I hate Angel Fire.
It was vacation time in the summer of 1995, and it started with the van.
When I say van, I of course mean THE van. The van was a 1984 cloth interior brown and white-turned-yellow Ford Econoline conversion van. It had no name because it was above names. The van was THE van. It had dual gas tanks, swivel bucket seats, a removable table and a ladder on the back. Yes, it was so big it had to have a ladder attached to it, kinda like an inner city apartment building (but not as nice). The back seat folded down into a bed (I was too young...), the center console housed an enormous black and white TV playing a continuous loop of the Sandlot, and it had a stock rotating fan. Who installs a ceiling fan in a van? The cloth was forever permeated with the old smell of child vomit, pickles, and french fries. It travelled at 7 MPG, but by God that fart and piss colored van comfortably held a family of 5 and all of their luggage for a week long vacation.
What's abnormal about a gigantic brown and cream turd loaf floating West on HWY 412 toward Angel Fire, NM? Five bicycles. No, not five bikes on a bike rack. Five freaking bicycles mangled and roped and bungey corded onto the top of THE van. Mountain bikes. You ever tried to fit that many mountain bikes in a storage shed? You can't do it. You can't even fit five mountain bikes inside a bedroom. But dad be darned if you can't fit 5 mountain bikes on top of an '84 Econoline. I rode 675 miles one way cross country in a bowel movement of Optimus Prime. And yes, it had Arkansas License plates.
Say what you want about the van, it got us there safely. But the trouble didn't lie in the drive to Angel Fire, the trouble lied in Angel fire. For this 8 year old boy, Angel Fire is a dark smear on my memory.
I was initially pumped about the trip, because for me, it was all about mountain biking. I loved riding bikes; its all I did as a kid. But I was a fat kid, so I liked riding either on flat surfaces or down hills. So when I found out that we were going to be mountain biking in Angel Fire, I was hesitant. No way my fat fanny could climb a mountain. But when I found out you got to take a roller coaster ride to the top of the mountain, then ride down, I about crapped my pants. Gravity is always on the side of the fat kid. This was going to be the shiz.
After waiting all summer to actually put the "mountain" in my mountain bike, we got up after our first night and headed for the lifts. All five of us loaded up our bikes, rode up the mountain, and met on top. There were runs everywhere, waiting to take me at 100+ MPH down the mountain. So we took off. It was several miles to the bottom, and not one pedal stroke. I was flying, and things were great.
And then the unthinkable happened.
When you're riding down a mountain, and your butt turns into a fountain... diarrhea, diarrhea.
When you coasting down a hill, and you feel something spill... diarrhea, diarrhea.
When you're biking really fast, and you feel a wet, warm blast... diarrhea, diarrhea.
Oh no he didn't.
Oh yes I did.
It was supposed to be air. It was supposed to be dry. It was supposed to be a fart. But it wasn't just air. It wasn't dry. And it wasn't a fart. On this day in 1995, I became acquainted with the shart. (For you ignorant few who don't know what a shart is. It is exactly what it sounds like. It's when you fart, and a little sh*t comes out. Don't ever do it.)
Don't judge, you've all done it. Unfortunately, it probably wasn't on a bike on a mountainside.
So there I was. Me, my bike, and a soggy pair of britches. I rode on. I rode the rest of the way down that forsaken mountain as liquid poo rode down my leg. I finally reached the bottom of the mountain in shame, and naturally I was the first one done. So I had to wait. I had no room key and there wasn't a bathroom nearby.
You heard the song "Waitin on a Woman" by Brad Paisley? I have waited on a woman. Because somehow my mother's down mountain pace is the same as everyone else's up mountain pace. And of course, the rest of the family was polite and rode with her. So I fumed, and I stewed, and I acted about like any 8 year old boy would act if stranded after messing his pants. But finally, they streaked in.
I demanded we leave immediately to get back to our room. Nobody else seemed in such a hurry. So of course, I blew my cool. And then the proverbial shit hit the fan, as in my firey misery I mistakenly mentioned that I had crapped my pants. To this day I have not heard the end of it from my evil sisters. They are a plague on my being.
We got back, I hit the shower hard. Though still pissed off and embarrassed, at least I wasn't wallowing in my own filth anymore. But of course, this excremental day was not over.
While in Angel Fire, we had a 2 bedroom condo. Mom and dad shared one, and my sisters and I shared the queen bed in the other. All three of us.
And that night lightning struck a second time, albeit in a slightly different location. General area, though.
Ever have one of those dreams where you really have to pee, and you finally find a bathroom and you let it all out? Then you wake up with warm urine running down your leg?
I hate Angel Fire.
I wasn't a bed wetter. Yeah, it happened on rare occasion, but not often. So why, of all times, did I piss the bed while on vacation? Sharing that same dang bed with my sisters? On the night after sharting my drawers on the side of a mountain?
I really hate Angel Fire.
And so it was. I rode out to New Mexico in a giant turd and urine colored van. I rode back in giant turd and urine colored skivvies.
May the Angels flee that place, and may the fire burn forever. I really, really hate Angel Fire.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Me, mom, and a 58 MPH fastball
When I was in the 5th grade, I began playing "kid pitch" baseball. In other words, I had long since graduated from the tee, coach pitch was a distant memory, and I could no longer rely on a pitching machine to launch me perfect down-the-pipe pitches every time. With kid pitch, we kids pitched to eachother. My BA went from about an .850 with a slugging percentage of 1.500 to somewhere below .100 (in other words, if it wasn't right down the pipe, I couldn't hit it).
But this is not about my demise in baseball slugging. This is about my rise as a kid league pitcher. With an absolute cannon for an arm.
Before the season began, dad had decided that I would be a pitcher. He was going to be the team coach, and he knew that I at least had an inkling of how the game worked. Remember, this is little league. Any kid that wants to play gets to play. And any kid that gets to play gets playing time, so each team was guaranteed to have about 6-8 kids on a 15 player roster that had no freaking idea what was going on. Kids that picked dandylions in the outfield, made dirt forts and short stops, and were absolutely afraid of hard, flying objects. I was did none of these things, mostly because dad would have whooped me raw had I messed around on the diamond.
Dad also knew that my arm was a 5th grade howitzer. I would later go on to win the fast pitch competition for our age group (5th-6th grade) as a 5th grader. I had a 58mph fastball. No big league or anything, but fast enough to leave imprinted laces on flesh.
I don't think I ever went a game without pegging a kid. I had no control, I just wanted to throw it as hard as I could every time. Which was hard. I made lots of kids cry. Several wail. And even put a few out of games. It was pretty bad; these little 5th grade kids (most of which were my friends) that had no idea what was happening having to stand inside a little box as some brute launched a manmade aerodynamic rock at them. They'd cringe, get blasted, and hit the dirt and role around for a while, kinda like a rabbit does after getting peppered with a 4-10. The free bases were not worth it, but I gave them freely.
I don't remember how many kids I hit, who I hit, or who the last one was that I hit. However, I will never forget the first person I sniped, and she wasn't a kid.
My poor, poor mother...
Dad had me in our back yard working on pitching. I'd never done it before, so he was teaching me. I'd stand about 20 feet away, and throw the ball as hard as I could at his mit. I tried to break his hand every time, hoping that one day the ball would go so fast as to blow through his mit and leave burn marks on his chest. I never quite got there, but some say I got close.
Anyhow, one afternoon I was pitching to dad. And talk about being at the wrong place at the wrong time, mom was doing some yardwork in the back yard. Dad decides that I need to start pitching with a batter there. I can see the wheels churning as he voices this to me, then looks at mama. He looks back at me, then looks back at mama. He looked at me, then back at victim #1.
Dad knew as well as anyone that I could throw the ball hard. But also, he wanted me to be good, an the only way to get better was to practice with a dummy posing as a batter. Oh, mama.
He calls over to mama, who walks over, clueless, like a stray dog being lured into the pound truck by a dogcop with a treat. He then tells my mother that he would like for her to stand in as a batter. Mom, baffled and terrified, couldn't talk as she merely shook her head no. no, no, no. Dad insisted that she would be fine. However, mom had seen me launch fireballs at dads mit every afternoon, and was quite familiar with the "smack" of leather ball blistering leather mit. Mom was very much aware that I my arm was used to fire military ammunition.
But dad insisted that I wouldn't hit her, and all she had to do was stand there. I had pretty good aim, he told her, and he also informed her that in order to see her son be a good pitcher, he needed to practice with fresh meat in the batter's box. This was a cheapshot by dad, as he knew that the only way to get mom to willingly stand in front of a bullet was to tell her that she was doing it for her child.
She took up a bat.
I paced to my pitcher's mound.
Dad took up his position behind mom.
Mama stood there, shaking, awkwardly holding the bat. Her body language was that of a dog knowing its about to be beat. She continued to tremble as I eyed the strike zone. I wound up. Mom's eyes closed forcefully shut as my arm arced forward in a menacing swing. The ball left my hand hurtling near the sound barrier as my beloved mother stood awkwardly hunched over with her eyes plastered shut, shaking, not knowing the ball was coming but being fully aware that it was almost there.
And though I had never missed dad's glove by more than a foot, my first pitch with a batter was wide right, by about 2 feet, and about another foot and a half feet high. It crashed into mother's ribs, altering the oh-so-usual "smack" of leather on leather into a "thwack" of leather on tissue. The ball continued its path for a few inches into her ribs until finally giving up its quest to pass all the way through her body. She let out a "grauuhhhphst" of a noise as all of the air rushed from her compromised lungs. She dropped on site, and groaned.
Life completed a cycle as I, once her fetus, watched my mother curl into the form I had occupied for 9 months insider her very own womb.
I ran over to her, and she looked awful. She was writhing, covered in dirt, and curled in a ball holding her ribs. Dad had this face saying "Oh sh*t I didn't really think you'd hit her". And mom got pissed. Like pissed enough to forget that she had just taken a round to the side. It was like hunting wild boar and merely winging the feral animal, leaving it to charge your no longer hidden position. Luckily, this wild boar knew well enough not to charge the gunman, but the gunman's dad who taught the boy to hunt.
If mom would have had an arm like mine, she would have been launching rockets and dad's face. I'm surprised she didn't pick up the bat and use his shoulders as a tee. Actually, if I hadn't just ruined half her rib cage, she probably would have. But she didn't kill my father, just gave him an earful of things she would want none of you to know she said.
I felt horrible. As big of a punk as I could be, I had just darn near killed my mother. She had a softball sized bruise for over a week, and I think her whole thorax ached for days.
After that, mom didn't even come outside when we were practicing. And I continued to learn to pitch without a feaux batter. By the time the season came around, I wasn't much better. However, having previously drilled my mother with a baseball, I wasn't even phased the first time I killed one of my classmates. And I killed a lot of my classmates.
I know my mom has sacrificed a lot to raise me, but nothing quite says "I will do anything for my children" like willingly stepping in front of a loaded canon and taking a rocket in the ribs.
But this is not about my demise in baseball slugging. This is about my rise as a kid league pitcher. With an absolute cannon for an arm.
Before the season began, dad had decided that I would be a pitcher. He was going to be the team coach, and he knew that I at least had an inkling of how the game worked. Remember, this is little league. Any kid that wants to play gets to play. And any kid that gets to play gets playing time, so each team was guaranteed to have about 6-8 kids on a 15 player roster that had no freaking idea what was going on. Kids that picked dandylions in the outfield, made dirt forts and short stops, and were absolutely afraid of hard, flying objects. I was did none of these things, mostly because dad would have whooped me raw had I messed around on the diamond.
Dad also knew that my arm was a 5th grade howitzer. I would later go on to win the fast pitch competition for our age group (5th-6th grade) as a 5th grader. I had a 58mph fastball. No big league or anything, but fast enough to leave imprinted laces on flesh.
I don't think I ever went a game without pegging a kid. I had no control, I just wanted to throw it as hard as I could every time. Which was hard. I made lots of kids cry. Several wail. And even put a few out of games. It was pretty bad; these little 5th grade kids (most of which were my friends) that had no idea what was happening having to stand inside a little box as some brute launched a manmade aerodynamic rock at them. They'd cringe, get blasted, and hit the dirt and role around for a while, kinda like a rabbit does after getting peppered with a 4-10. The free bases were not worth it, but I gave them freely.
I don't remember how many kids I hit, who I hit, or who the last one was that I hit. However, I will never forget the first person I sniped, and she wasn't a kid.
My poor, poor mother...
Dad had me in our back yard working on pitching. I'd never done it before, so he was teaching me. I'd stand about 20 feet away, and throw the ball as hard as I could at his mit. I tried to break his hand every time, hoping that one day the ball would go so fast as to blow through his mit and leave burn marks on his chest. I never quite got there, but some say I got close.
Anyhow, one afternoon I was pitching to dad. And talk about being at the wrong place at the wrong time, mom was doing some yardwork in the back yard. Dad decides that I need to start pitching with a batter there. I can see the wheels churning as he voices this to me, then looks at mama. He looks back at me, then looks back at mama. He looked at me, then back at victim #1.
Dad knew as well as anyone that I could throw the ball hard. But also, he wanted me to be good, an the only way to get better was to practice with a dummy posing as a batter. Oh, mama.
He calls over to mama, who walks over, clueless, like a stray dog being lured into the pound truck by a dogcop with a treat. He then tells my mother that he would like for her to stand in as a batter. Mom, baffled and terrified, couldn't talk as she merely shook her head no. no, no, no. Dad insisted that she would be fine. However, mom had seen me launch fireballs at dads mit every afternoon, and was quite familiar with the "smack" of leather ball blistering leather mit. Mom was very much aware that I my arm was used to fire military ammunition.
But dad insisted that I wouldn't hit her, and all she had to do was stand there. I had pretty good aim, he told her, and he also informed her that in order to see her son be a good pitcher, he needed to practice with fresh meat in the batter's box. This was a cheapshot by dad, as he knew that the only way to get mom to willingly stand in front of a bullet was to tell her that she was doing it for her child.
She took up a bat.
I paced to my pitcher's mound.
Dad took up his position behind mom.
Mama stood there, shaking, awkwardly holding the bat. Her body language was that of a dog knowing its about to be beat. She continued to tremble as I eyed the strike zone. I wound up. Mom's eyes closed forcefully shut as my arm arced forward in a menacing swing. The ball left my hand hurtling near the sound barrier as my beloved mother stood awkwardly hunched over with her eyes plastered shut, shaking, not knowing the ball was coming but being fully aware that it was almost there.
And though I had never missed dad's glove by more than a foot, my first pitch with a batter was wide right, by about 2 feet, and about another foot and a half feet high. It crashed into mother's ribs, altering the oh-so-usual "smack" of leather on leather into a "thwack" of leather on tissue. The ball continued its path for a few inches into her ribs until finally giving up its quest to pass all the way through her body. She let out a "grauuhhhphst" of a noise as all of the air rushed from her compromised lungs. She dropped on site, and groaned.
Life completed a cycle as I, once her fetus, watched my mother curl into the form I had occupied for 9 months insider her very own womb.
I ran over to her, and she looked awful. She was writhing, covered in dirt, and curled in a ball holding her ribs. Dad had this face saying "Oh sh*t I didn't really think you'd hit her". And mom got pissed. Like pissed enough to forget that she had just taken a round to the side. It was like hunting wild boar and merely winging the feral animal, leaving it to charge your no longer hidden position. Luckily, this wild boar knew well enough not to charge the gunman, but the gunman's dad who taught the boy to hunt.
If mom would have had an arm like mine, she would have been launching rockets and dad's face. I'm surprised she didn't pick up the bat and use his shoulders as a tee. Actually, if I hadn't just ruined half her rib cage, she probably would have. But she didn't kill my father, just gave him an earful of things she would want none of you to know she said.
I felt horrible. As big of a punk as I could be, I had just darn near killed my mother. She had a softball sized bruise for over a week, and I think her whole thorax ached for days.
After that, mom didn't even come outside when we were practicing. And I continued to learn to pitch without a feaux batter. By the time the season came around, I wasn't much better. However, having previously drilled my mother with a baseball, I wasn't even phased the first time I killed one of my classmates. And I killed a lot of my classmates.
I know my mom has sacrificed a lot to raise me, but nothing quite says "I will do anything for my children" like willingly stepping in front of a loaded canon and taking a rocket in the ribs.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Thou Shalt Laugh
While on the subject of church follies, I of course have another. I mean, I grew up going to church 3 times a week. Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night, giving me more than ample opportunities to make a fool of myself. Which I did.
On this particular Wednesday night, the sanctuary at Eastgate Church of Christ almost fell to pieces. Not quite literally, but literally quite close. You see, some of the elder men in the church decided that it would be a good idea if the "young men" began their preparation for churchmanhood. By "young men", I mean boys all between the ages 10-14. We weren't ready for churchmanhood, but we were thrust into the fire of growing up in the church.
What became a gigantic Wednesday night scriptural foodfight began in a classroom. The girls went to their own room to learn how to sew, cook, do laundry, and clean (their womanhood class, had nothing to do with churchwomanhood). Leaving all of us middle school boy punks in a room by ourselves, where the elder men proceeded to tell us that we would be training, over the next few months, to lead a church service of our own. To LEAD a church service of our OWN. (Remember, I was just a few years off from drawing genitalia on Satan during class). I mean, my buddies and I were probably in the classroom before this very meeting seeing who could get the most pencils to stick in the ceiling, and here we were being told we had to lead a service. And we weren't even gonna get paid. All that money in the offering plate each week, and notta dime. Notta dime.
At first, it was exciting. We were gonna be pastors, worship leaders, public prayermen and public scripture readers. Big time people do that, big time churchmen. But, after a few minutes of reveling in the power that the podium would bestow, we began to realize that everyone would be in the audience. Watching us. God would be right over our shoulders watching us from the baptistry. We wouldn't be able to play tic-tac-toe during service, 'cause ain't nobody never gotten away with that on the front row. We were hosed and we knew it.
So, the next several Wednesday nights the girls would go to home ec, while all the boys would practice reading our scriptures, leading songs, yadda yadda. It wasn't so bad, doing it in front of the other 10 of us. We all knew to laugh at whoever was leading, and we all knew that we were going to get laughed at. But lead the whole congregation??? Would they laugh at all of us? No, no they wouldn't. Not all of us, anyway.
Our day finally came. Our day of churchmanhood, the day of reckoning where we leave churchboyhood behind or die trying. We all pouted on our way to church, glowered at our teacher through class, and were petulent as we waited for the service to start. Nobody wanted to do this, it was horrifying. But, sadly, we had no choice, because the elder churchmen (including my father) made sure that everyone's parents were against us. What would become the most poorly executed, but possibly the most memorable, service in the history of the church began.
First was my buddy Jake, the one from Oklahoma at who's house we got attacked by the ticks. Jake is from Oklahoma, so he's not the sharpest gig in the barrel. He gets up to the podium, where he is to read a verse. He has his bible, he has his verse. However, the dork forgot to mark the page in the Bible. Of course, he had no idea how to navigate his way through the Bible. So after telling the congregation "Now, just a second", Jake awkwardly flipped through the book until he found the right page. It wasn't a short matter. It took a while. But alas, he found the page and executed his reading with eloquence.
Then came Jared, one of my friend's older brothers. He drew the short straw and had to lead a song. He says the page number, gives the congregation a few seconds to find it, then belts out singing in his preteen voice. Nobody else sings. Just Jared Bieber up there, singing along thinking that the rest of the congregation is drowning him out. Until he realized he was the only one in the whole building singing, and he happened to be the one with the mic and in front of everyone. Once this realization rushed over him, he gets mad and yells "COME ON, PEOPLE! SING!". Word for word I kid you not. He was embarrassed and ticked. Then, from somewhere in the auditorium, a voice responds "You gave us the wrong page number." And once again, realization flooded Jared's features as he knew the lone voice was right. However, with his bravado and courage, Jared conveyed the correct page number and successfully let the congregation drown him out through the hymn.
Then came my turn. I was to read a scripture, an easy job. Jake had already screwed his up, so I was in the clear. I could mispronounce a few words or stutter here and there, but I'd still be better than Jake. And the congregation didn't have to read along with me, so I didn't have to worry about pulling a Jared. All I had to do was read a few words and I was outta there.
And the first few words came out fine. And then something deep within me started welling up. I couldn't control it, I didn't know why it was there, but it was boiling over. It stared low in my gut. I frantically tried to fight it. But like a Chinese finger trap, the more I fought, the worse it got. It reached my chest, which constricted like a python on Bambi, and rushed into my throat. I couldn't breath, couldn't read, couldn't think. Then from my throat it came flowing from my mouth. I began hurling... laughter. I laugh puked. and laugh ralphed, and laugh chucked. I laughed until my sides hurt, just standing up there all by my lonesome on the podium. I remember getting out "Jesus was resurrect...." before I exploded into a surreal cachinnation. This wasn't a giggle or a chuckle, I was freaking howling up there. And I couldn't stop it. I tried to read a few more words, and it just got worse. I looked up, and I remember seeing one of the older girls in the congregation, Haley, covering her face in tears. It made me laugh even harder, on top of the laughter that was already killing me. I looked up again and saw old women that I had never seen anything but a scowl out of losing their dentures as they howled along. I have no idea how it happened. One second I was reading about Jesus, the next I was cackling like a demon possessed. It went on, and on, and on. It may have lasted a minute, maybe 5, but to me it seemed like hours. All I wanted to do was finish that stupid verse and get the snot out of there (speaking of snot, I think my laughsplosion shot all the snot out of my head and onto the podium). Eventually, a few words at a time, I did finish. But I laughed the whole time, and could only read a little as I tried to catch my breath and recoup before the next volley of flak-flak laughter. I laughed the whole way down off the podium, and sat there laughing in my seat. I was humiliated and embarrassed the whole time. I didn't think it one bit funny, in fact anything but funny. But I just laughed. It was frustrating, like wanting to punch your sister in the face but kissing her instead. Ick. Yeah, that's the best way to put it.
In the end, we finished our service, and I really don't have any memories of anything that happened after my disaster. I was too pissed off to pay attention, so chances are there were many more errors that night that shall go forever undocumented. I was so embarrassed, and I never wanted to get back up on a podium ever again.
Luckily, though, dad wouldn't allow that, and everyone at church, especially the churchmen, were supportive. Before too many years I was giving prayers and reading scriptures regularly, and even gave the sermon once. One man in particular, Cliff Goggins, I think made it his personal goal to see me succeed. I didn't appreciate it at the time, but boy am I thankful for him now.
I don't know why I laughed that night. It was probably in the top 5 hardest times I've ever laughed in my life. But I think God got his message across. A message of laughter, a message that was never quite put into words in the Bible, but one that none of us should forget. Laugh.
and laugh and laugh and laugh.
On this particular Wednesday night, the sanctuary at Eastgate Church of Christ almost fell to pieces. Not quite literally, but literally quite close. You see, some of the elder men in the church decided that it would be a good idea if the "young men" began their preparation for churchmanhood. By "young men", I mean boys all between the ages 10-14. We weren't ready for churchmanhood, but we were thrust into the fire of growing up in the church.
What became a gigantic Wednesday night scriptural foodfight began in a classroom. The girls went to their own room to learn how to sew, cook, do laundry, and clean (their womanhood class, had nothing to do with churchwomanhood). Leaving all of us middle school boy punks in a room by ourselves, where the elder men proceeded to tell us that we would be training, over the next few months, to lead a church service of our own. To LEAD a church service of our OWN. (Remember, I was just a few years off from drawing genitalia on Satan during class). I mean, my buddies and I were probably in the classroom before this very meeting seeing who could get the most pencils to stick in the ceiling, and here we were being told we had to lead a service. And we weren't even gonna get paid. All that money in the offering plate each week, and notta dime. Notta dime.
At first, it was exciting. We were gonna be pastors, worship leaders, public prayermen and public scripture readers. Big time people do that, big time churchmen. But, after a few minutes of reveling in the power that the podium would bestow, we began to realize that everyone would be in the audience. Watching us. God would be right over our shoulders watching us from the baptistry. We wouldn't be able to play tic-tac-toe during service, 'cause ain't nobody never gotten away with that on the front row. We were hosed and we knew it.
So, the next several Wednesday nights the girls would go to home ec, while all the boys would practice reading our scriptures, leading songs, yadda yadda. It wasn't so bad, doing it in front of the other 10 of us. We all knew to laugh at whoever was leading, and we all knew that we were going to get laughed at. But lead the whole congregation??? Would they laugh at all of us? No, no they wouldn't. Not all of us, anyway.
Our day finally came. Our day of churchmanhood, the day of reckoning where we leave churchboyhood behind or die trying. We all pouted on our way to church, glowered at our teacher through class, and were petulent as we waited for the service to start. Nobody wanted to do this, it was horrifying. But, sadly, we had no choice, because the elder churchmen (including my father) made sure that everyone's parents were against us. What would become the most poorly executed, but possibly the most memorable, service in the history of the church began.
First was my buddy Jake, the one from Oklahoma at who's house we got attacked by the ticks. Jake is from Oklahoma, so he's not the sharpest gig in the barrel. He gets up to the podium, where he is to read a verse. He has his bible, he has his verse. However, the dork forgot to mark the page in the Bible. Of course, he had no idea how to navigate his way through the Bible. So after telling the congregation "Now, just a second", Jake awkwardly flipped through the book until he found the right page. It wasn't a short matter. It took a while. But alas, he found the page and executed his reading with eloquence.
Then came Jared, one of my friend's older brothers. He drew the short straw and had to lead a song. He says the page number, gives the congregation a few seconds to find it, then belts out singing in his preteen voice. Nobody else sings. Just Jared Bieber up there, singing along thinking that the rest of the congregation is drowning him out. Until he realized he was the only one in the whole building singing, and he happened to be the one with the mic and in front of everyone. Once this realization rushed over him, he gets mad and yells "COME ON, PEOPLE! SING!". Word for word I kid you not. He was embarrassed and ticked. Then, from somewhere in the auditorium, a voice responds "You gave us the wrong page number." And once again, realization flooded Jared's features as he knew the lone voice was right. However, with his bravado and courage, Jared conveyed the correct page number and successfully let the congregation drown him out through the hymn.
Then came my turn. I was to read a scripture, an easy job. Jake had already screwed his up, so I was in the clear. I could mispronounce a few words or stutter here and there, but I'd still be better than Jake. And the congregation didn't have to read along with me, so I didn't have to worry about pulling a Jared. All I had to do was read a few words and I was outta there.
And the first few words came out fine. And then something deep within me started welling up. I couldn't control it, I didn't know why it was there, but it was boiling over. It stared low in my gut. I frantically tried to fight it. But like a Chinese finger trap, the more I fought, the worse it got. It reached my chest, which constricted like a python on Bambi, and rushed into my throat. I couldn't breath, couldn't read, couldn't think. Then from my throat it came flowing from my mouth. I began hurling... laughter. I laugh puked. and laugh ralphed, and laugh chucked. I laughed until my sides hurt, just standing up there all by my lonesome on the podium. I remember getting out "Jesus was resurrect...." before I exploded into a surreal cachinnation. This wasn't a giggle or a chuckle, I was freaking howling up there. And I couldn't stop it. I tried to read a few more words, and it just got worse. I looked up, and I remember seeing one of the older girls in the congregation, Haley, covering her face in tears. It made me laugh even harder, on top of the laughter that was already killing me. I looked up again and saw old women that I had never seen anything but a scowl out of losing their dentures as they howled along. I have no idea how it happened. One second I was reading about Jesus, the next I was cackling like a demon possessed. It went on, and on, and on. It may have lasted a minute, maybe 5, but to me it seemed like hours. All I wanted to do was finish that stupid verse and get the snot out of there (speaking of snot, I think my laughsplosion shot all the snot out of my head and onto the podium). Eventually, a few words at a time, I did finish. But I laughed the whole time, and could only read a little as I tried to catch my breath and recoup before the next volley of flak-flak laughter. I laughed the whole way down off the podium, and sat there laughing in my seat. I was humiliated and embarrassed the whole time. I didn't think it one bit funny, in fact anything but funny. But I just laughed. It was frustrating, like wanting to punch your sister in the face but kissing her instead. Ick. Yeah, that's the best way to put it.
In the end, we finished our service, and I really don't have any memories of anything that happened after my disaster. I was too pissed off to pay attention, so chances are there were many more errors that night that shall go forever undocumented. I was so embarrassed, and I never wanted to get back up on a podium ever again.
Luckily, though, dad wouldn't allow that, and everyone at church, especially the churchmen, were supportive. Before too many years I was giving prayers and reading scriptures regularly, and even gave the sermon once. One man in particular, Cliff Goggins, I think made it his personal goal to see me succeed. I didn't appreciate it at the time, but boy am I thankful for him now.
I don't know why I laughed that night. It was probably in the top 5 hardest times I've ever laughed in my life. But I think God got his message across. A message of laughter, a message that was never quite put into words in the Bible, but one that none of us should forget. Laugh.
and laugh and laugh and laugh.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Boys, ticks, and the Wrath of God
The last few posts I have purposefull taken shots at my beloved sisters. Though I love them to death, they have found themselves entertainingly in harm's way, and I saw it as my duty as a brother to report to the world their sad mishappenings in childhood. And while I am still the favorite child (by far), the most intelligent and good looking of the group, I am a also a fair man.
Today, I shall tell of one of my own misfortunate experiences as a young lad. A day of boys, woods, and ticks. And ticks on woods.
I grew up causing much trouble at church. Not because I was a sinner, but because I was a boy attending church with a bunch of boys, and God created boys to be troublesome in order to teach adults discipline, patience, and the best means to bruise boy buttocks (Spare a child the rod...). So, I happened to attend Eastgate Church of Christ with several families, all of which had male demon children the same age. I'm telling you, not a Sunday went by without a pencil stuck in a ceiling, church being interrupted by laughter, or crude things being drawn on the announcements card (though we didn't always get caught). We got to all sit together during the sermon about once every few months, where we always promptly lost the privilege by the third hymn.
Every Sunday, one of us would get kicked out of Sunday school and have to sit in the hall. It's not that one of us was bad that morning; oh no, we were all bad. It was usually who got caught or started laughing first.
I think the most I ever got in trouble came during one Sunday morning when I overstepped my bounds by a few giant leaps for boykind. I wasn't a smart child, so of course the day I decide to be really freaking funny happened to be a day that my parents were teaching class. I don't remember what the lesson was about, but I do remember a big picture of Satan, and we each got turns drawing something on him. Of course, I drew his genitalia. This happened to be a "Children's hour" class, held during service, where all the children attend. Yes, on that day many sweet 3-5 year old golden haired sweethearted angels saw their first depiction of a...uh...johnson. And yam bag. In church. On Satan. I wasn't a good artist, but I sure knew how to draw that. It was awesome for about 3 seconds before my mom figured out what I had done. I don't remember my punishment because I think I blacked out in the midst of it.
Anyhow, this tale isn't of all my mischievousness in church. This is a tale of God saying "Listen up, sonny. You've crossed your bounds. And as a result, I am about to punish not just you, but all of your buddies. Fear the wrath of God, 'cause you done pissed me off. To honor beelzebub with a junk that big is a sin against me." I guess Satan is hung like a gnat.
So, the next time we all got together, God had a master plan of torment. We were all at Jake Shelley's house, my good friend who lived across the border in Colcord, Oklahoma. As is natural for all who live in Colcord, his house was in the boondocks, and he had 4wheelers, fields, forests, ponds, coyotes, and cattle. It was paradise. There was a hollar where the old cow carcasses rotted, and we had bb guns that we could shoot at anything. Particularly sparrows, frogs, and old cow carcasses. Pretty much the setting of "Where the Red Fern Grows" (no kidding, that movie was filmed probably 3 miles from Jake's house).
Since on this particular day we couldn't all fit on the 4wheelers, we went trapesing out into the woods on foot. We hiked through the big field behind his house back to the trees, where we commensed to carving our names with pocket knifes into trees. Our names, and I'm sure other words as well. At the end of the day, we were all exhausted after spending an entire afternoon playing in God's wilderness.
Unfortunately, God keeps his creatures of torment in his wilderness.
And like a time bomb, we didn't realize we had been attacked until it was too late. As we were undressing from our outdoor play clothes, we all started itching. And itching, and itching, and itching. Our ankles felt like they were on fire with itch, and after taking off our shoes and socks, we saw that we each had hundreds of new freckles on our feet and ankles. Except they were raised freckles that itched and stuck to us like ticks. Freckles that, in fact, turned out to be ticks. Thousands of them. It was insane. It was bad, very very bad.
We were ticked (pun intended), and Jake's mom rubbed all our ankles with rubbing alcohol and seemed to have taken the situation under control. It was bad, but we thought it was funny and kinda cool, and made for a good story. We had no idea.
We spent the night at Jake's, because it was his birthday party, and went home the next day. All was quiet on the Shelley front.
After getting home my mom made me take a shower because I smelt like boy and manure. There, in that ceramic tub, I saw that those danged ticks had regenerated and reattacked at my thighs. Lower thighs, thankfully, so don't get any ideas. Yet. This kinda weirded me out, because they were all gone the day before, and now they were all back. They were like tiny tick zombies. Finally, I picked them all off, and convinced myself that I had just missed a few from the day before. This time, though, I made sure that they were all gone.
And then the next day came, and God got his vengeance.
Once again, the zombie ticks regenerated, reformed, and reattacked in greater numbers than before. Except this time, they attacked in full force on my... yes, you guessed it, my...uh... johnson. And yam bag. They were everywhere, and I mean I didn't have a square mm on my boyhood that they hadn't invaded. I freaked out, and was using tweezers to cleanse my pride. Yes, as bad as it was, I even had to enlist my mother's help. Before you think I'm crazy, though, do recall that I wasn't that old (probably 6 or 7).
So there I was, sitting on a 3-legged stool in our kitchen bawling my horrified eyes out with my mama tweezing micron sized arachnids off my schlong, one by one by one. It took forever, and it was miserable. Ticks latch on for dear life, and don't let go. In fact, they will hold on until their heads pop off. IMAGINE THE PAIN. It was like being pinched over and over and over all over my family jewels. Every once in a while mom would miss and tweezer pinch my schtuff. I would scream, and she'd continue on grooming her offspring like a mama chimpanzee. Eventually, she got them all off, as only a mother can do. I think she had God's help.
Luckily, mom got a call from my other buddies moms and they were all going through the same thing. It helps to know your friends are suffering too. And that at least you wouldn't be the only sterile one of the bunch. From then on, we all wore jeans when going to Jake's, and we all used bugspray. Ain't nobody gonna risk that crisis again.
And yes, God got his lesson across. Though I was still a problem child, from that point on I vowed to myself that the next time I drew Satan's anatomy, it wouldn't be visible by the human eye.
"Vengeance is mine, I will repay," Says the Lord.
Romans 12:20
Today, I shall tell of one of my own misfortunate experiences as a young lad. A day of boys, woods, and ticks. And ticks on woods.
I grew up causing much trouble at church. Not because I was a sinner, but because I was a boy attending church with a bunch of boys, and God created boys to be troublesome in order to teach adults discipline, patience, and the best means to bruise boy buttocks (Spare a child the rod...). So, I happened to attend Eastgate Church of Christ with several families, all of which had male demon children the same age. I'm telling you, not a Sunday went by without a pencil stuck in a ceiling, church being interrupted by laughter, or crude things being drawn on the announcements card (though we didn't always get caught). We got to all sit together during the sermon about once every few months, where we always promptly lost the privilege by the third hymn.
Every Sunday, one of us would get kicked out of Sunday school and have to sit in the hall. It's not that one of us was bad that morning; oh no, we were all bad. It was usually who got caught or started laughing first.
I think the most I ever got in trouble came during one Sunday morning when I overstepped my bounds by a few giant leaps for boykind. I wasn't a smart child, so of course the day I decide to be really freaking funny happened to be a day that my parents were teaching class. I don't remember what the lesson was about, but I do remember a big picture of Satan, and we each got turns drawing something on him. Of course, I drew his genitalia. This happened to be a "Children's hour" class, held during service, where all the children attend. Yes, on that day many sweet 3-5 year old golden haired sweethearted angels saw their first depiction of a...uh...johnson. And yam bag. In church. On Satan. I wasn't a good artist, but I sure knew how to draw that. It was awesome for about 3 seconds before my mom figured out what I had done. I don't remember my punishment because I think I blacked out in the midst of it.
Anyhow, this tale isn't of all my mischievousness in church. This is a tale of God saying "Listen up, sonny. You've crossed your bounds. And as a result, I am about to punish not just you, but all of your buddies. Fear the wrath of God, 'cause you done pissed me off. To honor beelzebub with a junk that big is a sin against me." I guess Satan is hung like a gnat.
So, the next time we all got together, God had a master plan of torment. We were all at Jake Shelley's house, my good friend who lived across the border in Colcord, Oklahoma. As is natural for all who live in Colcord, his house was in the boondocks, and he had 4wheelers, fields, forests, ponds, coyotes, and cattle. It was paradise. There was a hollar where the old cow carcasses rotted, and we had bb guns that we could shoot at anything. Particularly sparrows, frogs, and old cow carcasses. Pretty much the setting of "Where the Red Fern Grows" (no kidding, that movie was filmed probably 3 miles from Jake's house).
Since on this particular day we couldn't all fit on the 4wheelers, we went trapesing out into the woods on foot. We hiked through the big field behind his house back to the trees, where we commensed to carving our names with pocket knifes into trees. Our names, and I'm sure other words as well. At the end of the day, we were all exhausted after spending an entire afternoon playing in God's wilderness.
Unfortunately, God keeps his creatures of torment in his wilderness.
And like a time bomb, we didn't realize we had been attacked until it was too late. As we were undressing from our outdoor play clothes, we all started itching. And itching, and itching, and itching. Our ankles felt like they were on fire with itch, and after taking off our shoes and socks, we saw that we each had hundreds of new freckles on our feet and ankles. Except they were raised freckles that itched and stuck to us like ticks. Freckles that, in fact, turned out to be ticks. Thousands of them. It was insane. It was bad, very very bad.
We were ticked (pun intended), and Jake's mom rubbed all our ankles with rubbing alcohol and seemed to have taken the situation under control. It was bad, but we thought it was funny and kinda cool, and made for a good story. We had no idea.
We spent the night at Jake's, because it was his birthday party, and went home the next day. All was quiet on the Shelley front.
After getting home my mom made me take a shower because I smelt like boy and manure. There, in that ceramic tub, I saw that those danged ticks had regenerated and reattacked at my thighs. Lower thighs, thankfully, so don't get any ideas. Yet. This kinda weirded me out, because they were all gone the day before, and now they were all back. They were like tiny tick zombies. Finally, I picked them all off, and convinced myself that I had just missed a few from the day before. This time, though, I made sure that they were all gone.
And then the next day came, and God got his vengeance.
Once again, the zombie ticks regenerated, reformed, and reattacked in greater numbers than before. Except this time, they attacked in full force on my... yes, you guessed it, my...uh... johnson. And yam bag. They were everywhere, and I mean I didn't have a square mm on my boyhood that they hadn't invaded. I freaked out, and was using tweezers to cleanse my pride. Yes, as bad as it was, I even had to enlist my mother's help. Before you think I'm crazy, though, do recall that I wasn't that old (probably 6 or 7).
So there I was, sitting on a 3-legged stool in our kitchen bawling my horrified eyes out with my mama tweezing micron sized arachnids off my schlong, one by one by one. It took forever, and it was miserable. Ticks latch on for dear life, and don't let go. In fact, they will hold on until their heads pop off. IMAGINE THE PAIN. It was like being pinched over and over and over all over my family jewels. Every once in a while mom would miss and tweezer pinch my schtuff. I would scream, and she'd continue on grooming her offspring like a mama chimpanzee. Eventually, she got them all off, as only a mother can do. I think she had God's help.
Luckily, mom got a call from my other buddies moms and they were all going through the same thing. It helps to know your friends are suffering too. And that at least you wouldn't be the only sterile one of the bunch. From then on, we all wore jeans when going to Jake's, and we all used bugspray. Ain't nobody gonna risk that crisis again.
And yes, God got his lesson across. Though I was still a problem child, from that point on I vowed to myself that the next time I drew Satan's anatomy, it wouldn't be visible by the human eye.
"Vengeance is mine, I will repay," Says the Lord.
Romans 12:20
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Swing and a... HIT
What's up with younger siblings? Always in the way, always getting hurt, and always ruining the fun. Yes, I have a younger sister, and her younger name is Suzannah. It took me until about age 12 to learn how to spell her name, between the 1 z"", 2 "n's", and the silent "h". I love her to death. But growing up, there may have been a time or two when I wouldn't have said that. And I still have to think "one z, 2 n's" every time I write out her name. Spellcheck can't even get it right.
Suzannah was a typical younger sister. She was like a volunteer police officer for mom and dad. She was their personal tape recorder/video camera. If I ever did anything wrong, Suzannah was there to tattle her tail off. If she wasn't sure if what I had done was wrong, she would cover her basis and tattle anyway. My dad remembers lil 'susan coming to them when she was small, and saying "I just thought you should know that they are doing xxx in there." Yes, she would tattle on Elizabeth, but only if it got me in trouble as well (Her apparent disdain for me was stronger than her adoration of her older sister). But everyone that has a younger sibling knows what this is like. She was a narc, a rat, and fond of the citizen's arrest. Actually, once she got older and wiser, she learned that she could just lie to mom and dad about something I had done. They'd come in lighting me up with the belt and I'd be clueless as to what was happening, only later to find out that Suzannah just wanted me to get into trouble because she was so jealous of how cool I was. As big of a turd as she was (and still is...), she was cuter and sweeter than me, making her more believable than me. (As a note for me, I eventually learned that since she was going to lie to get me into trouble anyway, I'd just be quick to pelt her with rubber bands or my fists so at least I didn't get into trouble for nothing...)
But alas, this story is not about Suzannah's uncanny gift with propaganda and the free child's press. This story is about Suzannah just simply ruining a good day.
Par for a summer afternoon, all of the neighborhood kids were in our back yard playing ball. Mom always made us include Suzann"waaa" in games that were way over her head, so she was playing too. She was the youngest one out there, the most clueless, and the worst. In fact, she was probably on my team just to piss me off, but I can't remember for sure. It's not like it mattered, because she just refused to let us finish the game.
I was probably playing shortstop, or wherever the best player played, because I was the best neighborhood all-american ball player we had. Well, at least I wasn't the worst. In nobody's eyes was Suzannah the best, so we stuck her at catcher where she just had to run down the ball and throw it back to the pitcher. Pretty easy position where the only time she touched the ball was when it wasn't in play. You can't screw it up.
At least, any other kid couldn't screw it up. Suzannah, or course, screwed it up. A part of playing catcher that always goes unsaid, because it shouldn't have to be said, is to stay well behind the batter...
My neighbor Jennifer was up to bat. I don't know if she could hit the ball, but my land she swung for the fence every time. On one particular pitch, Jennifer had it in her mind to knock the ball through a neighbor's window 3 blocks away. She came close to knocking out that window. Unfortunately, with Suzannah's head in place of the ball.
Jennifer swung. It was one of those swings where all you see is a slight blur where the path of the bat arcs through the air as it pummels through its path. She missed the ball. And the bat continued on its arc. Of course, Suzannah's face was on the tail end of the arc. At the point in space that equalled Vmax (maximum velocity). Really, Jennifer couldn't had executed it any better. With a split-second thud as the bat opened flesh followed by an echoing crack in which the metal bat kissed my sister's frontal bone, the bat disappeared into suzannah's head. She dropped like a sack of potatoes. And all the fun we were having abruptly came to an end.
Winner, by TKO in the 3rd inning, Jennifer Johnson!
Suzannah was bleeding like Winston's cat-snack, and her puddle of blood got bigger, and bigger, and bigger. All the neighborhood adults were hanging out on the back patio and thought "oh please don't let it be my kid.." as they raced to the sound of skull-crunch. They all came running, and my mom didn't seem surprised at all to find that it was Suzannah that had been bat-whacked in the face. Suzannah had a knack for ruining things.
She wasn't that old, but she bled like a stuck pig. Jennifer had Barry Bondsed her forehead, and I'm pretty sure her feet were out of blood by the time it was all said and done. Mom picked her up and ran her inside, getting blood all over herself and the already soaked Suzannah.
The neighbors teamed up to scrub the blood off of our back patio. I've never tracked a shot deer, but if it looks like the mess that Suzannah made, I don't think it'd be very hard. Meanwhile, mom and dad decided to take Suzannah to the emergency before all of her O-pos was donated to the ground.
In all the excitement, I was pretty ticked that I had to stop my game because Suzannah didn't know to avoid a freaking baseball bat. I had told her "hit the ball with the bat and catch the ball with your glove", and somehow she decided that this meant "catch the bat with your face". Which she did very well. Seriously, Suzannah?
Although my game was ruined, there is a diamond in every rough. While dad and mom were at the hospital getting Suzannah sewn shut, Jennifer's parents took me to Barnette's, a local ice cream and burger place, for dinner. Which was awesome. We never got to go out to eat growing up, so any opportunity to consume beef smothered in ketchup, mustard, and enclosed by bun was an event to remember. And I still do.
While Suzannah was enduring the pain of needles and sutures, I got to eat a burger and ice cream. Karma, baby.
Suzannah was a typical younger sister. She was like a volunteer police officer for mom and dad. She was their personal tape recorder/video camera. If I ever did anything wrong, Suzannah was there to tattle her tail off. If she wasn't sure if what I had done was wrong, she would cover her basis and tattle anyway. My dad remembers lil 'susan coming to them when she was small, and saying "I just thought you should know that they are doing xxx in there." Yes, she would tattle on Elizabeth, but only if it got me in trouble as well (Her apparent disdain for me was stronger than her adoration of her older sister). But everyone that has a younger sibling knows what this is like. She was a narc, a rat, and fond of the citizen's arrest. Actually, once she got older and wiser, she learned that she could just lie to mom and dad about something I had done. They'd come in lighting me up with the belt and I'd be clueless as to what was happening, only later to find out that Suzannah just wanted me to get into trouble because she was so jealous of how cool I was. As big of a turd as she was (and still is...), she was cuter and sweeter than me, making her more believable than me. (As a note for me, I eventually learned that since she was going to lie to get me into trouble anyway, I'd just be quick to pelt her with rubber bands or my fists so at least I didn't get into trouble for nothing...)
But alas, this story is not about Suzannah's uncanny gift with propaganda and the free child's press. This story is about Suzannah just simply ruining a good day.
Par for a summer afternoon, all of the neighborhood kids were in our back yard playing ball. Mom always made us include Suzann"waaa" in games that were way over her head, so she was playing too. She was the youngest one out there, the most clueless, and the worst. In fact, she was probably on my team just to piss me off, but I can't remember for sure. It's not like it mattered, because she just refused to let us finish the game.
I was probably playing shortstop, or wherever the best player played, because I was the best neighborhood all-american ball player we had. Well, at least I wasn't the worst. In nobody's eyes was Suzannah the best, so we stuck her at catcher where she just had to run down the ball and throw it back to the pitcher. Pretty easy position where the only time she touched the ball was when it wasn't in play. You can't screw it up.
At least, any other kid couldn't screw it up. Suzannah, or course, screwed it up. A part of playing catcher that always goes unsaid, because it shouldn't have to be said, is to stay well behind the batter...
My neighbor Jennifer was up to bat. I don't know if she could hit the ball, but my land she swung for the fence every time. On one particular pitch, Jennifer had it in her mind to knock the ball through a neighbor's window 3 blocks away. She came close to knocking out that window. Unfortunately, with Suzannah's head in place of the ball.
Jennifer swung. It was one of those swings where all you see is a slight blur where the path of the bat arcs through the air as it pummels through its path. She missed the ball. And the bat continued on its arc. Of course, Suzannah's face was on the tail end of the arc. At the point in space that equalled Vmax (maximum velocity). Really, Jennifer couldn't had executed it any better. With a split-second thud as the bat opened flesh followed by an echoing crack in which the metal bat kissed my sister's frontal bone, the bat disappeared into suzannah's head. She dropped like a sack of potatoes. And all the fun we were having abruptly came to an end.
Winner, by TKO in the 3rd inning, Jennifer Johnson!
Suzannah was bleeding like Winston's cat-snack, and her puddle of blood got bigger, and bigger, and bigger. All the neighborhood adults were hanging out on the back patio and thought "oh please don't let it be my kid.." as they raced to the sound of skull-crunch. They all came running, and my mom didn't seem surprised at all to find that it was Suzannah that had been bat-whacked in the face. Suzannah had a knack for ruining things.
She wasn't that old, but she bled like a stuck pig. Jennifer had Barry Bondsed her forehead, and I'm pretty sure her feet were out of blood by the time it was all said and done. Mom picked her up and ran her inside, getting blood all over herself and the already soaked Suzannah.
The neighbors teamed up to scrub the blood off of our back patio. I've never tracked a shot deer, but if it looks like the mess that Suzannah made, I don't think it'd be very hard. Meanwhile, mom and dad decided to take Suzannah to the emergency before all of her O-pos was donated to the ground.
In all the excitement, I was pretty ticked that I had to stop my game because Suzannah didn't know to avoid a freaking baseball bat. I had told her "hit the ball with the bat and catch the ball with your glove", and somehow she decided that this meant "catch the bat with your face". Which she did very well. Seriously, Suzannah?
Although my game was ruined, there is a diamond in every rough. While dad and mom were at the hospital getting Suzannah sewn shut, Jennifer's parents took me to Barnette's, a local ice cream and burger place, for dinner. Which was awesome. We never got to go out to eat growing up, so any opportunity to consume beef smothered in ketchup, mustard, and enclosed by bun was an event to remember. And I still do.
While Suzannah was enduring the pain of needles and sutures, I got to eat a burger and ice cream. Karma, baby.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Soar, Skid, and Scream
What is the deal with firstborns? They are bossy, they are know-it-alls, and they have a perpetual "anything you can do I can do better" attitude. Sometimes, they really do know it all, and really can do everything better. But not always. Oh, no, no, no, mama, not always.
I have two sisters, Elizabeth, the old one, and Suzannah, the runt. This story is about Elizabeth Faye McCord, and they day we all thought she had breathed her last.
When I was in the 7th grade, I was a BMXer. I considered myself quite the two-wheeled wizard, as I could bunnyhop over a curb, and ride my bike down a full set of steep stairs behind our local hospital. In Siloam Springs, Arkansas, that is what the BMXers did. I had a blue Free Agent Maverick, and atop that puppy I was more Maverick than Tom Cruise could ever dream. I had pegs, front and back, to complete my ride, and although I never used them for anything but giving "pumps", I know I could have pulled a sweet 50/50 grind if only I'd had a good rail to thrash. I was what you call a "poseur".
Poseur or not, I was a much more skilled BMXer than Elizabeth. She thought otherwise. Of course she did, she could do anything better.
So, when I had made a ramp out of scrapwood, Elizabeth decided that ramping was easy. I had it down: go as fast as I could, then bunnyhop off the lip to get the most air and distance. I could glide like floss for a good 3,000 plus mms through the air, and land it every time.
So when Elizabeth told me that she could do it, I figured she could. She's my older sister, and was naturally gifted at doing everything better than me. I even let her ride Mav, my blue beauty.
Elizabeth rides a few laps around the block to get accustomed to my cycle, and I coach her up on standing up on the cranks and mashing 'em out to get to full speed. She didn't exactly reach mach 3, like her younger brother, but she got close enough to ramp. So when she was ready, I told her "pedal as fast as you can up to the ramp, then coast the last few feet. When you hit the ramp, pull up on the handlebars, and fly this mug like ET." She followed every step to a t... except one.
She was cruising. Even I was surprised at how fast she could pump those girl legs on the pedals. She was cruising well over the speed limit. Her red hair flailing in the wind like Xena on a stallion, she coasted the last few feet like Dave Mirra ready to take the X-games gold (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dave_Mirra for reference). She hit the ramp and started escalating up the incline at a higher than safe speed.
And then she froze. Oh, like an arachnophobe watching spiderman did she freeze. I made eye contact, but there was nothing there. She was glazed over in utter confusion and oncoming terror. She took a guess at the last moment; she had a 50-50 shot of being correct. Pull up on the handlebars, or push down. Up, Down. The demon on her left shoulder launched an angry bird over to the angel on her right and blew it away, then that evil little demon calmly told her to push down on the handlebars. She did. Quiet effectively.
Front tire nosediving into the pavement, it stopped on forceful contact. However, the rear of the bicycle continued on its arc, launching my helpless sister into the air, where she most definitely flew like a G6 (again, reference: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GvgJEznqtms). My entire family, a few neighbors, the mailman, and a boy in her freshman class down the street, watched as she soared textbook spread eagle through the air. Her hair flailed, as before, but less like Xena and more like the poor chick that just pissed Xena off. She struck the pavement with a thud, followed by a resisting skid accompanied by tearing sounds. The tearing of flesh as it clung to the pavement as her body slid on. Her body came to a rest, and she laid there. Not a sound, not a movement.
And then her afferent sensory fibers came screaming from her brain to reach her raw tissue, as she came screaming to her senses. Quite literally.
"MOOOOOMMMMMMYYYYYY!!!! AAAAHHHH AAAAHHHHH MOOOOOMMMMMYYYYY!!! MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY".
And there, in the middle of the street pronely plastered to the pavement was my 15 year old highschooler sister, screaming for her mommy to hold her in her time of death. She thought she was dying, and she had me convinced. I've killed many a bird, squirrell, and rabbit in my day, but I'd never heard any of those poor creatures scream so horribly in their deaths. So I just assumed that she was dying in a worse way.
And she continued to lay there, not moving her body, but screaming, over and over, "MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY!!!". She had reverted back to three years of age. My parents rushed over to her, and managed to peel her off the asphalt like a stubborn strip of IV tape. Swatches of Elizabeth's epidermis accessorized South College street, followed by the blood that freely flowed after the dam of flesh holding it back was removed. She was a bloody mess, with no skin left on either of her under forearms, knees, or chin. And still she screamed for her mommy. As my dad has since said, she "laid there in a pile screaming like a banshee."
For that day, with Elizabeth being a three year old, I was the eldest child. And in her pathetic state, I'm pretty sure I could have done anything better than her. Except for crash. She is the master.
Oh, and the bike was okay. Which is good. People heal, bikes not so much.
I have two sisters, Elizabeth, the old one, and Suzannah, the runt. This story is about Elizabeth Faye McCord, and they day we all thought she had breathed her last.
When I was in the 7th grade, I was a BMXer. I considered myself quite the two-wheeled wizard, as I could bunnyhop over a curb, and ride my bike down a full set of steep stairs behind our local hospital. In Siloam Springs, Arkansas, that is what the BMXers did. I had a blue Free Agent Maverick, and atop that puppy I was more Maverick than Tom Cruise could ever dream. I had pegs, front and back, to complete my ride, and although I never used them for anything but giving "pumps", I know I could have pulled a sweet 50/50 grind if only I'd had a good rail to thrash. I was what you call a "poseur".
Poseur or not, I was a much more skilled BMXer than Elizabeth. She thought otherwise. Of course she did, she could do anything better.
So, when I had made a ramp out of scrapwood, Elizabeth decided that ramping was easy. I had it down: go as fast as I could, then bunnyhop off the lip to get the most air and distance. I could glide like floss for a good 3,000 plus mms through the air, and land it every time.
So when Elizabeth told me that she could do it, I figured she could. She's my older sister, and was naturally gifted at doing everything better than me. I even let her ride Mav, my blue beauty.
Elizabeth rides a few laps around the block to get accustomed to my cycle, and I coach her up on standing up on the cranks and mashing 'em out to get to full speed. She didn't exactly reach mach 3, like her younger brother, but she got close enough to ramp. So when she was ready, I told her "pedal as fast as you can up to the ramp, then coast the last few feet. When you hit the ramp, pull up on the handlebars, and fly this mug like ET." She followed every step to a t... except one.
She was cruising. Even I was surprised at how fast she could pump those girl legs on the pedals. She was cruising well over the speed limit. Her red hair flailing in the wind like Xena on a stallion, she coasted the last few feet like Dave Mirra ready to take the X-games gold (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dave_Mirra for reference). She hit the ramp and started escalating up the incline at a higher than safe speed.
And then she froze. Oh, like an arachnophobe watching spiderman did she freeze. I made eye contact, but there was nothing there. She was glazed over in utter confusion and oncoming terror. She took a guess at the last moment; she had a 50-50 shot of being correct. Pull up on the handlebars, or push down. Up, Down. The demon on her left shoulder launched an angry bird over to the angel on her right and blew it away, then that evil little demon calmly told her to push down on the handlebars. She did. Quiet effectively.
Front tire nosediving into the pavement, it stopped on forceful contact. However, the rear of the bicycle continued on its arc, launching my helpless sister into the air, where she most definitely flew like a G6 (again, reference: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GvgJEznqtms). My entire family, a few neighbors, the mailman, and a boy in her freshman class down the street, watched as she soared textbook spread eagle through the air. Her hair flailed, as before, but less like Xena and more like the poor chick that just pissed Xena off. She struck the pavement with a thud, followed by a resisting skid accompanied by tearing sounds. The tearing of flesh as it clung to the pavement as her body slid on. Her body came to a rest, and she laid there. Not a sound, not a movement.
And then her afferent sensory fibers came screaming from her brain to reach her raw tissue, as she came screaming to her senses. Quite literally.
"MOOOOOMMMMMMYYYYYY!!!! AAAAHHHH AAAAHHHHH MOOOOOMMMMMYYYYY!!! MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY".
And there, in the middle of the street pronely plastered to the pavement was my 15 year old highschooler sister, screaming for her mommy to hold her in her time of death. She thought she was dying, and she had me convinced. I've killed many a bird, squirrell, and rabbit in my day, but I'd never heard any of those poor creatures scream so horribly in their deaths. So I just assumed that she was dying in a worse way.
And she continued to lay there, not moving her body, but screaming, over and over, "MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY!!!". She had reverted back to three years of age. My parents rushed over to her, and managed to peel her off the asphalt like a stubborn strip of IV tape. Swatches of Elizabeth's epidermis accessorized South College street, followed by the blood that freely flowed after the dam of flesh holding it back was removed. She was a bloody mess, with no skin left on either of her under forearms, knees, or chin. And still she screamed for her mommy. As my dad has since said, she "laid there in a pile screaming like a banshee."
For that day, with Elizabeth being a three year old, I was the eldest child. And in her pathetic state, I'm pretty sure I could have done anything better than her. Except for crash. She is the master.
Oh, and the bike was okay. Which is good. People heal, bikes not so much.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Here, kitty kitty kitty...
Went to the Sugar bowl this past week... I've never been to Naw'lins before, but it was a blast and a neat place to visit, although i'm gonna have to say its on my bottom 1 places in America to live.
The hogs loss was devastating, but I walked away from the game knowing that we have a great program and are only going to get better. I look forward to many more BCS games in the future. Go Hogs!
Luckily for all of you wonderful people, I got to spend about 11 hours in a car with my dad and sisters... which means we got to go over every stupid thing we've done/seen/experienced during our childhood. I took notes, and now have a long list of items to blog about for this year.
And now for week two, I'll revisit my old nemesis, Winston. Lets just say I wasn't the only one he took his aggressions out on... (beware, some of you may find this a bit gruesome...)
When my older sister Elizabeth turned 12, she decided to have a slumber party. Which means that our home was systematically invaded by about 15 adolescent girls. Which means that our home echoed with giggles, screams, and shrieks. Which means that Winston was pissed.
Winston, a grouchy old man, wanted none of it. He didn't like children, he didn't like noise, and he didn't like children that made noise, let alone bushel of them. So Winston spent the evening outside, grumbling to himself about the horrors of life with children.
Meanwhile, inside, all of Elizabeth's friends were in a circle in our living room telling horror stories. Each would take a turn, and each time they would all scream, then giggle, then repeat. Little did they know that their young eyes were about to witness a a horror far worse than any story they could conjure.
Outside, Winston began barking. And barking. And barking. Every once in a while he would growl, then continue barking. And barking. And barking.
Inside, the ghostly horror stories continued. Winston was simply a background noise in a soundtrack of scary stories and screams. That is, until one of Elizabeth's friends decided to see what old Winston was barking about. She peeked out the windows, and saw that Winston had cornered one of the neighbor's kittens in our fence. What does a little girl do when she sees a kitten in danger?
She screamed. Not knowing what she was screaming about, they all started screaming. She ran out the door. Not know what she was running out the door about, they all took off our the door, leaving our front yard full of screaming preteen girls, who by the time they were outside noticed the cornered kitten.
Apparently, Winston thought they wanted to steal his prize. I can tell you what he was thinking: "Daggum stupid sreaming preteens daggum want to steal my daggum cat! Well I ain't gonna let 'em! By george its my daggum cat, and I ain't gonna let 'em get my daggum cat dadgummit!"
So Winston beat them to the kitty. He bit. It hissed.
They screamed bloody horror as Winston locked jaws on the kitten and shook it back and forth like a ragdoll. They watched, frozen in fear, as Winston tore to shreds this poor baby animal that they just wanted to cuddle. The could do nothing as they all witnessed their first, and hopefully last, murder.
The night was somber after that. No more horror stories, because they had just witnessed horror itself. The girls were devastated.
I thought it was awesome. Call me an animal, a monster, a brute, but there is nothing cooler to a 10 year old boy than seeing a cat get eaten alive by your dog, especially when it happens in front of your sister and all of her stupid, annoying, screaming friends.
For that day, Winston was my hero.
The hogs loss was devastating, but I walked away from the game knowing that we have a great program and are only going to get better. I look forward to many more BCS games in the future. Go Hogs!
Luckily for all of you wonderful people, I got to spend about 11 hours in a car with my dad and sisters... which means we got to go over every stupid thing we've done/seen/experienced during our childhood. I took notes, and now have a long list of items to blog about for this year.
And now for week two, I'll revisit my old nemesis, Winston. Lets just say I wasn't the only one he took his aggressions out on... (beware, some of you may find this a bit gruesome...)
When my older sister Elizabeth turned 12, she decided to have a slumber party. Which means that our home was systematically invaded by about 15 adolescent girls. Which means that our home echoed with giggles, screams, and shrieks. Which means that Winston was pissed.
Winston, a grouchy old man, wanted none of it. He didn't like children, he didn't like noise, and he didn't like children that made noise, let alone bushel of them. So Winston spent the evening outside, grumbling to himself about the horrors of life with children.
Meanwhile, inside, all of Elizabeth's friends were in a circle in our living room telling horror stories. Each would take a turn, and each time they would all scream, then giggle, then repeat. Little did they know that their young eyes were about to witness a a horror far worse than any story they could conjure.
Outside, Winston began barking. And barking. And barking. Every once in a while he would growl, then continue barking. And barking. And barking.
Inside, the ghostly horror stories continued. Winston was simply a background noise in a soundtrack of scary stories and screams. That is, until one of Elizabeth's friends decided to see what old Winston was barking about. She peeked out the windows, and saw that Winston had cornered one of the neighbor's kittens in our fence. What does a little girl do when she sees a kitten in danger?
She screamed. Not knowing what she was screaming about, they all started screaming. She ran out the door. Not know what she was running out the door about, they all took off our the door, leaving our front yard full of screaming preteen girls, who by the time they were outside noticed the cornered kitten.
Apparently, Winston thought they wanted to steal his prize. I can tell you what he was thinking: "Daggum stupid sreaming preteens daggum want to steal my daggum cat! Well I ain't gonna let 'em! By george its my daggum cat, and I ain't gonna let 'em get my daggum cat dadgummit!"
So Winston beat them to the kitty. He bit. It hissed.
They screamed bloody horror as Winston locked jaws on the kitten and shook it back and forth like a ragdoll. They watched, frozen in fear, as Winston tore to shreds this poor baby animal that they just wanted to cuddle. The could do nothing as they all witnessed their first, and hopefully last, murder.
The night was somber after that. No more horror stories, because they had just witnessed horror itself. The girls were devastated.
I thought it was awesome. Call me an animal, a monster, a brute, but there is nothing cooler to a 10 year old boy than seeing a cat get eaten alive by your dog, especially when it happens in front of your sister and all of her stupid, annoying, screaming friends.
For that day, Winston was my hero.
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