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.

Boys and Their Tools

Posted on by kwundrow

I have a theory, untested but highly probable, that men create projects just to get a new tool.  I am writing from experience in this area.  My garage is a virtual Home Depot East.  Back when I bought my first home, it was simple projects that required reasonable tools.  The occasional screw that needed tightening definitely required a power drill and bits.  The ceiling fan….a volt meter and stripping tool.  You can see where this is going.  Next thing you know, I needed to build a deck.  Two more power drills, just in case I had a helper and a power saw.  My tool collection was building, saw horses, wrenches, wood clamps (not sure when I needed those) and the list grew.  But these were penny ante tools.  I was beginning to lust for the big stuff.

Soon things took a shift.  Up to this point the project had created the tool but if I needed bigger toys, I mean tools…… then I would need to create projects that fit the tool I wanted.  Time to build a cabinet, well actually a play cupboard for my daughter.  This clearly required a miter saw and why just stop there when a Shopsmith provided so much more.  My wife was starting to resist but I wore her down.  The Shopsmith now took up a large portion of our then basement.  But that too would change as new tools required more creative projects.

I think the next step was the need to go cordless.  It was a simple argument to convince my wife how dangerous and inefficient all those cords were.  It started with the drills, worked its way through the power saw and then into the jigsaw and recipricol saw.  Did I mention I found a need for a recipricol saw?  No good toolman should be without that handy gadget.  Eventually my lawn trimmer and my leaf blower (who doesn’t need that when sweeping seems sooooo slow) were soon freed of their cords.

By this time the process was so well oiled, that the minute my wife asked for something fixed or built, she would follow up the request with “and what new tool will this require?”  My daughters, now grown and in their own homes, knew the routine as well.  They would tell me what they needed built and in the same breath tell me they had done the research and I would clearly need this fancy new tool.  This got so bad that at one point, upon going out to pick up yet another unique drill bit, I convinced myself it was time for a REAL tool box.  My twelve drawer chest of wonderment now occupies a proud corner of the garage.  Did I mention that we ran out of room in the basement for my tools?

My latest project involved a bench for my daughter and son-in-law’s new patio.  She knew just how to get me to build it.  She first mentioned how much she loved me (that always works) and then followed up with “Remember that Kreg Jig you wanted?  Well guess what this bench requires, hidden screws.”  I could barely contain my pride and my excitement.  New project and a really cool, new tool.

Patio Bench

So my point.  Boys love their tools.  Given a complicated tool, they will not only figure out what to use it on, they will even try to master its use.  And beware, tools are the primary target of “bigger is better”.  Tim the Toolman Taylor knew that and every week we were reminded of the grace and beauty of power tools.  “Arruuhhhhhhhh”

So I am working of my next tool, I mean project, and I am pretty sure there will be some required transportation of the finished project.  And so, I currently have my eye on a nice one ton, eighteen foot cargo van.  And it doesn’t even need a cord.

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

Posted on by kwundrow

I was recently visiting the Cave of the Mounds in Blue Mounds, Wisconsin when I passed a young father toting his child in a tag along behind his bike.  The memory from my own attempt so long ago came flooding back to me.

It had been decided that my wife needed a quiet weekend all to herself.  She would catch up on reading and tending her flower gardens while I would wisk the children off for an adventure.  Quiet time is not generally a standard for the parents of two small children.  I had had my boy’s weekend and now it was her turn.

I decided that I would load the tent and sleeping bags unto my bike and tag along, get Bailey, my ten year old, settled on her bike and Kathryn, my three year old, strapped into the tag along.  The weather forcast for the weekend was sunny and reasonably warm and there was a well groomed trail that wound its way from Verona to Blue Mounds State Park where a campsight would be waiting.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

We all kissed mom goodbye as she dropped us at the trail head and began our ride of some sixteen miles.  I had often easily covered this distance riding the trails in Madison.  In my mind, this should be an easy ride and a wonderful adventure to be shared with my daughters.  And so, we were off.

We had gone about six miles when we passed Riley’s Tavern.  First sign of trouble ahead, both girls needed a potty break.  The looks I received as we entered the tavern should have been my warning.  Oh there was no threat from the patrons, the women of the crowd were actually supportive, cooing and fawning over my daughters.  On the other hand, the men in attendance offered more of the “what are you thinking” variety of looks.  After a potty break and a couple of sodas, we were back on our way.  Well sort of.  Less than a hundred yards down the trail, Bailey took what would be the first of her many career Riley’s Tavern wipeouts.  Before I knew it, she was down on her knees in the gravel, tears flowing in competition with the blood from the scrap on her knee.

I was not going to let this stop us.  A minor setback, I thought, as we returned to the tavern for some first aid.  Our friendly female bartender cleaned the cut, bandaged her up and encouraged her with a popsicle to continue on.  Meanwhile, the men of the bar, looked on with that “told you so” look.  Now for better or worse, this was pre-cellphone era, so mom was none the wiser for our mishap, not that I believed for a minute she wasn’t going to find out.  But I could face that later.  Our planned early afternoon arrival at the camp site was now looking more like mid afternoon, but we were back on the trail.

We had been enjoying a fairly flat to almost downhill trail to this point.  Anything that goes up must eventually go down or in our case, just the opposite.  Shortly after our luxury rest stop, it did.  As the trail continued up, doubt began creeping into my mind.  Bailey’s progress had slowed considerably and with it mine and Kathryn’s.  We started a process that would become Bailey’s biking tradition.  Just as she would begin to ask the inevitable “how much farther?”, we would begin to sing her favorite song, “Denise Denise”.  I find it ironic, that all these years later, her daycare provider is…..you guessed it, Denise.  We were well into the thousandth repeatition of the song, when finally, the trail turned downhill and we coasted into Mt Horeb.

It was at this point the biking gods turned on me.  Not only did Bailey think this was our destination and wanted to be done, Kathryn, who had been sleeping for the last hour, woke up.  She was having nothing to do with continuing this trek and wanted out of the tag along.  To make matters worse, the trail now started to rise again.  In that moment, it dawned on me that you can’t call it a mound if it isn’t higher than pretty much everything around you.  So close, and yet seemingly so far.

I somehow managed to get Bailey going and asked her to not encourage her sisters complaining screams emanating from the tag along, but to actually try to ignore them.  We would be there soon I said, knowing full well that I was now destroying my daughter’s ability to ever estimate distances with any degree of accuracy.  What was a dad suppossed to do?  We entered the desperation phase of our adventure.  Just as I was beginning to feel the weight of the tag along pulling backward as I was struggling up and onward, I needed to start pushing Bailey along with my hand on her back.  I was now riding for three.

Somehow, we managed to continue on.  Kathryn was still crying but she was losing volume.  Meanwhile, Bailey was picking up where Kathryn was leaving off.  She had given up believing my “were almost there” pleas and was now beginning to doubt everything I had ever taught her.  And then suddenly, the sign appears.  It promisingly provides salvation, “Blue Mounds State Park Entrance”.  We made it……….. I’m just kidding.  The park entrance is at the bottom of the mound.  The road meanders up forever and we have been defeated.

After what seems like an eternity, we have managed to walk to the campground office, Bailey walking and me pushing my bike, the tag along and in the only hand left, Bailey’s bike.  Early afternoon long ago became mid afternoon which gave way to late afternoon only to become early evening.  We may have set a record for the slowest bicycle trek. They will compare our speed record to failed attempts for years to come.

I am exhausted, starving and humbled.  I have just enough strength left to pitch the tent and ample fear for what will I do all day tomorrow, assuming we live through the night.  I need a miracle and it happens.  It arrives in the form of the park ranger, a middle aged women who upon checking us in at the office takes much needed pity on me.  Expecting to be admonished for my misadventure, she instead lauds my courage and offers to help.  As I am pitching our tent, she shows up with an arm full of wood for a campfire and the most delicious, life saving frozen pizza ever.  After lighting the fire and inhaling the pizza, I am actually thinking we may survive.

I’m just kidding, what always happens when I try to camp happens…..rain, accompanied by thunder and lightening of course.  Why not?  Morning dawns bright and promising.  What is to be day two of our three day adventure is unanimously voted our last.  We throw everything into the tag along, strap Kathryn in, mount our bikes and make our hasty retreat.  What was our gruelling uphill yesterday is now wonderfully downhill to Mt Horeb and we thank the bike gods for that.  We stop at the first establishment serving breakfast, call mom and capitulate.  PLEASE, come get us, I was an idiot.  But it seemed like a good idea at the time.

 

I wonder as he wanders

Posted on by kwundrow

My grandson, Jackson, is now four years old and is into his “why” years.  To his credit he generally accepts your answer to his why question fairly gracefully.  He may follow the first why with several additional whys but he is usually satisfied within three or four.  Jackson is observant and is constantly checking out everything as to how it works.  I have stepped into my role as Opa and have taken him on excursions to discover new things.  Along the way, Jackson has become very fond of Home Depot.  Before I wander further, I must compliment Home Depot on the clever marketing trick that they have developed to lure in unsuspecting grandpas with their grandchildren.  Every other Saturday or so they offer a free “build it” class for kids.  They cordon off an area in the lumber aisle and the kids get a complimentary craft kit and are able to assemble and paint their project.  Now how can they afford all those free precut kits and paint supplies you ask?  Let’s put it this way, I have yet to leave the store on one of these “free” days without $100 to $200 worth of goods.  I guess they saw me coming because those end caps as they are called, are just beckoning with all those shiny tools I never knew I needed but certainly couldn’t live without.

Into this very inviting space comes Jackson.  A typical trip to Home Depot will last upwards of two hours.  Now this makes his parents and Mimi quite happy as it allows them two uninterrupted hours to catch their breath, though that generally ends up being spent chasing our one-year-old granddaughter Adela, around the house as she now has their undivided attention.  Meanwhile Jackson is wandering.  We must open, walk through, and close every entry door in the home exterior section.  This of course means that we must also explore, until satisfied, how each storm window opens, closes and locks.  Chalk up most of our first hour.

Hour number two finds us in the appliance and kitchen area.  It is at this point that I begin my wondering.  Jackson is most fascinated with refrigerators.  And what man, young or old, wouldn’t be?  Dish washers, clothes dryers, washers, merely utilitarian, but refrigerators, or fridges as we men call them, are works of art.  They used to just keep things cold, period.  Not anymore.  They are divided into zones of coldness because no one wants meat at the same temperature as their lettuce and that would be nowhere near the perfect temperature for milk and wine.  Yes I said wine.  But that is just the tip of the iceberg lettuce.  They have see through doors that light up at the Sheldon like three raps (reference Big Bang Theory).   And that door has a compartment within the door!  Believe me when I tell you Jackson marvels at that feature.  He tells me immediately that the “door in a door” invention is just for him and his supply of juice boxes, you know, the ones that squirt all over when you try to insert the straw.  Those boxes, but that’s another story for some other time.  I digress.

Had enough?  But wait, there’s more.  The really “cool” fridges have computers built in.  They will track your every move and then make your grocery list for you.  No more secret snacking after midnight guys.  That list is then sent to your cell phone.  Throw in a linked Alexa or Siri, and you have the beginnings of an appliance conspiracy.  I suspect they might even have their own Facebook page where they report on and laugh about their owners.  There’s probably a camera hidden in that door within the door.  Don’t believe me?  Search “my refrigerator” on your Facebook page and see if it agrees to accept your friend request.

After a thorough examination of every one of these refrigerators, Jackson tells me he is adding the one with the most impressive engineering to “his list”.  Now I am wondering just how serious is this list?  We move on to the stoves.  Not much time needed here, I suspect he likes eating the food more than preparing it.  I will let his Aunt Kat and Eli work on the development of that talent.  Within minutes, Jackson has decided on the grill top gas grill.  He is particularly fascinated with the nobs he can push in or pull out. We decide on the shiniest model and add it to his now growing list.  French style entry doors, crank out storm windows, a $5400 refrigerator with all the bells and whistles and a four burner grill top gas stove now adorn “the list”.

On to the cabinets.  And again guys, amazing innovations for you manly organizers out there.  In no time flat we are on a quest to verify which cabinets and cupboards are fitted with self-closing drawers.  Apparently it has come to the attention of kitchen designers that we are running out of our kitchens without remembering, or taking the time I guess, to shut the drawers and close the doors.  Jackson tells me that “his cabinets” MUST have these self-closers or they are not making “the list”.  We have almost isolated the winner when we discover two not to be without features.  Wait for it ……. ultimate in convenience and organization, the toe kick hidden flat pan drawer and the pull out, wire framed organizer, drop-down upper cabinet.  The entire innards float effortlessly down to the countertop where Jackson declares “there’s where my fruit snack packs go.”  And these, of course, have now been added to the list.

In the course of our two-hour adventure, Jackson’s description, I have staved off several persistent floor sales reps, visited almost every section and aisle and if his parents fulfill his list, will have spent somewhere in the vicinity of $40,000 on Jackson’s house.  Way to go Home Depot.  We head for the front to escape and then head to McDonald’s to discuss the details of our finds and of course, to get our happy meal and toy.

And so, I wonder?  Will Jackson become a designer?  Or maybe an engineer?  One of the store reps, after watching him carefully study the icemakers, suggested he consider being a plumber as they make so much more than engineers, her belief not necessarily mine and apologies to both careers.  Maybe he will write for a consumer magazine.  No matter what Jackson decides, I am amazed at watching the inquisitive mind of a four-year-old boy at work and humbled at his ability to figure out the technology and mechanics by simple observations.  I am sure that if we just encourage the curiosity of our children and grandchildren, the future is bright for a never-ending evolution of new and creative conveniences.

And now it’s time to visit an electronics store.  Oh God.  Thank you Jackson for letting me wonder as you wandered.

Cattle Call…………. Or how I never found a line I didn’t hate

Posted on by kwundrow

 

We are flying today, well finally flying.  Like any other airline trip, our morning began at oh four thirty or as Robin Williams coined it in Good Morning Vietnam, “it’s 04:30 as in Oh God it’s early.”  We packed back up and moved on down to the lobby where we grabbed a coffee and got in line for the shuttle to the airport.  I had spent the afternoon before on line pre paying our baggage fees and printing off our boarding passes.  We are TSA approved and we are going to “fly”, pun intended, through the airport and unto our plane.  At least that’s what all those pop up ads and on-line cues promised me.

We enter the terminal at 5:30, still A.M., to be greeted by the line I was sure I would get to skip.  Oh so wrong Toto.  We may have paid for them, but they still wanted to weigh our bags, especially since my wife’s looked like she may be traveling with her own small hotel.  Twenty minutes later we are weighed in and under way once more.  Remember how I said we were TSA pre-checked, no line for us, right?  If you placed that bet, don’t play the lottery today.  There WAS NO TSA pre-checked line in this terminal, only a line that snaked through five turns with dramatic long straight-a-ways designed for making new friends.  I am soon conversing with persons of several nationalities, well, at least we nod a lot and look at each other’s watches, but I am pretty sure we are nearing BFF status.  This line moves quickly…..and again you fell for that and now you should add “free” sales pitches to your list of things to avoid today.  It didn’t, but 45 minutes later we reached the incredibly service oriented check in agent.  I believe she said move it along while stamping my boarding pass as if it were a large insect destined for the promised-land and I was the steer it was riding on.  I think I actually herd Rowdy Yates singing out “ride em in, herd em up, cut em out, move em in Rawhide.”  (Don’t know that one, Google: Rawhide TV show)

So, are you keeping up?  I know I am as I have had plenty of time in line.  We are now finally in the line to disrobe for the TSA.  Thankfully, I get to leave my shoes on.  But then that’s about it.  As I step into the scan booth, I have a metal knee so I get the deluxe treatment, and why doesn’t it show up on the X-ray as opposed to the box around my private area, the technician asks me, no that’s far too kind compared to what she actually says as she loudly proclaims “pull your pants up.”  In my head, I imagine the “old man” added to the end of the request.  My only response at this point is that you should’ve left me keep my belt if that was the hoped for result.  A delightful pat down later and a retrieval of my personals and we have cleared line four of the morning.  Good thing we arrived a day before our flight…. Alright…. that’s a little sarcastic but I’ve had two cups of coffee this morning and for a non-coffee drinker, that is sufficient to carry me well past witty and deep into the realm where only sarcasm can exist.  And as the ad says, “But wait, there’s more.”

We arrive at our gate, the last one in Terminal 3, wing L, gate infinity.  We find two seats, park our weary feet, and are immediately informed that the flight has been moved to the other end of the terminal.  We are nearly trampled as our now terribly familiar cattle drive, stampedes toward the new gate, only to find out our plane is now departing, and there is a bit of ironic word usage, a half hour late and I just blew past the breakfast stop.  Oh well, now I have additional time to go back for breakfast.  I am committed to something fast so I head back down the terminal to those friendly Golden Arches.  What could go wrong, its fast food and I figure heavy on the FAST part.  I could believe that but I would be wrong.  It was anything but fast, though thankfully the line of hungry cattle was friendly or at least equally sarcastic and that seemed the same as friendly.  I need to describe the scene.  There is a middle-aged gentleman ordering food, cell phone held six inches from his face, screaming into the phone about his credit card that has been denied for the fourth time this week.  I am so glad he has decided to hold us all here as his jury of peers offering us the chance to decide on the guilt or innocence of some poor service person on the end of that cell phone shout out.  I and the woman next to me have already found the credit card agent innocent of all misdeeds and are even considering her for a humanitarian award.  Meanwhile, the cashier is loudly shouting out numbers to the milling cattle herd.  My new name is number 482.  I am feeling the love for sure.  I hope I get the “happy meal”.

Eventually served and fed, I am back down to the gate arriving just as they call general boarding for our flight.  Not to be left out, and certain the plane will bolt away from the gate without us, my wife motions me into, here it comes, our next line.  And to make it all that much better, once we cleared the boarding pass scan line we are on a jet way that leaves me fearing that our plane is already parked at the Orlando Airport and we are walking there on this jet way maze.

All stories must come to an end, ironically, just as all lines do, but this one had one more twist.  In a saga that couldn’t have gone any other way, our plane taxied out to the runway where we were informed we would be returning to our gate as some still unnamed crew member had not properly filled out their paperwork.  Of course…it had to end this way.   It would have been anticlimactic if it hadn’t.  In a twist of fate, I wonder if the unnamed crew person is now destined to their own line, applying for unemployment benefits.

We are in the air now and soon the snow and cold will be left behind, traded for a week of sun and sand, I just hope that I can find a line somewhere because God knows, I am a line standing, gold medal Olympian at this point.

The Hotel Room …. or how we became friends for life

Posted on by kwundrow

I had two cups of coffee this morning.  One cup leaves me talkative but two cups and I’m sarcastic.  I thought I ought to take advantage of that and write this next piece.  You’ve been warned of my sarcasm if you intend to continue reading.

Years ago, fall of 1986 to be exact, my two year old daughter was going to a sitter just a few doors down from us.  When I was dropping her off one morning, there was a new father dropping off his two daughters.  We exchanged hellos and that was that.  A couple days later, My wife and I attended a neighborhood casino night.  We were new to the neighborhood and not knowing anyone there we attempted to mingle while playing casino games.  At the end of the gaming session and prior to the auction for prizes, I noticed the new father I had met at the sitter and realizing he hadn’t known anyone either, introduced him to my wife.  He in turn introduced his wife and we boldly joined them at their table.  The auction was rolling along when a room for a weekend at the Embassy Suites in Milwaukee came up for bid.  We had been looking for a quick get away, so my wife and I started bidding on the room with our play money winnings.  The bidding soon passed our total.  About to bow out of the action, our new found neighbors offered to throw in their meager winnings and we offered up the entire works on our next bid.  Now I fully expected to be immediately outbid, or should I say, hoped we would be outbid.  After all, we really didn’t know our partners in this bid let alone intend to share a suite with them as our first date.  And you guessed it.  No one bid.  I was the anxious owner of a Milwaukee hotel room with let’s be honest here, total strangers.  For all I knew they had been forced to move after a recent stalking charge leveled by their previous neighbors.  Worse yet, they would turn out to be swingers and my wife and I …. well we weren’t … aren’t.  Disclaimer here, my wife worries that the reader will get the wrong idea …. well don’t.

I decided the best course of action would be to graciously hand the room over to them and formulate our early exit.  And again you guessed it or you figured out there wasn’t much of a story if they accepted my offer.  They were already setting a date with my wife for our hotel stay.  Now I WAS convinced this couple was either crazy or desperate, possibly both.  Before I could make up excuses, like I snore loudly or I prefer to sleep in the nude, I don’t but I thought it might scare them off, unless of course they really were swingers, we were scheduled to all head down to the Embassy Suites that very next weekend.

The weekend came and my wife was actually looking forward to our “group date”, which made me begin to worry about her as well, after all, I had only known her for nine years and maybe she was really good at keeping secrets.  We had decided to bring our daughter with us, as had they, but I was still wondering how this would work?  At this point, my detail planner wife explained that it was a suite, implying, though adjoining, two rooms.  We would take one and they could have the other.  All I had to worry about was hitting it off conversationally.  My anxiousness was reducing.

Arrival in Milwaukee.  The suite turned out to be a shared bedroom and sitting area with at least a separation of sorts between the two areas.  Remember how I said we brought the kids.  The three of them were already thick as thieves from the common sitter we shared.  And again you guessed it.  They all wanted to be together in the sitting area on that wonderful fold out couch that only three kids under the age of six could not only love but share.  And that left us right where it turns out BOTH couples had thought wasn’t going to happen …. sharing two queen beds in the same room.  Thank god for wine and a mini bar.

It has been over thirty years since that night.  Not only did we survive our time together …. turns out they were as nervous as we were …. our families traveled together many more times in the years that followed.  Through multiple moves by our friends, first to Chicago, then back to the Madison area and eventually settling in the St. Louis area, through our children’s graduations and two of their weddings, and even through grieving the passing of Doug’s wife Carol two years ago, we are still and always will be best friends.  It is clearly not the same without Carol as part of the “Bob and Carol, Ted and Alice” running joke of our first meeting, but nothing can break up a friendship forged by sharing a room as your first date.

Thank you Embassy Suite.  From that night forward, Doug and Carol and their family became an integral part of our family’s life.  Without your donated room to that casino night thirty “odd” years ago, my wife and I would never have discovered one of the most likable, family oriented and adventuresome couples with whom we have spent a lifetime.

To quote someone “Ain’t life funny sometimes.”

Can we at least drive it around the block?

Posted on by kwundrow

Christmas is a season of traditions.  Every family has them and we were no different.  In the family I grew up in, three brothers and two sisters, we would always have a live tree for Christmas.  The tradition for us involved my two sisters.  Each year, once we had secured the tree, it would be flocked.  For those of you unfamiliar with this term, it meant the tree would be sprayed with an icing of sort.  Now normally that would be snow colored.  Not in our family.  Each year my sisters would pick their current color of the year.  There may be some argument on this, but I actually remember a year when the tree was purple.  Dad must have really loved his daughters to support this tradition.  That or he had just given up and went with the flow or shall we say the flock.

Traditions evolve as families extend.  The Friday after Thanksgiving has always signaled the beginning of our Christmas traditions.  It is on that Friday that we head out as a family to bag the perfect Christmas tree.  Simple, right?  Our family consists of my wife, Deb, and my two daughters, Bailey and Kathryn.  Like my dad before me, I too love my daughters and for them it couldn’t just be a live tree, it had to be found and cut down as well.  Needless to say, when four people are trying to find the perfect tree, things can get messy.  After several years spent arguing and wrangling and yeah even tears over who got their way, and by the way, that wasn’t ever me, we decided to become dictatorial.  Now in  a perfect dictatorship, that would be dad gets to pick since he pays for and trims that tree with the lights.  You know, the lights that work perfectly until you get them on the tree, but that might be another story for another time.  After wrangling and arguing and yeah even more tears, we settled on a rotation.  Each year would be the next in line’s right to choose the tree, no arguments, no wrangling, just compliments for the magnificence of the tree chosen.  It worked, sort of, until we would get the tree on the car and head for home.  Then the arguments would still ensue but at least the deed was done.

In the year of this story, it had been my turn to choose the trophy tree for the cutting.  As the day approached, I was eager for my turn after my three year wait.  As my daughters implored me to come upstairs to get going for the tree hunt, I calmly asked them to come down to our lower level.  You see, we had four very large evergreens in our back yard and one had now grown too close to the other three and was starving for light and life.  I knew it had to come down and had on a previous inspection, noticed that the top of the tree was the perfect Christmas tree shape.  When the girls came down to join me, I announced that I had already chosen my tree.  Bailey and Kathryn looked suspiciously at me and asked where we would be going to get “my” tree?  As I pointed to the tree in the back yard, I was met with total disbelief and then my youngest declared, “You can’t do that, we have to drive somewhere.”  Bailey, the light coming into her eyes, spoke up, “Remember the rules, who ever’s turn it is gets to pick the tree.  No questions arguing.”

With that decided we headed out to the yard, saw in hand, to cut down the tree.  As my wife and the girls stood by watching, the tree came down and the top seven feet was cut off.  Proudly standing it up alongside of me, the tree was given the required compliments on it’s majestic qualities.  Ready to drag it inside, Bailey makes her request, “Can we at least put it on the car and drive it around the block so we can argue about it?”

I guess the arguing was part of the tradition all along, just as my dad giving into my sisters was part of that tradition.  Our family continues to extend and my daughters have their own homes.  One perfect tree has become three perfect trees and I suspect in not too many years, Jackson and Adela will be getting their trees too.  Its not just what the tradition is but how you preserve it and evolve it into your own family that counts.  So pick one and drive it around the block, if for no other reason do it for tradition sake.

 

I never met a Chicken I didn’t like….stuffed and baked.

Posted on by kwundrow

The first telling of this story dates back to a Thanksgiving almost 40 years ago.  I was bringing my then girlfriend, now wife home to meet my family.   We were all seated around the feast deliciously prepared by my mother and as the bird was being destroyed, the story telling began.  My family consists of story tellers all somehow trained in the art by my father.  To entertain or perhaps warn my new girlfriend to the perils of our family, we were reliving, colorfully, stories of our growing up past.  I was, due to the occasion, being particularly roasted a bit harder than the others.  When I was finally able to find a slot, I decided to tell the story of “the rooster from hell”.

I need to take you back to the scene of the crime.  I was likely nine or ten years old at the time and growing up on our family farm.  One of my daily chores was to tend to the chickens.  For my readers not familiar with a chicken other than one roasted, baked or fried, they are a dirty animal to begin with.  They are equipped with tough thorn bejeweled chicken legs that they expertly use to scratch the ground, and anything else for that matter, into a mottled mess.  This is likely the reason they have those deliciously developed drumsticks.  When you throw roosters into the mix, well it only gets worse.  Roosters, by their very nature, are built to fight.  The year before, my parents had decided to add a batch, or should I say, a gang of roosters to their usual order of some fifty hatch lings.  The hatch lings had all grown, along with the now street smart gang of roosters, into a producing flock.

Each morning, I would head out to the chicken coop to collect the eggs.  Without fail, those roosters would be waiting for me, thorns drawn sporting for a fight.  They would be poised there on the roost and as I went around the coop collecting the eggs, they would one at a time come down and corner me, pecking at my legs and threatening me with their thorns.  I was a little scrawny kid, I’m just laying out my eventual defense here, and was soon not looking forward to that daily chore.

After several weeks of this relentless harassment, I had decided it was time to arm myself.  It was on this particular morning that I secreted a baseball bat into the coop concealed behind my back.  As the first rooster dropped down from the perch, I prepared to defend myself.  With the rooster coming at a full clip, I took my best swing.  My aim was good and the rooster, needless to say, went down, unfortunately for the full count.  The crime of the century had been committed and I was now a felon on the run.  Or perhaps “fowlon” on the run.  The good news was that the remaining gang took due notice of their felled chieftain and had retreated to the roost.  It turns out, chickens have memories and none of them ever bothered me again.  I had new found respect but a dead rooster to get rid of.  No way were my parents to ever find out.

The solution to my dilemma was the cow yard manure pile.  After artfully burying the victim deep within the pile, I felt I was safe.  No way would my parents have actually counted the number of chickens, let alone the roosters in their possession.  Since the manure pile would remain there until spring, my crime was out of sight and out of mind.

As winter came and went, I had completely forgotten about the body and my involvement in the heinous crime.  But then there we were, loading the manure spreader and slowly diminishing the pile, when what should suddenly appear?  As the fates were on my side, after all the victim deserved it, I was the first to spot the body.  Fortune further intervened when my father decided it was a full load and headed to the garage for some errand.  With a quick two step, I dug the corpse free and reburied it deftly within the spreader’s load.  In another hour, it would be a part of a soon to be plowed field and gone forever.  The crime of the century, buried and gone.

At this point, my story had garnered the desired effect among my siblings and as the laughter subsided, my mother turned to my father and said “I told you there were thirteen.”  I guess they HAD counted and un-be knownst to me, my parents had been waging this argument for the ensuing twenty years.  To this day, I want to believe that my dad had seen the corpse and been covering for his son all those years.

If there is a moral here, it might be that parents always know more than we think and that chicken, as far as I’m concerned, is best enjoyed stuffed and baked and then served with an ample covering of gravy.

Turkey

Happy Thanksgiving.

I Was Childed

Posted on by kwundrow

I am flattered when the cashier of a grocery store asks to see my ID for the “adult refreshments” I am buying.  Given my age and even my appearance, I really don’t look that young, they are either strictly following the rules or playing on my ego.  One way I accept willingly, the other I suck up just as it was intended.

This weekend I will be inviting my 3 year old grandson, Jackson, to go on an outing with me to the movies.  I am hoping “Cars 3” just came out or is at least still playing as I intend to end my dry streak of missing out on Disney and Pixar films.  I have decided it is time to return to my inner child.

But I have this question.  If they card you to be sure you are old enough to buy the adult beverages, do they have some sort of screening for going to a Disney flick?  Now I am not talking about Jackson, I am referencing me.  I am imagining this scenario.  I go to a Disney film alone and when attempting to purchase my ticket, the usher states “Sir, I will need to see your child.”  I will then reply that I don’t have a child and that I was just wanting to take in the show.  Things will escalate to the manager who will explain that these movies are for children and that without the proper child escort, I am going to need to leave the establishment.  And there it is, I have been successfully childed.

Hopefully you have humored me to this point and are not ready to question my sanity.  I just find it an interesting premise on the other end of the scale.  I am looking forward to taking Jackson to the movies with me but I know that I could attend alone.  I would stand out and I am sure there would be questioning stares, but I would deal with it for the shear pleasure of enjoying the wonderful world of cartoons and especially the peppered seasoning of innuendos.  But why go alone when I can take a child.  Especially my grandson.

And so I will ask Jackson to come with me and when they child me, I will proudly point to Jackson and say “I think this one should do nicely.”  And then Jackson and I will settle into our seats with a big tub of popcorn and enjoy the wonders that Disney will lay out.  He will laugh appropriately while I will snicker at the innuendos and hope I will not be asked to explain.  And for an hour or so I will be back in time, sitting with my two daughters at my side savoring the memories and drinking in the emotions they evoke.

So go ahead AMC, child me.  Jackson I are ready and excited to entertain our inner child…and maybe some popcorn.

There was Electricity in the Air

Posted on by kwundrow

And that was the problem.  There was plenty of electricity in the air but none in our cottage.  And that is how our week of vacation began.  But I really should take you back an hour.  As we neared the cottage and had turned down the final length of the narrow road that ended at the entrance to our cabin, we found my son-in-law’s vehicle abandoned in the road.  Lying fully across the road and up the embankment on the other side, was a way too large to move birch tree.  The storm had taken it down and even now as the rain began again in earnest, electricity filled the air.  John had had to abandon his vehicle about an hour earlier as he was returning to the cottage with my three year old grandson, Jackson.  After an ill-fated attempt to cut the tree with a hand saw, he and Jackson had braved the storm and walked back to the cottage where my daughter and our three month old granddaughter, Adela, were waiting for them.  Fortunately for us, a rescue crew of cottage neighbors had arrived at the tree and were cutting it in to manageable pieces with a chain saw.  After a stint rolling the logs off the road, we were on the final leg to the cottage.

We arrived at the darkened cottage to find that the wind and lightning had taken out the power.  This is an all too familiar occurrence in the north woods and we already feared that we would be out of power for a while.  Let me emphasize “a while”.  That was soon to become a relative term.  For those of you who fantasize about being off the grid, let me tell you that you might leave that as a fantasy.  Without power there is no TV to watch while you are trapped inside by a raging rain storm.  No big deal.  There is also no electricity for the refrigerator or the oven.  Slightly bigger deal as your frozen food melts and your perishables, well perish.  And then every time you grab for a light switch you realize you better start conserving the batteries in your only two flashlights.  You are off the grid and starting to hope this doesn’t last long.  But it does.

Now comes the next item that succumbs to lack of electricity.  Remember the hot water you love for your shower, sorry, that too runs on electricity as does the pump that runs the well.  Forget about the shower if there isn’t any water anyway.  And then it dawns on you, it might be time to ration your time in the bathroom because yes, flushing without water is just another exercise in futility which is fast becoming the title of this vacation.

Evening came and with it the darkness only being off the grid can provide.  You have flicked on the light switch now for the millionth time with nothing returning but that empty click.  You retire to bed early just like you ancestors did, 8:00 pm, and convince yourself normalcy will be back on in the morning.  First light comes at 5:00 am and off course you are up, you’ve been sleeping for nine hours already.  You check the clock, still running on battery, and fool yourself that the power is on.  Reach for the switch and nothing.  Day two begins, no change, no charge, no power.

The final straw lands on your shoulder when your coffee addicted spouse asks for her morning cup of Joe.  You remind her that the coffee maker, like everything else, needs juice.  Not the liquid type, the electric type.  And she threatens divorce.

I need you to feel the emotions we were experiencing to make the moment the electricity returned have its true effect.  Our last desperate call to the power company had warned us that it could be another 24 to 30 hours before they got power restored as we were one of only two hundred patrons left without power.  Did they really mean that to feel like an honor to be proud of?  Yes folks, you are our frontline soldiers holding the line against the evils of advancing society.  We soldiered through another day off the grid, cell phones dying, arm pits smelling like pits and Jackson being taught the amazing joy of going to the bathroom in the great outdoors and well, being a male.  We retired to our beds at first crack of dark dreaming of the joys of electricity.  It was 2:30 AM when the call came.  I kid you not, the power company called us to proudly announce that after 38 hours, they had restored our power.  Thanks to you brave soldiers for your valiant fight to stay alive.  And what did we do?  Well we turned on every electric run item we could find, sang Kum by Yah and danced around the cottage like a bunch of medieval druids.  If we had still had any un-perished perishables available, we would have likely cooked up a feast.

And so my friends, as I have had power returned to my lap top, and I have come to the reality that I am really not a pioneer, I felt compelled to write down this little piece of history.  If you are still fantasizing about going off the grid, get a grip.  It ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.  You’re my hero Mr. Edison.