in life that kept seeming to break, lessons I have benefitted from throughout my life. He quietly, for the most part, left the playing to my siblings and I.

I am both happy and proud of the fact that I have the time to play. My generation grew up with parents who had been taught by their parents to work hard, to achieve and to survive, and that left little room for play. Though he may not have “played” with me, my dad taught me to fish, or should I say, he tried to teach me. He encouraged me to find time to do more than he ever had the opportunity to do and he taught me about family, about being there in work or play. And for that, I admire him.

I hope you all find time in your day to play. Play reduces stress and, in the case of chasing a three year old, provides great exercise. It reminds us to stop growing old but rather to grow bold, bold enough to play with a child even if it might make you look silly.

Go put on a cape, don a mask, and let a child fall in love with an oversized, slightly awkward, has to be told the rules, playmate. You just might find your imagination supersized.

To my Hallmark Addicts

Posted on by kwundrow

Blame it on COVID isolation or a stressful election waiting game or just plain lack of any serious drive to be meaningful, but I needed a break in my writing. Hopefully you will humor me with your editorial comments after reading this attempt to deal with my funk. I will tell you that writing this piece has definitely lifted my spirits, if even just for a while. But first, you need the set-up to this effort.

My wife and for that matter, her brother Robb, are addicted to the Hallmark Channel and especially to its movie marathons at this time of year. For those of you who have never sat through a Hallmark movie, you have my praise for your persistence but also my pity for what you are missing. While my wife can be moved to tears by the movie, I am humored by the predictability of its plot and characters and tend to get pretty sarcastic during the showing. While watching one the other night with Deb, I bragged that I could write an episode myself. How hard could it be? All it needs is a widower, a too cute kid, colorful townsfolks, a big city women with a slick city boyfriend, a lodge being sold, torn down or foreclosed on and by all means, a dog. Conveniently bring them all accidentally together, stir in some seasonal hijinks and décor and then heat the whole story slowly over a cozy fireplace and you have a Hallmark movie. You might even get an Emmy.

The gauntlet was thrown down by Deb and my co-conspirator and Hallmark critic, Shannon, and I was ready to take on the task. What follows is my first draft. Deb is still laughing upstairs. Hopefully you will be too…………..

Hallmark Presents

A screen play:    Ken Wundrow, Wannabe Hallmark Critic

Editing:                Shannon Briese, Wannabe Hallmark Legal Council

Setting: 

Hill Valley, Idaho  A picturesque village located in Trout Valley, surrounded by majestic, Oh my God the Beauty, mountainside and split through the center of town by the Whopper Trout River. People come here for the trout but stay for the lovely year-round craft and bizarre fair. Town motto: If you can’t get it here, you aren’t trying. (The viewer will be left wondering exactly what it is they were hoping to get.)

Characters:        

Joe Hopelesch   Widowed father of Iotta and owner of the soon to be foreclosed Last Chance Motel. Joe is trying desperately to get customers and raise the money needed to restore the motel to its original glory. He just needs $1,000,000 or a Hallmark miracle.

 Iotta Hopelesch   Twelve-year old precocious daughter of Joe. She has made it her mission to find a mate for her dad and will stop at next to nothing in her quest. Most remarkable features, those adorable brown eyes she can roll at will, and does, and that cute little dimple on her freckled cheek.

Chastity Luking   Big city lawyer for firm advising bank that is foreclosing on The Last Chance Motel. Chastity is working a boyfriend but is seemingly desperate and totally lost outside of the city.

Travelar   Joe and Iotta’s lovable beagle and the watchdog for The Last Chance Motel.

 Bert and Bertha Hopelesch   Joe’s parents who currently manage The Last Chance Motel. A lovable pair often caught rough housing in the vacant motel rooms and the original founders of the motel, dating back to the first days of Hill Valley.

Ethel Farmsby   Mayor of Hill Valley and proprietor of the one and only pharmacy, Ethel’s Potions, where one can get anything you need including all the latest town gossip.

George Farmsby   Husband of Ethel and manager of the bank branch being forced to foreclose on The Last Chance Motel by its corporate headquarters, BBA (Big Bank of America) a cruel and greedy National Chain. George would quit but Ethel demands that he works to keep him out of the pharmacy where years ago he mixed up a prescription and Ethel is still dealing with the coverup.

Colorful Townsfolk   No particular function other than to stroll by the motel aimlessly chatting about saving the old gal. They will create a Save the Motel craft sale and depending on when this airs will be carving pumpkins, selling Christmas trees, organizing the town Easter egg hunt, or selling incredibly lame fireworks and organizing the Hill Valley Firecracker Senior Prom.

Plot Synopsis:

Scene 1 opens with Chastity arguing with her boss about being too busy to travel to some podunk town in the middle of nowhere. She has a Christmas Fund Raiser coming up with her boyfriend, Howard Slick, at the swankiest place in LA and suspects this is the night he pops the question and it better be “will you marry me”. She is about to hit the big three oh and the clock is ticking on his chances. The boss, tells her as soon as the date is over she’s on the next bus to Hill Valley because there’s only one road into town, no airport, no train tracks and one bridge that washes out once a week. (Why the motel can’t find customers when they are trapped there for days on end will remain a Hallmark secret)

Scene 2 finds Chastity broken down on the road into Hill Valley with snow starting to fall. She would have known about the fast-developing blizzard but her boss got her the cheapest rental he could find and it had no radio. Just as she was about to wrap a plastic bread wrapper she found under the front seat over her Gucci boots and hike into town, Joe and Iotta come riding by in The Last Chance Motel pickup. Suggesting she’d never survive the walk to Hill Valley in those fancy boots, he offers her a seat in the bed of the pickup where she belligerently takes her seat on a bale of hay. As they drive toward town, Iotta is heard to say, “what up Dad, she might be a keeper and I ought to have a mom.”

Scene 3 finds Joe, Iotta and Chastity at the pharmacy where Ethel is offering Chastity sturdier boots and a Alpaca coat that she had made for the continuous craft bizarre. Chastity wants to know where she can find the owner of The Last Chance Motel so she can get the papers signed and back on her way. She has obviously not bothered to read the sign on the pick-up’s door. In an awkward moment, Joe identifies himself as one in the same. Iotta chuckles and is heard to say “Even so, dad.” At that moment, Bert and Bertha come waltzing in, literally as there is waltz music being played in the street by a traveling accordion player. Bert announces that it’s now a blizzard and that the bridge is out and the road is closed. Taking a look at Chastity, Bertha says “you’re going to need a room, missy.” Chasity replies “well yeah!’

Scene 4 and Chastity has been informed that the only other place to stay, a B&B owned by one of those colorful townsfolk, is booked up for the weekend. When she is concluding her meeting with George from the bank, a very unproductive meeting at best, she asks if there is any other place to stay. “Well, Miss Luking, there’s the motel.” You know, the one you’re foreclosing on.” Chastity, after obvious embarrassment, heads out of the bank, she is hit by a gust of snow and still wearing her Gucci boots, goes down hard, just then Joe, Iotta and Travelar happen by. Travelar, eager to be helpful, leaps onto Chastity and begins licking her snow-covered face. Joe, pulls Travelar back and offers his hand to Chastity. As he pulls her to her feet, their eyes lock and for a moment she sees what she was really here to get. With the waltz music still playing in the background, muffled through the wailing blizzard wind, Iotta is heard to whisper, “sorry mom, but its been a long time and me and Travelar are sick of taking care of old Joe.”

I leave it to you, my fellow Hallmarkers, to finish the script. I expect no less than a tear jerker, Hallmark miracle ending.

Who Doesn’t Love a Great Fish Story

Posted on by kwundrow

I need to start this blog with a disclaimer or two. First, as grandparent I have every right, no duty, to brag about my grand kids. Second, this blog is going to include fish stories. My disclaimer is to accurately describe my abilities as a fisherman. They don’t exist, at least not in reality. I am an impatient fisherman and one the fish don’t fear. I can cast with the best of them. I can bait a hook. I just don’t catch anything and it may be due to my impatience. No worm, cast by me, has ever stayed in the water long enough to have ever experienced drowning. That’s if worms actually drown. As soon as I have cast my line, I am reeling it in with the speed of gazelle fleeing a hungry lion. Even if the fish wanted to try the bait, they can’t move fast enough to catch it. I have repeatedly been boated back to shore by the master fisherman who was going to teach me the art of fishing, often because they do not cater to my pacing in their boat.

That said, my six year old grandson, Jackson, decided it was time I teach him to fish. Reluctantly, given my history, I agreed to try but warned him, that for the most part he was going to be on his own. I explained the art of the cast, decided we would buy a dozen night crawlers and some leeches and proceeded down to our dock. At this point, Jackson decided I could do the baiting and he would reel in the fish. I loved his optimism. If only he knew the skill set of his teacher. Enter Jackson’s three year old sister, Adela. She claimed to have no desire to catch fish, but oh how she loved the worms. Within minutes, she was providing me with the next worm while gently stroking and cooing to another as her pet. Lest you think this a fluke and that when we switched bait to leeches, she would be long gone, oh how wrong you are. Leeches fascinated her even more. She wanted to know if we could save one for her to take home as a pet. Mom was an immediate and stern NO!

But let’s get back to the fisherman. With hook baited, the cast was made and almost immediately, a bite. Sure that he would simply feed the worm to this adventurous fish, I simply said that he needed to give the line a jerk. Fish number one. Nothing to mount on the cottage walls, but he caught it and got it to the dock. Surely beginners luck. Cast number two and three came up empty and I figured he would be retiring soon. And then the surprise. Jackson, though a focused Lego builder, has never shown a great amount of patience, must have got one of his Opa’s genes. For the next half hour, he was undeterred. Cast after cast and several missed catches, Jackson continued to fish with an intensity that was border line scaring me. It dawned on me that if he ever caught a big one, we were going to need to buy a boat and hire a professional fishing guide to satisfy his lust for the sport. And then it happened, Jackson, on his own, somehow developed what the great fisherman describe as ‘the feel’. He caught three or four fish in rapid succession, each one larger than the last. Where he had been catching 4 and 5 inch crappies, he suddenly caught several 6 – 8 inch rock bass. Now he wanted the big stuff. And so I started him fishing out on the ridge, a fairly long cast beyond the confines of the dock, but he was sure the big ones were just swimming about out there waiting for Jackson to catch them.

Within two casts, he had a 10 inch small mouth bass. Two more casts and a 12 inch bass found his deftly placed hook. It was at this point that I selfishly decided it might be Adela’s choice of bait and my somehow expert mounting of that bait on the hook that was bringing this unbridled success. By this time, out of worms and fishing for the ‘big ones’, we had switched to leeches. As Jackson’s mom, aunt Kat and I were relaxing in the boat tied up to the dock, Jackson said he was good to handle things himself. We were clearly distracted, when Jackson calmly declares that he’s caught another one that he thinks is a bass and might be a bit bigger. As we turn to look, he is reeling in, with pole bent over, a large mouth bass that is measuring in at an easy 14 inches. Mom was so shocked, that she took a 30 second video of his prize without turning on the video. Jackson just offered to catch another. And he did, several more times.

In the course of two days of fishing from the dock, the score sat at Dad, 1, Opa, 0, Aunt Kat, 1, and Jackson 20! No contest. I warned you that Opas have the inherent privilege of being overly proud of their grandchildren. Now you in fact may be a fisherman reading this blog and thinking none of these fish were anything to crow about, but let’s put things in perspective. He’s SIX!, he has potentially the worst fisherman ever as his instructor and he’s coming from a family that not only doesn’t fish, they don’t even eat fish! I would say he has overcome the odds.

I am impressed to say the least and proud enough to pop the buttons on my fishing vest if I had one. And that 6 inch crappie mounted on the wall of the cottage will forever serve as testament to the day Jackson became a fisherman…….. No, I didn’t really mount the fish, but it would have been a great story.