The Adventures of LurryDean

What the Puck?

2010-04-01T18:59:00.000-07:00

In our last dive into the pensieve, Little Lurry had just had a stare into the Germanic Puck's icy-blue eyes - a peek into another soul that awakened a slumbering wolf pup named Puberty. The neighborhood was already teeming with wolf pups... Lurry was just the latest to join the pack. Trouble is also brewing on the horizon, so let's jump in and see what happens next. Ready? Let's go!

Lurry's Nose Gets Bent Out of WHACK!

Spring was warming the plains east of the Rockies, and passions were stirring in concert. Mr. Gypsy Feet spent less and less time at the blue and white ranch, his attention directed at his two main conquests - becoming a preacher and tickling the fancy of Mrs. Big Dallas Hair. Without proof of her husband's infidelity, Mrs. Firecracker had no choice but to find solace in another venue - her frenetic pursuit of the Wilton cake decorating crown. The parade of flavorless cakes "decorated" with even more flavorless frosting was unending. And yet, the day came that Mrs. Firecracker reached for the brass ring. Her teacher was due for an in-home visit to supervise construction of that most inedible of creations, pinnacle of the cake decorator's craft, the Wilton Wedding Cake.

The morning of that fateful day, I awoke to find our family kitchen had been laid out with every implement known to Wilton. Overnight, the red-headed fanatic had baked an incremental series of "vanilla" rounds, whipped copious amounts of powdered sugar and Crisco into bowls of (excuse me while I retch) frosting, cut dowels to stabilize her towering monstrosity, and had at long last taken a break... napping on the living room sofa. I surveyed the kitchen counter, expecting to find a brown paper lunch sack, but finding none, raced out the door to school. Unlike my siblings, I missed the note that instructed us to take "lunch money" and purchase a meal at the school cafeteria.

After school, I ran back to the blue and white ranch, ravenous after a day without sustenance. I entered the back door, started across the kitchen for a bite to eat, and was stopped cold by Mrs. Firecracker. "I specifically asked you kids not to disturb my afternoon cake decorating class!" she shouted. "Now go outside until supper time!" "But Mom," I whined, "I didn't have any lunch and I'm starving." "That's your own fault, Little Mister," she retorted. "I gave you kids lunch money! Now get out of my kitchen!"

I looked in her eyes, preparing to beg, but I saw that her face had flushed blood red. I swallowed my plea and walked toward my bedroom. Halfway down the hall, and forgetting for a moment that every mother possessed supersonic hearing, I uttered in the tiniest of whispers, "Shut. Up." A banshee wail rose up from the kitchen. As Mrs. Firecracker sprinted away after her devil child, she shrieked at the top of her lungs, "I HEARD THAT!"

She caught me in the hallway, left hand grabbing the front of my shirt, and CRACK! the first blow of her right hand landed across my face. Already crying, I sputtered, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." WHACK! went the second blow as her hand crossed my face in the opposite direction. CRACK! came another, and WHACK! CRUNCH! as the return trip was made (that last blow included the sound of my nose breaking). The succession of additional blows were peppered with future instructions, "Don't" CRACK! "You" WHACK! "EVER" CRACK! "Tell" Blood-splattering WHACK! "ME" Blood-splattering CRACK! "To" Blood-splattering WHACK! "Shut" Blood-splattering CRACK! "Up!" Blood-splattering WHACK! "Do you understand me," Blood-splattering CRACK! "Little Mister?" "Do you?!"

Blood gushing, tears streaming, I whimpered an answer to her last question, "Unh hunh." Her eyes unglazed for a moment, and then her face flushed red again. Mrs. Firecracker grabbed my shirt in both hands and proceeded to shake, wailing, "Look at what you've made me do! I'm trying to finish a wedding cake!" Once the shaking stopped, she dragged me into her bedroom and forced me down on my knees at the foot of her bed. Oblivious to the bloody mess I was now making on her bedspread, she knelt down beside me and instructed me to pray for forgiveness. "Ask the Lord to forgive you for making me lose my temper, and ask Him for forgiveness for ruining my wedding cake."

Even then, a bloody mess at the foot of my mother's bed, I found humor in this situation. I knew better than to laugh, and calculated that in order to end this episode, I needed to do what she asked, but thought to myself, "I'm supposed to ask forgiveness for YOU losing YOUR temper? I don't think it works that way." Not confident in my ability to create a fresh prayer on the fly, I resorted to a modified version of the old standby. "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name..." I prayed, in the accent provided by my newly arranged nasal passages. I finished the prayer with, "Please forgive Mom for losing her temper and ruining her cake, amen." Mrs. Firecracker stood up and inhaled deeply through her fully functioning nasal passages. "Get a bucket and clean up this mess," she instructed. "I've got to finish my wedding cake." She straightened her back and marched back to the Land o' Wilton.

I soaked a washcloth in cold water and laid down on my back on the bathroom floor, waiting for the nosebleed to stop. Whether from shock or not, I'll never know, but once I was erasing the evidence of my beating, I couldn't stop laughing. Thank the Good Lord, she either turned off her supersonic hearing or ignored my laughter while she finished her Crisco and powdered sugar creation.

When Mr. Gypsy Feet arrived that night, he got the rundown on the afternoon events, and proceeded to remind me, "You should know better than to make Mother angry." As he placed a tea towel over the terrified face of his youngest son, he repeated the ever popular statement, "We can't afford another trip to the doctor." He gripped the back of my head and grunted, pressing the tea towel on the bridge of my nose, "It should just... POP! into place." "There... all better now," he congratulated himself on his back woods medical skill. I ran back to the bathroom... another cold compress was in order.

For supper that night, nothing less than insult was added to injury. "It's good for your blood," she pronounced, as Mrs. Firecracker served up my least favorite meal, liver and onions with lima beans. She grinned broadly at her success in getting my goat... perhaps she hadn't turned off her supersonic hearing after all. My post-traumatic laughter had not gone unnoticed. I decided over liver and lima beans that I no longer had any choice. I would have to deploy my secret weapon. That night, I penned a letter to none other than the greatest of supermen, Uncle Hero (more on that in a future installment).

Puck to the Rescue

The next morning, and for the next few weeks, Lurry's raccoon eyes garnered him an extraordinary amount of Puck's attention. Upon sight of his school mate's face, Puck exclaimed, "Little Buddy! What happened? Are you all right? Who did this to you? Did someone pick on you? Who is it? I'll beat the shit outta him!" Puck's questions came so fast, I couldn't respond to them all. I cherry-picked and answered, half-chuckling, "Nobody beat me up. I told my mother to shut up and she broke my nose." Puck held me at arm's length, surveyed my face again, and burst out laughing. "Little Buddy, that's the bravest thing I've ever heard!" He pulled me into an embrace, and whispered in my ear, "If I ever told my mother to shut up, my father would..." and his voice trailed off. Puck's embrace said more than I believe he intended. Puck was no stranger to a harsh beating. "Never mind that," Puck continued. "I'll watch out for you, Little Buddy."

During daylight hours and true to his word, Puck never let his "Little Buddy" out of sight. This tall Viking walked with me to school, he saved a place for me at his lunch table, he insisted I stay after school to watch him at baseball practice, and afterward he walked me home. Puck was the antithesis of his brawny peers - they were mean, tough, and threatened - he was funny, strong, and confident. The usual suspects couldn't resist Puck's confidence, and his "Little Buddy" was just the focus they needed to call him out. In answer to each challenge, Puck stood his ground, gave fair warning, and proceeded to pound the aggressor. Puck sometimes walked away bloodied, but he always walked away a champion.

Nuclear Meltdown

Spring was losing her blush, but before relinquishing her crown, she decided she would drench the Testosterone Forest in tears. Rain fell for two solid weeks, and lacking outdoor time, the pack dogs were going crazy. One of those rainy nights, Mrs. Firecracker announced that she needed Mr. Gypsy Feet to take her on a shopping trip. What little was left of the child in Lurry perked up at this announcement, and after supper, Little Lurry snuck out the back door. He squirreled himself away in The Precious, thinking to surprise his parental units and accompany them on the shopping excursion.

The scheme didn't go off as planned however, as I waited 10 minutes, then 20 minutes, then a half-hour, and still no one else came to the car. I was determined to wait it out, and out of boredom started looking for change under the car seats. With my left hand, I reached under the driver's seat and felt something in a crisp paper bag. I pulled out the bag, and examined the contents. It was getting dark and I couldn't make out the exact words, but it was a vinyl LP entitled something something Love Songs. Thinking I was spoiling a surprise that had been purchased for Mrs. Firecracker, I slipped the LP back into the bag and put it back where I found it. I waited another 10 minutes, but gave up and went back into the house.

I was so crestfallen that my scheme hadn't been successful, I decided that I would at least confess my idea and get a laugh out of the story. That idea quickly dissipated as I entered a house where the atmosphere could have been cut with a knife. Mrs. Firecracker and Mr. Gypsy Feet had obviously been having words, and were well into a stiff-lipped stare down. "I'm bored. Can we play a game?" whined Younger Sister. "No," came Mrs. Firecracker's curt response. "Can we watch TV?" asked Next-Older Brother. "No. It's bedtime. Go to bed," responded Mr. Gypsy Feet. (It was 7 o'clock on a Saturday night... not even bad kids were sent to bed at 7 on a Saturday night.)

I looked at Oldest Brother, who was shaking his head, trying in vain to get his siblings to button their lips and let the storm blow over. I foolishly ignored his instruction and awkwardly blurted out, "Can we at least listen to Mom's new record album?" "What new album, Honey?" asked Mrs. Firecracker, never once breaking her stare into Mr. Gypsy Feet's eyes. "Something something Love Songs," I replied. "It's in Dad's car, under the front seat."

Mr. Gypsy Feet blinked, and in that moment his fate was sealed. "You RAT! How could you?" asked Mrs. Firecracker, as she stood up and started for her bedroom. "But, but, Honey," Mr. Gypsy feet muttered, stumbling for his next words. "That album IS for you, Honey," he proclaimed, desperately wanting her to believe his lie. Mrs. Firecracker stopped dead in her tracks, and spun around. Four Munchkins stood, watching in horror as the last of their mother's sanity drained from her face. Mrs. Firecracker let out what was all at once a screech, a wail, and a cry, "YOU ARE THE PRINCE OF LIES! THAT RECORD IS NOT FOR ME!"

From that point, the interaction only degraded. Mr. Gypsy Feet ran after Mrs. Firecracker, pleading with her to open the bedroom door. Oldest Brother announced that the Munchkins should go to bed. We all looked at each other and agreed. We had lived through many a long argumentative night, but this one felt different. Our suspicions were confirmed, but not until the following day. We awoke the next morning to be told by Mr. Gypsy Feet that Mrs. Firecracker had suffered "a breakdown" and that she would be in the hospital for the next several days.

Puck to the Rescue, Again

It might seem odd, but Mrs. Firecracker's hospital stay - which was not several days, but 4 weeks - was a bit of a relief. Mr. Gypsy Feet stayed busy with whatever kept him busy, and the Munchkins had friends and pseudo-adoptive families more than willing to take us in for a night or two at a time. Once the rain abated, Puck seized the opportunity to create a wolf pack camping club, and pitched a large tent in his back yard. He secured his mother's permission, and invited several sixth grade compatriots for a sleepover. Many a sixth grader enjoyed his first sword fight and romped naked as a jaybird in Puck's Magical Tent. Being around Puck made boys lose their inhibitions, and, while not the most accurate of teachers, Puck dispensed knowledge that none of us yet possessed.

Almost 40 years later, I still laugh at the "knowledge" that Puck shared in the Magical Tent. I'd say eighty percent of his information was accurate, but he totally missed the mark on the remaining twenty percent. I'll spare my readers the details of Puck's teachings, but I'll remind you that we were all pubescent and under-informed boys.

Puck didn't need to exercise his influence to get the wolf pack to double-up in sleeping bags. We lived on the Eastern Slope of the Colorado Rockies... even in late spring, it got really, really cold at night. No surprise, Puck crawled into the sleeping bag with his Little Buddy. Buried in that sleeping bag, he put his arm around me, and nuzzled the back of my neck with his nose. I shivered in response, but needed an answer to one more question. I turned my head and whispered my question in Puck's ear. Softly, Puck laughed, but he didn't hesitate. He whispered his answer back. I giggled, but didn't ask any more questions. I nuzzled back up against Puck and slept, content, for the first of many nights in Puck's Magical Tent.

Epilogue: I've told this story before, up to and including the sword fights in Puck's Magical Tent, but I've never told about the question I asked nor Puck's answer. It may seem silly, but I have always considered that exchange to be a secret. In case you're out there, Puck, rest assured... the secret is still safe with me.

A House is not a Home (Part VI)

2010-03-31T13:46:00.000-07:00

Welcome back, dear readers. It's been a while since we last visited the house full o' crazy, but there's lots more story to tell. Little Lurry is poised on the Ledge of Puberty - Oldest Brother and Next-Older Brother were already blazing ahead on that trail - and the paper-thin veil of Puritanical Repression is about to be lifted from Little Lurry's eyes. Let's jump back into the story and see what transpires as Little Lurry wakes up from the daze of losing his Princely Companion.

I woke up to the harsh smell of ammonia - smelling salts would have been a luxury for this Circus Troupe - Mrs. Firecracker had soaked a dishrag in household ammonia and held it up to my nose. "Now get up and stop acting silly," Mrs. Firecracker said. "Go outside and play so I can finish getting supper ready for your father." (Supper, as it was known in our world, was apparently only prepared to appease the beast known as The Man of the House.)

I didn't often disobey Mrs. Firecracker, but she had just announced that she had murdered my canine companion. I walked off in a daze toward the Tallywhacker Brothers' bedroom, sobbing over Prince's untimely demise. In a flash of Irish Anger, Mrs. Firecracker came up behind me, seized my collar, dragged me to the back door, and pushed me into the back yard. Her next shrill words still echo in my head... "Don't you EVER disobey me! I said, 'GO OUTSIDE!' He was JUST A DOG!" Just a dog... just a dog... just a dog.

Weeks passed, and Little Lurry went through the motions of Sixth Grade life. Up in the morning, off to school. At every opportunity, he squirreled himself away from his school and neighborhood companions, embracing only the solace of books. At last, and unannounced, numbness to pain arrived, and Little Lurry regained full consciousness. He rejoined the Land of the Living, once again romping with Puck and the boys. From that day forward, however, no dog ever came within 20 paces of Little Lurry who did not receive an adoring nuzzle.

Once Little Lurry was back into full swing, it was time for Oldest Brother and Next-Older Brother to stir up fresh trouble... the pair of Junior High School gymnasts decided that the low roof of the midnight blue and white was the perfect launching point for Blue-Eyed Lefty's gymnastic career. Little did they know (or care) that their youngest brother went jelly-legged at heights above 6 feet. Once each, they demonstrated the roof-jumping feat, cajoled Puck and his younger brother to do the same, and the four of them dared Little Lurry to scale the height and do the same. (Side note: One might see where this story is going, and one might think that Little Lurry would have learned not to take future dares. One would be wrong, as one will learn in The Further Adventures of LurryDean.)

Little Lurry surveyed the height from which his compatriots had recently jumped, and from the ground, it didn't appear too intimidating. From the roof, however, the landing point looked perilously far down and away. Little Lurry got the jelly legs and backed away from the roof ledge, wanting desperately for the feel of solid ground. This just upped the ante, Next-Older Brother saying, "Don't be afraid. Watch me. I'll do it again," and he leapt fearlessly to the ground. It certainly seemed easy when Next-Older Brother did it, so I edged forward and steeled myself for the jump. I must have stalled a fraction of a second too long, because a reassuring hand moved from my shoulder to my back and a little shove sealed the deal.

No surprise, I flailed to the ground, landed wrong, my right ankle taking the brunt of the impact. Puck, his younger brother, and Oldest Brother simultaneously landed like flighted superheroes, and I was lifted to my feet by the Germanic Puck. He lifted my right arm over his shoulder, reached around me with his left, and steadied me, his right hand on my chest. Dazed, I heard Oldest Brother ask, "You're not gonna tell Mom, are you?" Next-Older Brother said, "You should have rolled like I showed you." And Puck's younger brother said, "I'm going home, Puck." These voices were background noise. I looked into the icy-blue stare of Puck as he asked, "Are you all right?" "Let me help you, Little Buddy" he said, walking me slowly to the covered patio.

Oldest Brother and Next-Older Brother bounded off, in a failed attempt to intercept Puck's little brother. Puck navigated me to a chair, gently unlaced my shoe and removed the shoe and sock. Knelt down and holding my swelling ankle, he looked up at me. A tear welled in his eye and rolled down his cheek. He slowly laid my leg back on the ottoman, and attempted to regain his composure. I was sure he was going to run off after the others, but he took two steps forward and brought my head to his chest, stroked my hair, and reassured me, "You're going to be okay, Little Buddy. You're going to be okay."

Puck's mother shattered onto the scene, trailed by her youngest son and my two older brothers. "What's going on, Puck? Is he hurt?" she asked. "Boys, where's your mother?" she asked Oldest Brother and Next-Older Brother. "At work, but she should be home soon," they replied. "Puck, get me some ice and a towel," she instructed her oldest son.

Puck went into the house with Oldest Brother to fetch ice, but only Puck returned. Oldest Brother had heard the arrival of Mrs. Firecracker and headed out front to slow her approach. Ever the diplomat, Oldest Brother thought that an explanation would help Mrs. Firecracker remain calm, but no dice. She burst out the back door, surveyed the scene and announced that she would "take it from here." Seeing the sparks in Mrs. Firecracker's eyes, Puck's mom gathered up her boys and exited, stage left.

"Boys, get your brother loaded into the car," Mrs. Firecracker barked at my older brothers. "We can't afford it, but I'm taking him to the hospital for x-rays." The last announcement was for my benefit... "we can't afford it." On the 20-minute drive to the hospital emergency room, I must have heard that phrase a hundred times. Little did she realize it, but oft-repeating her mantra only tempted the god Loki - Mrs. Firecracker would have called him Old Snitch - to plot another wave of mischief.

Upon examination at the emergency room, Doctor Zorders pronounced Little Lurry to be the proud owner of a mildly sprained ankle. Not satisfied with this diagnosis, Mrs. "We Can't Afford It" Firecracker insisted that an x-ray be taken. She didn't want a break to go unnoticed and "fester" (one of her favorite words), requiring the amputation of Little Lurry's leg. (Let it be noted that Mrs. Firecracker foresaw a future in which spider bites and other minor injuries could only conclude in the bleakest of outcomes - the loss of an appendage. To this day, I see Black Widow spiders and I shudder.)

Loki guided Doctor Zorders' hand as he dutifully wrote up a prescription for an x-ray of Little Lurry's right arm. You heard it right, kids. Right arm, not right ankle. As Lurry was wheeled into the x-ray chambers, Loki averted the x-ray tech's eyes from Lurry's clinically wrapped right ankle, the pair of crutches across the arms of his wheelchair, and the tech proceeded to x-ray Lurry's right arm. I was puzzled, but rationalized that they were checking up on the famed magical Monkey Paw. Needless to say, my arm was pronounced completely healed... a miracle! After Doctor Zorders enjoyed a blistering Round 2 with Mrs. Firecracker, Little Lurry visited the x-ray chambers again, confirming that indeed his ankle was simply sprained and not broken. As I recall, I used the crutches for one day before they were no longer necessary.

Stay tuned, kids... there's more to come in the next installment, which can only be entitled "What the Puck?" Look for another tale in The Adventures of LurryDean soon.

A House is not a Home (Part V)

2009-09-05T10:17:00.000-07:00

In our last episode, the Munchkins were set up to serve the remainder of the summer as unwitting cover while Mr. Gypsy Feet practiced spinning cotton candy with the college dean's wife, Mrs. Big Dallas Hair. Little Lurry still had some growing up to do... he was oblivious to the purpose of Mr. Gypsy Feet's use of the Munchkins, and trouble is brewing on the horizon. These next couple of episodes are much harder to write, but we need to get through them and over to the other side. Swan dive into the pensieve anyone?

True to his word, Mr. Gypsy Feet moved the Circus Troupe for a fourth time since he "got religion," this time to a midnight blue and white, L-shaped ranch house. (Considering how often we moved, one would suspect that Mr. Gypsy Feet was in a witness protection program.) This new house was so close to the last that (for once) the Munchkins didn't have to change schools, and wonder of wonders, one of Lurry's best friends lived down the end of our block! This was bonus, as I didn't lose all my friends and have to seek a replacement set.

The latest move proved to be a mixture of good and bad in other ways. At the prior house, my canine companion's living quarters were in the back yard, behind a 6-foot wooden plank fence. Neighborhood goons would ride their bikes along the sidewalk and rake a stick down the fence, driving my poor guy crazy. At the blue and white ranch, the back yard was fenced by chain link, so at least my guy could see what was happening around him. Therein, however, lay the rub...

Across the alley behind the blue and white, our neighbors raised rabbits. And by neighbors, I mean cold-blooded butchers. These cruel fucks used to demonstrate their lack of humanity with a machete. One of the butchers would reach into the rabbit warren, pull a rabbit out by the ears, and hack at the poor animal's neck 'til it died. I witnessed the butchery numerous times, as my guy would sound the alarm at the first of the rabbit screams. I would run to Prince and let him escape into the blue and white's enclosed porch. Safe with his human companion, we both learned to shut out the screams and the horror.

I petitioned both Mrs. Firecracker and Mr. Gypsy Feet, in an effort to get them to do something, anything about the butchers across the alley, but neither would budge. They both agreed that the behavior was cruel, but they parroted one of their favorite church mantras, "It's not our place to judge." Mrs. Firecracker recommended that I pray to the Lord to intervene. Increasingly, this was Mrs. Firecracker's answer to any adverse situation. Jesus was her invisible companion, and the Munchkins were instructed to behave as if He was always in the room. Well, if Jesus was always in the room, the next year was going to prove one hell of an eye-opener.

This new neighborhood was heavily populated with two magnificent creatures... athletic boys and their canine companions. Oldest Brother had a school mate who lived three houses up and across the street, and Oldest Brother's mate had a younger brother and a Retriever. Next-Older Brother had a school mate who lived two houses down on our side of the street, and Next Older Brother's mate added an older brother, an English Terrier, and a Chihuahua to the party. My school mate, a Germanic blond we'll call Puck, lived at the end of the block and across the street, and he had a younger brother and a German Shepherd that were added to the bubbling cauldron. It was a magical summer in the Testosterone Forest, where every boy had a brother, and every brother had a dog.

On any given summer day, the Testosterone Forest teemed with 9 skateboarding boys and their 5 cheerleading dogs; on the next, 9 foot-racing boys and their 5 pace-setting dogs; and the next, 9 baseball-playing boys and 5 baseball-stealing dogs. Under joint leadership of the family gymnasts, Oldest Brother and Next-Older Brother, the neighborhood gang foot-raced, long-jumped, back-flipped, and skateboarded our way through the Summer of '71. Younger Sister ran with a similar pack of young Amazons, but during daylight hours, our worlds seldom overlapped.

As Summer transitioned into Fall, things became less friendly between the parental units. Mr. Gypsy Feet began to disappear for hours at a time and did not account for his absences. Mrs. Firecracker suspected he was up to something, and their dinner conversations often degraded into heated, closed-door arguments. Not surprisingly, Mr. Gypsy Feet suggested that Mrs. Firecracker needed to "get out more often," and he encouraged her to find a hobby or re-enter the workforce. Since the Munchkins were back in school, and Oldest Brother was deemed old enough to babysit, Mrs. Firecracker did both -- she enrolled in a cake decorating class and took a part-time job.

It seemed to happen overnight, but life at home was no longer fun. The change in Mrs. Firecracker's routine did little to divert her attention from Mr. Gypsy Feet's mysterious disappearances, and when they encountered each other, they argued much more frequently. Unprepared as we were to understand these adult issues, each of the Munchkins engaged one or more psychological self-defense mechanisms. Boyhood Lurry employed obfuscation, pretending that the arguments weren't happening. I immersed myself in school homework, I voraciously read escapist fiction, and at night I sought refuge with my dog, in a sleeping bag far away from the sound of my parents' voices.

The fact that I found refuge in Prince's company did not escape the notice of Mrs. Firecracker. Many an early morning, I was awoken with, "It's not natural to sleep with the dog. Now put the sleeping bag away and put that dog outside!" One day, I mistakenly defended the comfort of my Prince, and was told through clenched teeth, "Put. That. Dog. Outside... or he won't live to see another Sunday!" The fiery look in Mrs. Firecracker's eyes would have toasted bread at twenty paces. I obeyed her command, and escorted my friend to the back yard. I explained to my sweet Prince that Mrs. Firecracker hadn't been herself lately, and promised that things would be better soon.

The day before Halloween was a Saturday that year, and in this new neighborhood, extraordinary mischief took place on what was known as Beggars' Night. Teenagers went Trick or Treating the night before Halloween, and if they weren't rewarded with treats, they threw raw eggs at cars and houses up and down the block. On Sunday morning, Mr. Gypsy Feet discovered that The Precious (his gas-guzzling Chrysler) had taken a few cackleberries to the hood. Incensed at the indignity, he hustled the Tallywhacker Brothers out of bed, and instructed them to meet him in the alley. In order to preserve her paint job, we were to hand wash The Precious before Sunday church services.

With car washing implements and buckets of lukewarm soapy water, Oldest Brother, Next-Older Brother, and I trudged out the back door, across the back yard, and into the alley. As Mr. Gypsy Feet drove up the alley, we pointed out that three bicycles had been stripped of wheels and gears -- the carcasses discarded in our alley for us to discover. The day was destined to progress from bad to worse. Mr. Gypsy Feet hopped the fence to go bark orders at Mrs. Firecracker. "I want the Sheriff here, and I want him here now!" he shouted at her through the back door. My Prince was convinced that all the activity indicated playtime, and stealing a car wash sponge, he began to run around the yard. He begged his boy to join in the chase.

As one might imagine, an investigation surrounding 3 stolen and stripped bicycles was not high on the county sheriff's weekend agenda. Mr. Gypsy Feet grumbled to himself as he paced up and down the alley, but his rain dance failed to produce the county sheriff. Fuming, he instructed Mrs. Firecracker to stay home with the children and wait for the sheriff -- he and The Precious drove to church alone that Sunday. A stiff-lipped Mrs. Firecracker marched the Munchkins into the living room, unzipped her Holy Bible, and proceeded to home school her congregants on the inherent evil of thieving teenagers and Halloween. "Halloween is a witches' holiday, and good Christians should never celebrate with the Devil," she explained. Behind our older brothers, Younger Sister and I mouthed, "Is she crazy?" to each other as Mrs. Firecracker quoted Exodus from her pebbled, white leather King James version of the Holy Word. "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."

I heard a sharp yelp from the back yard. Prince's cry had interrupted her bizarre diatribe, but Mrs. Firecracker insisted that we sit still and contemplate this timely information. She would determine what had caused the backyard ruckus and return shortly. As she exited the back door, the Munchkins bolted for the windows at the back of the house. (Mrs. Firecracker didn't know it yet, but the events of the past several months had engendered independent thought in her offspring. Blind obedience was no longer part of the mix.) As we learned by spying from our windows, the sheriff had found it unnecessary to announce his arrival. He had driven his cruiser up the alley and hopped the backyard fence. Confronted by a growling Prince, Sheriff Dickless had demonstrated the extent of his dicklessness. Mrs. Firecracker was informed, "You deal with that dog, or next time it won't be a kick to the ribs, it'll be a bullet from my gun."

Mrs. Firecracker spent another 5 minutes with Sheriff Dickless. They chattered back and forth, he scribbled a few notes in his notebook, and demonstrating his extraordinary dedication to community service, tossed the bicycle frames into our trash bins. The entire episode had been a colossal waste of time. Sheriff Dickless put his fat ass back in the cruiser and sped off in search of his next donut. Four disobedient, but wise youngsters scrambled back to the living room, and struck a duly prayerful posture before Mrs. Firecracker's return. Fortunately for us, Mrs. Firecracker's encounter with Sheriff Dickless had shaken her composure. The Munchkins were released without further penance.

That night, Mr. Gypsy Feet and Mrs. Firecracker had a lot to say to each other, and apparently each thought the other was hard of hearing... the entire extended "conversation" was conducted at 80 decibels. While the argument raged, my siblings and I took turns Trick or Treating and manning the household candy bowl. Someone had to dispense treats to our visiting neighbors. Once the Halloween festivities came to a close, Prince and I snuggled up in my sleeping bag, far away from the angry end of the house.

At school the next day, I was as proud as any other of my Halloween haul. The first school day after Halloween involved the great candy swap -- everyone bartered for their favorite treats, and pity the child who brought candy corn to market.

On my return home, I discovered a hole had been rent in my universe. As always, I walked home from school, hopped the back yard fence, expecting to be greeted by my Prince. This day, no canine friend bounded up to greet me. I entered the back door, and called to my dog, "Pri-i-nce! I'm ho-o-me!"

Mrs. Firecracker was preparing dinner in the kitchen. "He's not here anymore," she said. "What do you mean?" I replied. "We had to put him down. He was a menace to the community. Your father and I took him to animal control today. He's gone," she announced. I looked at her, square in the face, and realized she was telling the truth. She didn't shed a tear. She was stern and unmoved by the news she delivered.

"A year and a half old," I thought to myself as I collapsed... out cold on the kitchen floor.

A House is not a Home (Part IV)

2009-06-19T19:42:00.000-07:00

In our last pair of vacation installments, Little Lurry had the pleasure of introducing you to his two Grandmas. Both lovable, powerful women in their own right, but near polar opposites. Well, as all good things, even Great Summer Vacations must come to an end... so let's rejoin the Circus Troupe, wrap up the journey, and see what happens next. Floating gently downward, catch your breath, and into the swirling pensieve we go.

Nearing the end of our 2-week Great Summer Vacation, the Munchkins were instructed to pack their bags for the journey back. Once again, we were to return to the shadow of Pike's Peak. Bags packed, the Munchkins began to board The Precious, but Little Lurry stalled a bit... he had one more task to perform. Grabbing something from his gym bag, he ran up to give Grandma Sweetness another hug. Putting his souvenir desert rose in her hand, he whispered in her ear, "Don't forget about me." Grandma Sweetness examined the treasure in her hand, and struggling to hold back a tear, kissed Little Lurry's cheek, and whispered back, "Not possible. Now get going before you make this ol' gal break down and cry."

Puppy dog eyes peering out the back window of The Precious, the Munchkins waved goodbye as Mr. Gypsy Feet hit the gas. We zoomed off and out of sight. The Tallywhacker Brothers caught up on some long overdue paperback adventures, and Sister Sue busied herself braiding Skipper's hair. In order to collapse the return journey into one long stretch, Mr. Gypsy Feet and Mrs. Firecracker took turns with the driving. Given the occasional stop for food, fuel, and bladder relief, we were back in the Conifer and Aspen forests by sun up the following day.

Thinking we had arrived back at the half-brick house on a hill, the Munchkins rubbed their sleepy eyes, stretched, yawned, and did a cartoon-like double take. We weren't in the shadow of Pike's Peak, but rolling down a gravel drive toward an unfamiliar A-frame in the mountains. Could it be that the Great Summer Vacation hadn't ended? Mrs. Firecracker announced that the vacation of a thousand relations would not be complete until we had met one more set of cousins. As we pulled to a stop and popped out of all four doors, Mrs. Firecracker rushed up the wooden stairs and into the embrace of a black-haired beauty, an unmistakable daughter of Grandma Annie Oakley.

Aunt Beauty, the first of Grandma Annie Oakley's offspring, and her tall cowboy, Uncle Lumberjack, gave big hugs to the Munchkins, and escorted the Circus Troupe into their mountain home. Uncle Lumberjack offered juice and coffee all around, while Aunt Beauty went back to the front door, put her thumb and middle finger to her lips, gave a sharp whistle, and barked one word, "Nick!" Within seconds, a magnificent, short-cropped, black Standard poodle bounded up onto the landing and into Aunt Beauty's home. One by one, he lifted his paws to let Aunt Beauty wipe his feet, and then paraded through the house to greet each of the new arrivals.

Smelling breakfast, Aunt Beauty's three pajama-clad and curly, black-haired progeny made their way downstairs and we were introduced - Cousin Beauty Junior - the college-bound spitting image of her mother, Cousin Quarterback - a broad-shouldered high school athlete whose smile reminded me of Uncle Hero, and Cousin Tomboy - the baby of the brood and apple of her Daddy's eye. Apparently, inclusion in this happy family came with a uniform, jet black, curly hair and a smile as wide as the Grand Canyon.

Cousin Quarterback took the Munchkins out for a hike after breakfast, and we trekked up one side and down the other of Aunt Beauty's mountain. Curly Nick was our constant companion, assisting Cousin Quarterback with the shepherding duty. We returned to the A-frame in the afternoon, and the stopover ended as quickly as it had begun... Mr. Gypsy Feet was itching to hit the road again. The Munchkins said goodbye to another set of cousins, and once again piled aboard The Precious.

On this last leg of the Great Summer Vacation, Little Lurry pondered the wealth of relations he had encountered in these last two weeks. It seemed strange that we lived so close to Aunt Beauty, but until that stopover, I never even knew that she had a husband and children. I wondered why, if Uncle Hero had settled so close to where we lived, that we hadn't heard of his arrival. These thoughts rolled over in my head until I remembered, less than an hour to go, and I was going to be reunited with my sweet dog Prince! I missed my little friend - I couldn't believe I had been away from him for two whole weeks - but I knew he'd been treated well... "Uncle" Eugene was on the case.

We made a quick stop on the way into town, picked up my canine friend, thanked Uncle Eugene for the assist, and headed back to the half-brick house on a hill. We pulled our cargo from the trunk of The Precious, and the Munchkins busied themselves sorting out things to be washed and treasures to be hidden. Mr. Gypsy Feet announced that he was going out to bring home dinner, and that he wanted to "speak to us all" at dinner that night. On that ominous note, he left to hunt up a bucket of fried chicken and a bag full of biscuits. Younger Sister helped Mrs. Firecracker set the table for dinner, Oldest Brother and Next-Older Brother took the opportunity to go read for a while, and Little Lurry spent the next hour telling Prince all about his Great Summer Adventures.

Mr. Gypsy Feet returned with dinner, and we gathered around the table for a fervent and long-winded prayer over the meal, delivered by the Reverend-in-training. Mr. Gypsy Feet had two messages to deliver over dinner. First, since the Munchkins were now "so grown up," he believed that we should all start learning how to earn a living. Sister Sue was informed that she would begin earning her keep as a babysitter, and the Tallywhacker Brothers were to be hired out on lawn service detail. "You mean, we're going to do what we've done every Summer, but get paid for it now?" thought Little Lurry. Secondly, and Mr. Gypsy Feet braced himself to deliver this piece of news, "We have one week to pack the house. We're moving to a new home next weekend."

I believe Mr. Gypsy Feet expected a more emotional reaction to his news. The best he got was a semi-snarky, "Where to this time?" from Oldest Brother. Once Mr. Gypsy Feet realized that no one was phased by the announcement, he mumbled a reply to Oldest Brother, "Four or five blocks away from here. You won't even have to change schools this time." Then, recovering a bit, "Oh, and you'll start your new Summer jobs tomorrow. The College Dean has hired you to babysit his children, mow his lawn, do the edging, and dig dandelions. That's one job for each of you." Younger Sister and I looked across the table at each other... "Tomorrow?" we mouthed at each other. The rest of the night was gone before we knew it, and the Munchkins jumped into beds and dreamt of our vacation adventures.

Early that next morning, Mr. Gypsy Feet repeated his favorite wake up stunt. "Up and at 'em!" he shouted, flipped on the bedroom lights, and whipped the covers off our beds. "Time's a wasting," he announced. "We've got to be at the Dean's house by 8:30." Mrs. Firecracker was in the kitchen, making waffles for breakfast. By the time the entire Circus Troupe had eaten, washed up, brushed teeth, and dressed, the clock was showing nearly 8:00. "C'mon kids, we don't want to be late," said Mr. Gypsy Feet. The Munchkins trailed after their father, and hopped aboard The Precious.

It was a lengthy drive across town, and we pulled into the Dean's driveway, just as the Dean was pulling his Cadillac out of the garage. Mr. Gypsy Feet paraded the Munchkins over for a round of introductions. The Dean leaned out of his window to shake hands with each of us, being careful not to muss his Preacher's Pompadour. That chore completed, the Dean put his Cadillac in reverse, backed out of the drive, and sped off into the distance. Mr. Gypsy Feet turned to us, and with a stern look said, "Now, all of you, be on your best behavior. You're here to do a job. No monkeyshines." With that we were marched up to the front door, Mr. Gypsy Feet rang the doorbell, and we were introduced to Mrs. Big Dallas Hair.

Mrs. Big Dallas Hair invited the Munchkins into her expansive home. We were quickly escorted past a large formal living room, a huge kitchen, and down a flight of stairs, to a room as big as a dance hall. This was the "family room" in which Younger Sister was to babysit the children. "There will be no need for the children to go upstairs," explained Mrs. Big Dallas Hair. "If they need anything, there's a refrigerator over here, and a restroom down the hall. All of their toys are in storage bins in the family room."

The Tallywhacker Brothers were swept out the sliding glass doors, onto the back patio, and out to a shed as big as a garage. "Here is where you'll find all the lawn maintenance doo dads," said Mrs. Big Dallas Hair. Next-Older Brother put his hand over his eyes, looked out over the rolling, grassy hills and asked, "Which yard is yours?" "Why, all of it, silly!" Mrs. Big Dallas Hair replied. "And if you do a good job on the lawn, you'll earn five dollars. You can split the money among yourselves any way you like." Oldest Brother, Next-Older Brother, and I looked at each other, and a silent thought crossed all of our minds... this was going to take all day.

Mr. Gypsy Feet and Mrs. Big Dallas Hair went back into the mansion, while the Tallywhacker Brothers got to work. An hour or so later, we went back up to the house to ask for something to drink, and Younger Sister informed us that Mrs. Big Dallas Hair had left a pitcher of lemonade in the "family room" refrigerator. Younger Sister had been given strict instructions that we were not to come into the house, as we were sure to track grass and mud on the carpet. She would bring us each a glass of lemonade, but we were to stay out on the patio.

We never thought we'd see the end to the College Dean's lawn, but after several hours, it was finally complete. We put away the equipment, closed up the shed, and headed back up to the house to announce completion of the job. Younger Sister, playing the indoor monkey to the hilt, brought each of us a sandwich, and explained that Mr. Gypsy Feet and Mrs. Big Dallas Hair had "gone out for coffee," and that we were to wait for Mr. Gypsy Feet on the back patio. We had no other choice - forbidden to enter the house - we waited. And waited. And waited some more.

Eventually, Mother Nature called to the Tallywhacker Brothers. Oldest Brother announced that, since we couldn't go into the house, he was going to have to find someplace to pee. Next-Older Brother and I followed our older sibling to the back side of the shed, and we finally found relief. I could tell my older brothers were upset with the wait, but Next-Older Brother decided to spell out his frustration. Rather than relieving himself discretely at the base of a shrub, Next-Older Brother began peeing his name across the side of College Dean's shed. Older Brother and I looked on in shock, but within seconds, all three of us had the giggles, and we all started writing words across the shed. With that out of our systems, we headed back up to the patio to wait. And wait. And wait.

Finally, at mid-afternoon, Mr. Gypsy Feet came around the side of the College Dean's home, and announced that he would need to inspect the quality of the Tallywhacker Brothers' lawn maintenance skills. He marched the three of us around the grounds for a cursory inspection, made note of a few areas that did not pass muster, and instructed us that we'd have to do a better job next week. We walked back up to the patio, where Mrs. Big Dallas Hair waited to present Oldest Brother with a crisp five dollar bill, and she turned and counted out two dollars and fifty cents to Younger Sister. "Fifty cents per hour. Those are pretty good wages," she announced.

"We'll see you again next Saturday," said Mr. Gypsy Feet, and he turned to march his brood around the side of the house, up the hill, and back aboard The Precious. Back to the half-brick house on a hill we drove. After all, we still had a house to pack for the move next week.

Epilogue: If you're beginning to smell something fishy, dear Readers, you should. We have just gotten a whiff of one of Mr. Gypsy Feet's old habits... and this particular Ghost of Christmas Past is named Carousing. Plenty more to come in future episodes... stay tuned.

A Tale of Two Grandmas (Part II)

2009-06-07T13:15:00.000-07:00

When last we left the Circus Troupe, three glorious days had just been spent in the company of Grandma Annie Oakley, three Cowboy Uncles, an Aunt, and an Aunt-to-be. The family of 6 was now speeding off, preparing to ascend and cut across the Rockies in The Precious. One Grandma down, one to go on this Great Summer Vacation.

Not one to backtrack for an easier route, Mr. Gypsy Feet pointed The Precious at the Grand Tetons and never looked back. The Precious had already proven her mettle by scaling Pike's Peak. Why should she not cut across the mountain pass South of the Grand Bazooms? Fortunately, a Land Dolphin escort to the base of the range, the power of 8 cylinders, frequent oil changes, and a new air filter got The Precious where she needed to go.

At a late lunch stopover, the Tallywhacker Brothers got to put their waffle stompers to good use, and bits of obsidian were added to the treasure hoard. Both moose and American Bison were added to the mental roster of wildlife. Mrs. Firecracker and Sister Sue gathered handfuls of Indian Paintbrush, which was used to tickle the noses of anyone who threatened to doze off before nightfall. Back in the Chrysler and the Troupe was off like a shot for the Land of Potatoes, with four pairs of young eyes turning 'round to witness a sunset painted on the canvas of the Cathedral Group.

As the Chrysler's engine droned, she slowly rocked her passengers back and forth on the Rocky Mountain passes and down onto the Snake River Plain. Soon not even the threat of a nose tickle was enough to keep the Munchkins awake. I drooled onto my pillow, dreaming of Soaring Antelope Herds and a stately Danish Duke. Mr. Gypsy Feet tried to talk Mrs. Firecracker into taking the wheel so that he could catch 40 winks, but no dice... Mrs. Firecracker was as tired as the Munchkins. I don't know how she did it, but Mrs. Firecracker convinced Mr. Gypsy Feet to consummate the rarest of acts, crack open his wallet and drop a few bucks on a pair of adjoining motel rooms.

Ever the tightest of skin flints, Mr. Gypsy Feet bypassed all reputable establishments in favor of a no-name Mom and Pop Motel, where the bathrooms were so filthy, Mrs. Firecracker had to crack out her trusty container of Comet. She scrubbed the bathtubs and toilets, making them fit for human occupation. Mrs. Firecracker eyed the beds askance, and decided that sleeping bags on top of the beds was the only way to go. We dined on four hot dogs, cut in slices, and dropped into a steaming pot of pork and beans. Little Lurry zipped himself up in his sleeping bag, trying hard not to dream about spider-webbed bathrooms.

Morning came soon enough, and the sun chased away any remaining nightmares. Teeth were brushed out of doors, using distilled water... Mrs. Firecracker didn't trust what might have come out of the spigots at the Bates Motel. While Mr. Gypsy Feet returned the room keys, the Munchkins rolled the sleeping bags, and we piled back in to The Precious. A quick stop for coffee and donuts - believe it or not, coffee was regularly dispensed to pre-pubescent Munchkins - and we were off.

Before arriving at Grandma's house, one last stop in Potato Land - time to visit with the oldest of Mr. Gypsy Feet's siblings and fellow minister of the Church of the Poisoned Mind, Uncle Billy Goat Gruff. The Reverend Uncle Billy Goat Gruff was a tall drink of water, made in the spitting image of his father, but more domineering, and with a vastly more grumpy attitude. An early lunch was prepared by Uncle's wife and personal servant, Aunt Mouse. The Munchkins ate bologna sandwiches on Wonder-brand white with Miracle Whip (blech!) in the company of the Billy Goat's progeny, Cousin Ichabod Neckbone, Cousin Mouse Junior, and Cousin Princess Stepford. The two older cousins were nice enough, but so much older than the Munchkins that we had nothing in common. We were forced to play audience to the Über-Christian Kool-Aid Drinker, Cousin Princess Stepford. We suffered an hour in the company of the Princess, listening to her blather about the joys of attending Uncle Billy Goat Gruff's church, how much she loved to sing church hymns, and how her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, had changed her life. I couldn't have been happier, when Mr. Gypsy Feet and Mrs. Firecracker announced that it was time to get back on the road. We were sprung from the cloying, cotton candy clutches of Cousin Princess Stepford, she of the faraway-looking and glassy eyes.

We hopped back aboard The Precious, and before we knew it, pulled in to the drive of a familiar three-story, white Victorian - not a mansion, but large - built in a farm house-style, with large center fireplace and a wraparound porch. Spying amok-running cousins in the yard, the Munchkins burst from The Precious to join in the hi-jinkery. Mr. Gypsy Feet and Mrs. Firecracker meandered off to the Grandparents' café, seeking an early afternoon cuppa Joe. Upon learning of the Munchkins' arrival, Mr. Gypsy Feet's mother decided that chatter with the grown-ups could wait... better to sprinkle some sunshine on the Grandkids. It's time, dear Readers, let's meet the second Queen of the Chessboard, Grandma Sweetness.

Emerging from the back of the café, Grandma Sweetness squeaked in delight, and captured the two youngest Munchkins in a grandmotherly hug. We had been missing from her life too long, she proclaimed, and declared us to have sprouted like weeds. Oldest Brother and Next-Older Brother ran over to share in the love. Grandma Sweetness feigned no knowledge of these two young gentlemen, but the sparkle in her eyes and wide smile belied the joke. "Come here you two, and give this gal a big ol' hug!" she squeaked at the older Munchkins. Five years away from Grandma Sweetness melted like butter on hotcakes... no grandchild would feel anything but special in her company.

Grandma Sweetness escorted the brood into her inner sanctum, the café prep kitchen. After ensuring that all Monkey hands were washed - she gave Little Lurry the assist, as his plaster-casted wing was not allowed in the water - we were introduced to Grandma's partner in crime. Great Aunt Sidekick and Grandma Sweetness were set up to perform their daily ritual - 100 pies, prepped and baked, 6 days a week, come rain or come shine. Four Monkeys watched in awe as these two got to work, they were like a pair of clock-work mechanical dolls, moving with a grace seldom witnessed. Great Aunt Sidekick played near-silent straight man in this two-woman show, and Grandma Sweetness played the comedic and talkative front man.

As the lunch rush died down in the café, Grandpa Polar Bear left the cook's station, and came back through the prep kitchen. He picked up Younger Sister, she gave him a kiss, and he replied, "Ouch!" This act was repeated two or three times, to Younger Sister's delight, and he set the youngest sibling back on her feet. Three grandsons opened their arms and looked up to give the Polar Bear a hug, but he tousled their hair and kept on walking - Grandpa Polar Bear did not interact with the male grandchildren - possession of the tallywhacker made them somehow less lovable. Seeing the dejected look on her grandsons' faces, Grandma Sweetness said, "Aw... don't mind that grumpy old man. Now that he's gone, let's make ourselves a milkshake." She led the way into the café and over to the ice cream fountain.

Three chocolate milkshakes on the mixer, Grandma Sweetness turned to Little Lurry and asked, "And how about you Little Mister... chocolate?" Spying a bowl of lemons near the iced tea dispenser, Blue-eyed Lefty asked for a lemon instead. "Well, my stars!" exclaimed Grandma Sweetness. "I've never had a grandkid make that request before. Are you sure?" I nodded enthusiastically, and received my reward, a perfect yellow lemon, cut into quarters. In a booth with Grandma Sweetness, the other Munchkins enjoyed their milkshakes, while she and I made lemon rind monkey smiles.

Snacks finished, we were released into the wild of the back yard, to enjoy games of tag with the cousins, and Grandma Sweetness returned to her pie bakery. One of the Elder Cousins snuck the Munchkins into the Grandparents' abode for a little indoor hi-jinkery. We sneaked past a slumbering Grandpa Polar Bear, and Elder Cousin grabbed a strange little box off the table next to the Polar Bear's recliner, and we all gathered around the console TV. Wonder of wonders, this television displayed our familiar shows, but in color! Elder Cousin pressed a thumb to one of the buttons on the little box, and the television channel dial rotated one position. Another two clicks, and Little Lurry witnessed a miracle... Lucille Ball really did have red hair!

The remote control was passed from hand to hand, as each Munchkin wanted to experience this new wonder. After several rotations of the channel dial, the Slumbering Grouch awoke and thundered at the youngsters, "You kids get out of here, and give me that remote! I don't want you breaking my new TV!" Elder Cousin led the charge up the staircase, four Munchkins screaming in hot pursuit. We escaped the white-haired giant, and in the safety of a musty-smelling attic, Elder Cousin took advantage of the already-pounding hearts. He began to tell ghost stories, and he had our rapt attention - we sat in a semi-circle at the feet of our teenaged Elder Cousin - until dinner was called that evening.

After a hearty dinner of chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with gravy, and green beans flavored with bacon grease, we helped Grandma Sweetness and the Aunts with the dishes. The large family gathering splintered a bit, with some off to join Grandpa Polar Bear in the living room for television and coffee, while others (including Little Lurry) joined Grandma Sweetness in the dining room for table games. Grandma Sweetness, crossword fanatic extraordinaire, and Little Lurry, Fifth Grade vocabulary and spelling champion, squared off for the start of a week-long Scrabble tourney, while others pursued the elusive five-of-a-kind at Yahtzee. The night wore on, and first Grandpa Polar Bear, then others trundled off to their beds. As yawns escaped from Munchkin mouths, Grandma Sweetness gathered up the stragglers, and made sure everyone was tucked into a fluffy, comfortable bed.

Waking at dawn, Little Lurry checked Younger Sister's room, and finding her awake, the two agreed to let brothers and parents continue sleeping. We crept downstairs, thinking to watch morning cartoons, but heard water running in the kitchen. Deciding that permission to touch the Old Grump's television should be obtained, we went to the kitchen, seeking a dispensation. We found Grandma Sweetness at the kitchen sink, scrubbing at something held in her left hand. We asked if she needed help with the dishes, and her shoulders slumped as she confessed, "You've caught me, Officers." She turned 'round, made a funny face, and held up both of her hands... then, in her familiar squeeze toy voice, squeaked, "I was brushing my teeth!" She held her dentures in one hand, and a large toothbrush in the other. Younger Sister and I belly-laughed with our favorite comic, Grandma Sweetness. She popped in her choppers, gave us both a hug, and reading our minds, said, "Why don't you two go watch TV, and I'll get started on breakfast."

The Munchkins spent the next few days basking in the sunshine of Grandma Sweetness, other relatives came and went that week, but every night, when the table games came out, Little Lurry and Grandma Sweetness continued their Scrabble tounament. Scrabble was the one game that held no sway on the other Munchkins, so playing this crossword-style game was a secret pleasure. In a room surrounded by others, Little Lurry managed alone time with Grandma Sweetness... she was all mine for a few precious hours every night.

On Saturday morning, a change was made in the routine. Mr. Gypsy Feet announced that we should leave before breakfast, and take a ride in The Precious. "Let's do something fun, and drive out to the country this morning," he said, as if hanging with Grandma Sweetness was some kind of chore. During the past week, while the Munchkins played at Grandma's house, Mr. Gypsy Feet and Mrs. Firecracker had been making the rounds, visiting relatives too numerous to mention. This visit, however, required the attention of the entire Circus Troupe... we had cousins to meet on the farm of Mr. Gypsy Feet's younger brother, Uncle Funny Bones.

A short drive to the outskirts of town, onto a dirt road, then in on a long gravel drive, and we arrived at Uncle Funny Bones' farmhouse. The Circus Troupe was welcomed to Farm Funny Bones by a buxom blonde in turquoise shorts and a black t-shirt top, Aunt Blondie. She re-introduced the Munchkins to her pair of blond, curly-headed boys, Heckle and his younger brother, Jeckle - bike-riding cousins we had romped with earlier in the week. Given a large glass bowl and pointed at the strawberry fields, the Munchkins were asked to help Heckle and Jeckle harvest a bowlful of ripe berries to accompany breakfast.

Cousins Heckle and Jeckle gave instruction on how to pick berries considered perfect for breakfast, and demonstrated the sport of pelting each other with over-ripe or half-eaten berries. We crawled like army men, up and down the rows of low-slung strawberry plants, rising occasionally (and at just the right moment) to bean a fellow prairie dog with a mushy red missile. Once the bowl was full, we headed to the barn to fetch Uncle Funny Bones for breakfast.

Uncle Funny Bones was seated on a stool near the ass-end of a cow, fists firmly planted and milking two teats - a part of cow anatomy the Munchkins referred to as "dilly danders." Heckle and Jeckle wisely fell back, as four Munchkins rushed forward exclaiming, "Cool! Can I try that?" Not missing a beat, Uncle Funny Bones turned his head and laughed, asking, "What's the matter kids? Never milked a cow before?" Targets now sighted, Uncle Funny Bones pivoted his torso, angled one fist, and cut a perfect 12-foot arc of warm milk across the faces of Younger Sister and Little Lurry.

Raised on the humor of our Black Irish grandmother, Uncle Funny Bones was the male equivalent of his comedic mother, but he peppered his punch-lines with "colorful" vocabulary. Laughing at his recent milk-prank, he sat each of us down in turn, and trained the Munchkins in the fine art of cow milking. Half an anodized bucket harvested, we set off for our reward, a farmhouse breakfast of country bacon, farm-fresh eggs (fried in bacon drippings, of course), strawberry pancakes, and lukewarm raw milk. No king or queen had or would ever enjoy a feast so fine. Fully carbo-loaded, four Munchkins and their two blond cousins burst out of doors for a day of climbing, running, and jumping. Mr. Gypsy Feet and Mrs. Firecracker spent the remainder of the morning having their Christian ears blistered by Uncle Funny Bones, "blue" jokester and master weaver of the bawdy tale. (And Mr. Gypsy Feet thought the Cowboy Uncles were a bad influence. Hah!)

Back at Grandma's house that afternoon, the Munchkins were each instructed to pack a toothbrush, a sleeping bag, a swimsuit and towel, a change of underwear, and a light jacket for a trip to the mountains on Sunday. Mrs. Firecracker modified her instructions in Little Lurry's case, "No swimsuit and towel for you, Little Mister... I don't want you getting that arm wet." (The past few weeks, Little Lurry had been forced to forego his Saturday bath, instead showering with his arm in a plastic bag. I didn't understand why this remedy wouldn't apply for a swim in the natural pool created by a beaver's dam.) We dutifully lined up our sleeping bags and gym-bags at the base of the stairs, enjoyed another of our Grandmother's country dinners, and after dinner, Little Lurry was introduced to another of Grandma Sweetness' word game addictions, Probe - a hangman-style game, built on a foundation of spelling skills and vocabulary, but seasoned with chance and chicanery. (Ah, chicanery, the delight of two Sneaky Scorpios, Grandma Sweetness and Little Lurry.)

At sunrise the next morning, the Munchkins arose, assuming they would escape church for a second Sunday running. We were, however, brought up short by Mrs. Firecracker, who held three clip-on neckties in one hand, and a jumper dress in the other. Vacation didn't mean forgetting our Preacher's Kid duties, we would at least attend Sunday School, while the grown-ups "enjoyed" a riveting Sunday Morning Bible Study. Even our church-going Grandpa Polar Bear rolled his eyes at that one... he was itching to flex his fly-casting arm, fishing for trout at his favorite mountain retreat. Anxious to advance the morning agenda, the Old Grump pulled a surprise treat out of his hat, and grabbing his key ring, marched out the back door, announcing loudly, "Breakfast at the café this morning!" Squealing with delight, the Munchkins ran off after Grandpa Polar Bear, ducklings in tow behind the White-Haired Giant.

Eight simultaneous servings of scrambled eggs and pigs-in-blankets landed on the pass out bar. Just as Mr. Gypsy Feet took a deep breath, preparing to wax Sunday oratorical over the breakfast blessing, our man of few words, Grandpa Polar Bear, ripped the opportunity out of his son's open mouth. "Dear Lord," thundered the Polar Bear, "Thanks for the grub and the company. Now let's get this over with so Grandpa can do a little fishing. Amen!" Not even whacks to the back of our heads could stifle the giggles of four amazed Munchkins. Grandpa Polar Bear had just gone up a notch in all of our books.

One hour of Sunday School later, clip-on ties and the jumper dress shed, we loaded our gear and hopped aboard Grandpa Polar Bear's pride and joy, an Oldsmobile Delta 88. This whale of a sedan seated eight comfortably, and easily accommodated three suitcases, one overnight case, four sleeping bags, four gym bags, a picnic lunch, and fishing tackle for two in the trunk. The land yacht set sail, and we were off for a meandering drive up the mountain pass. Little Lurry discovered another modern wonder in the belly of this beast, power windows. Up and down, up and down, until Grandpa Polar Bear peed on the fun, locking the windows with his driver's control panel. We took a turn off the paved road, and onto a bumpy dirt road, driving past ranches and dairy farms, slowly progressing up the mountain toward our destination.

The Munchkins received another lesson in animal husbandry, when just across a cattle guard we rolled, mere feet from a herd of grazing Angus. We pressed our noses to the window for a better look, just as a randy bull hiked up onto one of his harem, his red hot poker shooting out to bite her on the backside. As Mrs. Firecracker scrambled to shield our virgin eyes from this sight, Grandma Sweetness diffused the situation, exclaiming in her squeak toy voice, "Well, ain't that a fine 'How do you do?'"

Once at the cabin, three of the Munchkins donned their swim gear, and rushed off to join Cousins Heckle and Jeckle at the pool upstream of little beaver's dam. Little Lurry followed his siblings up the trail to the creek, but was forced to play judge and referee for the Grand Hi-Jinkery Water Games enjoyed by others. Out mid-stream and six inches above the water, on the balance beam of a beaver-felled tree, Little Lurry yelled a countdown, "Three. Two. One. Go!" The five amphibious contestants dove from their perch atop a large, flat rock, and began swimming toward the designated finish line, the tree upon which Little Lurry balanced. Three amphibian paws grabbed the slender goal in quick succession, and the ensuing wobble, caused judge and referee to lose his balance. I fell for what seemed like an eternity, circumstances crossing my mind as I plummeted into the water... no towel, no spare set of clothes, the anger of Mrs. Firecracker for disobeying a direct order, and allowing my cast to get wet... I was a dead man.

I swam to the edge of the pool as quickly as I could, trying to hold my plaster-casted arm up and out of the water. I hefted myself up onto the stream bank, and began sloshing back down the trail toward the cabin. Two brothers and one cousin yelled, "Wait! Where are you going?" "Where do you think? I need to go dry off!" I shouted back. "We need to know who won!" they chimed in mocking unison. I stopped to ponder their self-centered dilemma, but decided to leave them hanging, shouting back in red-faced response, "It was a tie!"

I arrived back at the cabin, a soupy, muddy mess. Mrs. Firecracker spied me first, and pierced my skull with her banshee tongue. No sweet coos of, "Honey... are you okay?" were to be uttered by my mother, but with a whack to the backside at every exclamation point, and bellowing at the top of her lungs, "Young man (whack!)... if you've ruined that cast (whack!), I will personally (whack!) tan (whack!) your (whack!) hide (whack! whack! whack!)"

(So much for the "if you've ruined that cast" part, huh? This is your second clue as to how Mrs. Firecracker earned her nickname. Trust me... there are many more clues to come.)

Grandma Sweetness spared the rod, and grabbed Mrs. Firecracker's hand before the next whack could land. "What do you say we let the boy get dried off, Mrs. Firecracker," suggested Grandma Sweetness. "Good idea," mumbled Mrs. Firecracker, "I'll find him something dry to wear." I peeled off my muddy duds, and stood at the outdoor water pump - no running water in the cabin - rinsing off the river and trail muck. Mrs. Firecracker ducked into the cabin, and returned triumphant, holding Younger Sister's purple pedal pushers and frilly blouse of white eyelet-fabric. "Here, put these on," she instructed the Little Mister. "You can have these back when they're dry." She scooped up my boy clothes, and hung them up near the campfire, all the while wearing a smug Cheshire Cat grin.

Little Lurry glared at Mrs. Firecracker, but he knew how to beat her at this game. All he had to do was sit patiently, and wait for Mr. Gypsy Feet to come witness the cross-dressing drama. I chuckled to myself, and invited Grandma Sweetness to a marathon Scrabble afternoon.

Postscript: Mrs. Firecracker managed to get Little Lurry in drag four times before he hit puberty. Once as an infant in a little pink dress, twice for Halloween in nurse gear and white go-go boots, and this last time in the purple pedal pushers. When Grandpa Polar Bear and Mr. Gypsy Feet returned, she would incur a double argument. Would she never learn?

LurryDean's New Mexico-style Guacamole

2009-06-04T16:11:00.000-07:00

Ingredients

4 ripe Haas avocados
2 limes
1/4 of large white onion
1 or 2 Serrano chile peppers (finely minced)
salt (or lite salt) to taste
1 tbsp of Penzey's Bold Taco Seasoning (optional)

Preparation

Using a cheese grater, grate the onion quarter into a large, wide bowl.
Add minced Serrano chile(s).
Squeeze the juice of 1 lime over the onion and chile pepper.
Halve and pit avocados.
Using a large spoon, scoop flesh from the avocado halves.
Cube avocado and add to onion/chile/lime mixture.
Using a pastry cutter or potato masher, mash mixture in the bowl.
Add juice of the second lime to the mixture, and fold ingredients with a large spoon or spatula.
Salt to taste (my preference is approx. 1 tsp. of Morton Lite Salt).
Lately, I've been spicing up the guacamole with 1 tbsp. Penzey's Bold Taco Seasoning (no MSG - a terrific find).
Transfer to a covered container or covered serving dish.
Refrigerate at least 1/2 hour before serving.

A Tale of Two Grandmas (Part I)

2009-05-31T11:28:00.000-07:00

In our last installment, Little Lurry kissed the hard, dusty ground of his school playground, and rose to Fifth Grade prominence as the ultimate hall pass... wielder of the Mystical Monkey Paw. Fifth Grade came to a close shortly thereafter, and the Circus Troupe began packing their bags... not moving this time (although that will follow soon enough), but preparing for a time-honored tradition, Family Vacation. Along the way, dear Readers, new characters will take the stage, but none more important than the Queens of the Chessboard - Little Lurry's Grandmothers.

Two times of the year have always brought a special kind of joy to Little Lurry's [and Big Lurry's] heart... the weeks leading up to Christmas, and a Summer vacation. This particular Summer began with Little Lurry's right arm plaster-casted, but since I wrote, ate, and brushed my teeth left-handed, I was in the pink for a Summer vacation with both Grandmas on the agenda.

In preparation for the Great Summer Vacation, Mr. Gypsy Feet charted a course in the Rand McNally Road Atlas, Mrs. Firecracker obtained the obligatory boxes of Cheez-It journey crackers, the Tallywhacker Brothers packed their duffle bags with summer duds and adventure novels - having graduated from the Hardy Boys and Tarzan novels, we were now devouring Edgar Rice Burroughs' Pellucidar and Barsoom series - and Sister Sue packed her jumper dresses and kicky pants (or what the Civilized World called pedal pushers). The entire clan went to bed early on a Friday night, but the excitement made sleep extraordinarily elusive. In search of Morpheus' embrace, the Tallywhacker Brothers resorted to the prose of Burroughs - nothing made a better send-off to the land of dreams than a swashbuckling adventure. I'll never know what medicine Sister Sue required to drift off to the land of dreams - at night she slept in a secluded chamber - perhaps she contemplated the power of unicorns and the magical light bulb that inhabited her Easy-Bake Oven.

At 3:30 the following morning, a perfect dream state ended abruptly at the blinding flash of two 90-watt bulbs, followed by the ignominy of covers whipped off the beds. "Up and at 'em!" barked Mr. Gypsy Feet. "We need to be on the road by 4 o'clock. I don't want to get stuck in traffic." Mr. Gypsy Feet had apparently deluded himself into believing that we lived in New York City, not the Colorado Rockies. The only pre-6 a.m. traffic we would encounter would be the residential milk truck, a bicycle-riding paper boy, and a few "What's yer twenty, good buddy?" 18-wheelers on the open road.

After a nasty, mushy bowl of "stick to your ribs" oatmeal and bloated raisins - Mrs. Firecracker was under the mistaken impression that raisins were to be cooked along with the oatmeal - we were off before the sun rose to join both pre-dawn, North-bound cars who so happened to occupy the freeway. Thank goodness we Munchkins had stowed our pillows for the journey, because we were back in the arms of Morpheus by the time $5 was expended at the nearest service station.

Note to the young 'uns: In those days, a stop at the local Sinclair would set you back 24.9 cents a gallon, and included complimentary window washing (with a Crest-white smile, for chrissakes), a dipstick inspection, and proper inflation of 4 tires... self-service was yet to be invented. Not that any this was appreciated, mind you. Mr. Gypsy Feet had to get out of the Chrysler to pretend that he knew better than any Grease Monkey how to properly inflate the tires of his gas-guzzler. (If the Chrysler had a name, I am convinced Dad would have christened her "My Precious.") I think we fell back asleep in deference to the poor Grease Monkey. Mr. Gypsy Feet was a cheap bastard, and considered his "advice" the only tip a Grease Monkey needed or deserved.

We awoke to the ceaseless chatter of Mr. Gypsy Feet on I-25 North. Not satisfied with the advice he had dispensed at the service station, he was now dispensing driving instructor tidbits at every vehicle upon which the sun shone. We Munchkins busied ourselves with our two favorite traveling games - attempting to gather license plate sightings from as many states and territories as possible, and I-spy for each letter of the alphabet, "I spy, with my little eyes, something that begins with C." We made the obligatory pit stop at about the halfway point of this first leg of the journey. Little Lurry made sure he was on board before take-off this time - I was through playing Little Mister Left Behind.

A west-north-westerly turn was made at the outskirts of the Magic City of the Plains, and we were mere hours away from our first destination. Mr. Gypsy Feet and Mrs. Firecracker tried to engage the Munchkins in singing praises to Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. This activity was quickly dispensed - not that it would have taken much to beat church hymns as an en route time-waster - as the Munchkins espied their first herd of antelope. Munchkin jaws dropped and eyes popped. We were ensorcelled by the sight... an antelope herd bounded in synchronized formation, up from the sage and tall grass of the High Plains, and for mesmerizing moments, appeared to fly like Santa's Reindeer. In one fell swoop, the land of our Grandma Annie Oakley was forever branded in our brains. For the next two hours, the blue Chrysler sailed the High Plains, escorted by herd after herd of these magnificent Land Dolphins.

We arrived at the first stop on this glorious journey, Grandma Annie Oakley's Campground, and burst from the Chrysler with a running whoop into the arms a long lost friend - three of Mrs. Firecracker's brothers were here for a mini-family reunion. The Munchkins embraced three Cowboy Giants in turn - first our beloved and long lost Uncle Hero, next, a blond-ish Uncle who bore the crooked smile often seen on Little Lurry's face, and last, but certainly not least, the joker of the bunch, Uncle Elvis.

The Munchkins collected at the end of the reception line, and turned to witness something that we hadn't seen for years (and would unfortunately never see again), a happy Mrs. Firecracker. She absolutely glowed in the company her younger brothers. For once, we watched as Mrs. Firecracker set aside her righteous armor... she didn't chastise or preach at her smoking and drinking siblings, but kissed and hugged the Cowboy Brothers, relishing the reunion. A swing door slammed shut, and we turned to see the Matriarch of this bunch come bounding off the porch, followed near immediately by her 4-legged companion, Danish Duke. Ladies and gentlemen, it's time to meet the first of our Queens of the Chessboard, Grandma Annie Oakley.

Grandma Annie Oakley, may my description do her justice, was a steel-haired, shotgun-toting, pants-wearing, sinewy and bespectacled marvel of a Rancher's Cowgirl. Married at the tender age of 14, she gave birth to the first of eight ranch hands at 15. Widowed in her late twenties, she plucked another High Plains Cowboy from the Bachelor Fields, and completed the set of 8, giving Grandpa Shorty a daughter of his own. Now 50, Grandma Annie Oakley, had already lived the lives of two women and buried two husbands. She was now well into her third of four lives, running a Rockhunter's Stopover on the edge of the Great Western Frontier, driving a green 1940 Ford pick-up, and wowing the grandkids with her man-sized companion, a tan-coated Great Dane, named Duke. (As much as I'd love to dwell on Grandma Annie Oakley, we've got to move on, but worry not, dear Readers, a pre-pubescent and post-pubescent Lurry will return to the Great Western Frontier in Summers to come.)

Next out of the screen door came two women unfamiliar to the Munchkins. We left off hugging Grandma Annie Oakley and romping with Danish Duke, dusted ourselves off, and made introductions to a fun-loving Aunt Dippity-Do (Uncle Elvis' wife, a big-breasted gal with a late-sixties up do) and Uncle Hero's fiancée, Denver Dottie (think Dorothy Hamill look-a-like, but with chipmunk cheeks). Ever the watchful matriarch, Grandma Annie Oakley noticed the tell-tale signs, and pointed the Munchkins to the Campground Facilities. Relieved and hands washed, we returned to Grandma's home/office/general store for lunch.

Lunch was prepared by the Aunt and Aunt-to-be, a feast of luncheon loaf (chopped ham) and American cheese sandwiches on Rainbow-brand white, accompanied by Ruffles ("R-r-r-ruffles have r-r-r-ridges") potato chips and French onion dip. Looking around for the Kool-Aid that would normally accompany lunch, we were treated to a rare delicacy by Grandma Annie Oakley. Out on the porch, we were invited to pull a freebie from Grandma's bottled soda vending machine. Oldest Brother pulled an Orange Crush, Next-Older Brother pulled a Grape Crush, Younger Sister pulled an uncreative Coca-Cola, and Little Lurry pulled the best prize of all - sweet nectar of the Gods - a Canada Dry Cactus Cooler. For two nights and the better part of three days, we camped under the stars, frolicked in the Sweetwater River, laughed 'til our sides split, and reveled in the company of Mom's family.

This brief taste of Paradise was cut short when, at a sunrise breakfast, Mr. Gypsy Feet confirmed his discomfort in the company of strong women and smoking, drinking, and fun-loving men. Claiming an aching back from sleeping in the wilderness - and that the Uncles were a "bad influence" on young Christian boys - Mr. Gypsy Feet announced that the Circus Troupe would press on before lunch. Four dejected Munchkins were instructed to shower, brush teeth, roll sleeping bags, collapse tents, and say their good-byes, post haste. We would once again, "beat the traffic," if we were on the road within 2 hours.

Beating the traffic held no sway over the power of four Munchkins given such loose instruction. While we showered quickly - Damn, that water was cold! - brushing teeth could be dragged out for at least a half hour, mugging at each other and our own reflections in the Campground Facility mirrors. Perfecting the art of a sleeping bag roll consumed another 45 minutes, allowing time for the Uncles to arise. While the Uncles ate breakfast and drank Joe on Grandma's porch, the Tallywhacker Brothers crossed tent pole swords out on the camp grounds, and laughed themselves silly, acting out for the Cowboy Brothers. Our canine Uncle, Danish Duke was in on the production, lunging at the fiberglass pole-swords, chasing Little Knights around the arena, and kissing the faces of each fallen player. Even Mrs. Firecracker applauded the show, and before we knew it, 3 hours had flown past, while a stewing Mr. Gypsy Feet busied himself packing "The Precious."

Kisses, hugs, and snuggling of the Danish Duke consumed another glorious twenty minutes, but Mr. Gypsy Feet brought the love fest to a close with, "C'mon kids... this show has to hit the road!" Then, as if Grandma Annie Oakley was a non-entity, "C'mon Mrs. Firecracker... we've got to get these kids to Grandma's house."

Brooking no sass from an upstart son-in-law, Grandma Annie Oakley fired back with, "Just a minute, Mr. Gypsy Feet. I want the kids to have a souvenir." Grandma Annie Oakley swept the four Munchkins into her home/office/general store, and invited each of her Grandchildren to select a treasure from the Rockhunter's display cabinet. Jade, agate, arrowhead, and sandstone treasures selected, Grandma Annie Oakley granted each of the Campground Players another free pull from the bottled soda machine.

All players now aboard The Precious, Mr. Gypsy Feet laid a scratch in the gravel drive. Little Lurry waved a plaster-casted good-bye from the Chrysler's rear window, two new treasures in his possession... a sandstone "desert" rose and a bottle of that most divine of nectars, an orange and pineapple-flavored soda, Canada Dry Cactus Cooler.

(To be continued...)

A House is not a Home (Part III)

2009-05-25T20:10:00.000-07:00

After a short 6-month segue, we now know how Little Lurry got his puppy, and we've now met the third of four major characters from Little Lurry's Book of Heroes. Let's jump back into the story and wrap-up the Fifth Grade with a few laughs.

Back at the Half-Brick House on a Hill (but not for long)

Like all tykes of his age, Little Lurry was an athlete. From sun up to sun down, every moment not spent in classes or Bible study, was spent at play. Kids had no cable, video games, or Internet in those days... we had baseball gloves, softballs, basketballs, and skateboards. One day, nearing the end of the Fifth Grade, all monkeys were out in the schoolyard. All but a few select Child Catchers were enjoying lunch and cigarettes in the Teachers' Lounge... the few who pulled schoolyard observation duty ate lunch and paid cursory attention to the playground through schoolroom windows.

Toward the end of this particular lunch hour, one of the monkey leaders suggested a game of Girls Chase the Boys. A starting line was drawn in the dirt, at count of three, the Boys dashed to the safety of the Monkey Bars, and at count of ten, the Girls went screaming and chasing after. The jackrabbit known as Little Lurry lost his footing at the start of this race, but recovered and sprinted after his compatriots to the Monkey Bars. While technical safety was called by the Boys - Little Lurry did a flying leap and achieved purchase on the bars - the Girls cried foul, and proceeded to pull on Little Lurry's dangling legs, achieving the desired result... Little Lurry landed face down in the dirt, and with a great whoosh, the wind was knocked out of Little Lurry.

Now as anyone who's had the wind knocked out of them knows, it takes a few minutes for the lungs to recover. While sides in the game flipped for the next round, Little Lurry hobbled over to the steps of the school entrance to sit down, and in short, shallow intakes, began to catch his breath. Not really paying attention to the complete capture of all Girls before reaching the Monkey Bars (upon reflection, I think the Girls suggested this game), Little Lurry observed a strange phenomenon. His forearm was quickly swelling up and after curious comparison to the opposite arm, looked strangely bowed. Turns out, Little Lurry had landed face down, but with one arm underneath his body. Had I not had the wind knocked out of me, I might have felt the crunch that was my ulna.

After releasing the Girls from Boy Prison, half a dozen of my Boy compatriots spied Little Lurry comparing his forearms, and with cries of "Cool!" came running over to observe the fascinating spectacle. One of the monkeys verbalized his insight, "We'd better get you to the Nurse! C'mon guys, let's take him inside." "What if we get caught indoors during lunch hour?" said another monkey. "We'll just show 'em his arm!" pronounced the first. Steeling their resolve, off marched 7 monkeys - into the gated and forbidden chambers known to obedient monkeys as - Indoors During Lunch Hour.

At each hallway encounter and verbal attack of, "What are you kids doing indoors? Get back out to the playground!" my right arm was raised for protection from each of the Child Catchers. Like a magical Monkey Paw, the grotesquely bowed forearm would freeze the aggressor in his or her tracks. Recoiling from the horror of a child wounded during his or her Schoolyard Observation Duty, the Child Catcher could only sputter, "Well don't just stand there! Get him down to the School Nurse! I've got to keep an eye on these other children."

The Gang of Seven, completing their journey at the frosted glass doorway that read School Nurse, was quickly dispelled after blurting out, "He's hurt!" Only the Bearer of the Monkey Paw was left behind, cradling his arm. Putting on her best blistering gaze, Nurse Ratched commanded, "Well, what happened? Show me your arm!" The Bearer of the Monkey Paw raised his now purpling, and strangely bowed appendage. It was worth even having the wind knocked out of me to see the blood drain from Nurse Ratched's face as she panicked, blurting, "Oh! Good Lord! Put it back down! Don't move your arm!" She pushed back her green naugahyde chair, ran past me out of the office, came back into the office, grabbed an ice bag, turned to me and barked, "Come with me! And don't move your arm!" and sprinted toward the Head Child Catcher's office.

Wondering how in the heck I was supposed to follow Nurse Ratched without moving my arm, I ignored the second half of her instructions, cradled my arm against my stomach, and got up to follow Nurse Ratched to the Principal's Office. Having only been to the Principal's Office once before in my school years - I called a girl Fatty Fatty Two-by-Four, Can't Get Through the Bathroom Door in the Second Grade, was threatened with a swat from the Board of Education, and never stepped out of line again - I was beginning to wonder if my crooked smile was going to be wiped off of my face by the Great and Powerful Mrs. "Take No Prisoners" School Principal.

As I entered the Inner Sanctum, a frazzled Nurse Ratched dropped the ice bag on School Principal's desk and, pointing back at the Monkey Paw Bearer, asked, "Do you know this Young Man? We need to call his parents. I believe he may have broken his arm." I released the Dread Monkey Paw from its cradle against my stomach and held it aloft, expecting to witness its mystical stunning powers again... to no effect. Not missing a beat, and like a battle-tested field general, Mrs. School Principal began barking orders. "Dora! Call Mister Lurry's parents and tell them he's been injured!" Picking up the ice bag and thrusting it at School Nurse, "Nurse Ratched! What's wrong with you, woman? Go to the Teachers' Lounge and get some ice!"

Nurse Ratched took the ice bag, and scuttled out past Secretary Dora's desk for a headache bag full of ice. Mrs. School Principal came out from behind her large oak desk, and gently returned the [now throbbing] Monkey Paw to its cradle in my left arm. She demonstrated why the Monkey Paw was powerless against her - gently, she put her arms around me, kissed my forehead, and said, "You poor dear. Are you all right?" - she was Glinda the Good, working undercover as Head Child Catcher.

Dizzy Dora, School Secretary, fumbled through her Rolodex, found Mrs. Firecracker's phone number, and set down her egg salad sandwich to dial the telephone. Having witnessed only a boy with a bump on his forehead waltz past her into the principal's office, and a school nurse running past her in the other direction, waving a headache bag and screaming, "Ice! I need ice!" got Mrs. Firecracker on the line and reported that Little Lurry had suffered a head injury. She poked her head into Mrs. School Principal's office and reported, "The parents are on the way. I'm going to finish my lunch in the Teachers' Lounge." "That's fine, Dora. I can handle it from here," replied Glinda the Good. Dizzy Dora waddled away to finish her egg salad, smoke a cigarette, and repair her lipstick in the Teachers' Lounge.

Fifteen minutes later, both Mrs. Firecracker and Mr. Gypsy Feet showed up at Dizzy Dora's desk. Escorted into the Secular Sanctum, Mrs. Firecracker took one look at the ice pack on Little Lurry's forearm, surveyed his dirty, lumpy forehead and fired her first salvo, "What are you doing? Put that ice bag on your head!" Not one to disobey Mrs. Firecracker, Little Lurry moved the ice pack to his forehead and, while not expecting spectacular results from wielding the Monkey Paw at the Circus Troupe Authoritarian, raised the bowed, purple, and now quite swollen appendage against his mother's gaze. Demonstrating her short Irish fuse, she volleyed twice in quick succession. At Dizzy Dora, "I thought you said he fell down and cracked his head?" And at Mrs. School Principal, "I pulled Mr. Gypsy Feet out of work for this? I could have wrapped a sprained wrist!"

Dizzy Dora, knowing she was out-gunned, clucked once or twice, and quick-stepped back to her station. Mrs. School Principal, on the other hand, stood up and verbally cold-cocked the short-fused Mrs. Firecracker. In her Field General's voice, Mrs. School Principal barked, "Mrs. Firecracker! This child needs medical attention! And if you won't get it for him, I'll have Dora call an ambulance." Then at the cowering School Secretary, "Dora!"

Mr. Gypsy Feet's [vasectomized] balls finally descended, and he pronounced to the room that, "Harumph, hmmph! I'll take care of this! C'mon Little Lurry. Mrs. Firecracker, let's get Little Lurry to Doctor Doctor." Little Lurry glanced over his shoulder at Glinda the Good and smiled, whispering, "See you tomorrow, Mrs. School Principal."

All aboard the used, gas-guzzling Chrysler four-door, Little Lurry was positioned in the center of the front bench seat - a place of honor normally reserved for Sister Sue. Mr. Gypsy Feet sped off, and Little Lurry's throbbing right arm felt every jolt as the over-sized vehicle was driven to Doctor Doctor's office. "Why are you taking him to Doctor Doctor?" queried Mrs. Firecracker. "We should just take him to the hospital." "Do you know how expensive the hospital is?" retorted Mr. Gypsy Feet. "Doctor Doctor can handle this." Little Lurry tuned out of the argument, trying to hold the swelling Monkey Paw in a more comfortable position.

At Doctor Doctor's office Mr. Gypsy Feet lifted the Monkey Paw at Miss Receptionist, and Lurry was escorted past all other patients into Doctor Doctor's laboratory. After a looksie and a few painful prods, Doctor Doctor pronounced that x-rays would be required to properly set the fracture. He told Mr. Gypsy Feet that he should have taken Little Lurry to the hospital first, gotten an x-ray, and only then brought the patient in for treatment. A cowed, but unrepentant Mr. Gypsy Feet replied, "We'll be back," escorted Little Lurry back out past Miss Receptionist, and signaled for Mrs. Firecracker to follow.

Back in the Chrysler, Mr. Gypsy Feet and crew sped off for the hospital, once again causing Little Lurry to cringe at every lurch. Into the hospital we went, and after a short wait, I was taken to the X-ray Chamber. Two very painful positionings of the Monkey Paw ensued, and x-rays were snapped to the tune of, "Now hold still!" $80 was paid to the hospital, and we were back in the Chrysler. "Drop me off at home, the other children will be getting home from school soon," requested Mrs. Firecracker. Mr. Gypsy Feet sighed, but did as she asked. Lurch, cringe, ouch! Lurch, cringe, ouch! (Are we getting the picture yet?)

Back at Doctor Doctor's office, the x-rays were handed over to Miss Receptionist. "Please have a seat. Doctor Doctor will be right with you," she said, handing off the x-ray envelope to a passing nurse. "These are x-rays of Little Lurry's arm. Please tell Doctor Doctor that Little Lurry is in the waiting room."

Little Lurry sat patiently in the waiting room, admiring and gently touching his swollen, purply appendage. Not in the car, the Mystical Monkey Paw didn't hurt, so much as fascinate. Fifteen minutes passed... then twenty. Little Lurry looked up at Mr. Gypsy Feet, and noticed that his complexion was not so much olive-colored as red. Mr. Gypsy Feet looked down at the purply appendage, then in the mesmerizing thrall of the Mystical Monkey Paw, stood up and harumphed over to Miss Receptionist's desk. "Where is Doctor Doctor?" he demanded. "Hang on a second, I'll check," replied Miss Receptionist. "Doctor Doctor says the fracture's not a serious one. He's tied up with other patients right now, and it will be at least another two hours before he can set Little Lurry's arm. Would you like to come back in two hours?"

For two explosive minutes, Little Lurry watched while Mr. Gypsy Feet turned into Mr. Firecracker. "You tell Doctor Doctor to get those x-rays back out to me, now! I'm taking my boy back to the hospital!" Doctor Doctor came out front, and holding the x-ray envelope, informed a smoldering Mr. Gypsy Feet that he owed Doctor Doctor a $50 office visit fee. Mr. Firecracker boiled back up to the surface, grabbed Doctor Doctor's lab coat in his left hand, raised his right fist at Doctor Doctor's now-trembling puss, and said through gritted teeth, "You'll give me back those x-rays or I'll let you have it... right in the kisser!"

The x-rays were released, and Doctor Doctor escaped, unmolested. We hopped back into the Chrysler and drove back to the hospital. Lurch, cringe, ouch! We waited in the emergency room for 2 hours. (I shit you not!) Little Lurry got to hear Mr. Gypsy Feet repeat the mantra, "Burns my tail!" about a hundred times. Little Lurry was finally administered 2 Tylenol tablets for his trouble, and he watched as the Monkey Paw was set and plaster-casted. Lurry sat for another half-hour while the plaster set, and was finally released for good behavior.

One last painful ride... to the Half-Brick House on a Hill, this time. Little Lurry went to his room and collapsed, exhausted, on his half of the bed he shared with Next-Older Brother. Little Lurry went to bed without supper. He was too tired. He did however, giggle himself to sleep, remembering the day's entertainment.

Epilogue
Every bit of this story is true... only the names have been changed, to protect the innocent. I have always loved recounting this story... maybe 'cause it makes folks laugh AND cry.

My Sweet Prince

2009-05-25T08:55:00.000-07:00

My cute little guy in the arms of Next-Older Brother... c. 1970

A House is not a Home (Part II)

2009-05-25T06:23:00.000-07:00

At last report, Little Lurry had just been informed that male-female copulation was required to make babies. Little Lurry's head spun from Mrs. Firecracker's confirmation of the Becky Longstocking Theory. To fully understand how a 10-year old with Older Brothers could have missed the sex = babies connection, we have to spin back for a mixed-emotions segue.

Let's [Not] Talk About Sex, Baby

Now, if you remember the rules, the Church of the Poisoned Mind forbade children to traffic movie theaters, so no accidental exposure to human sexuality there. Mr. Gypsy Feet and Mrs. Firecracker had, up until now, neglected to drop any breadcrumbs in the sexuality department... in fact, Mrs. Firecracker had previously informed her offspring that roosters had to - and I'm quoting verbatim here - "peck the hen on the head to remind her to fertilize the egg." (Years later, poor Sister Sue would pronounce the Egg Fertilization Theory to her entire 9th Grade Biology class.) In other words, discussion of sexuality was interdit sujet numéro un. A Future Preacher's Kid's single great hope for lessons in the subject of human sexuality were to be had in one place, and one place only - off-leash and seated at the periphery of a Kumbaya Bonfire. Give yourself a bonus point if you predicted this one coming... Summer Church Camp.

In the Summer preceding Lurry's entry into the Fifth Grade, Mr. Gypsy Feet and Mrs. Firecracker decided to splurge $400 of the Leprechaun's Hoard on Summer Church Camp for the entire brood. Oblivious to the reasons for Older Brother's and Next-Older Brother's desire to make this journey, Little Lurry simply looked forward to 2 solid weeks that were bound to be filled with non-stop monkeyshines. Alas, the week prior to our Summer Church Camp departure, Little Lurry came down with a stomach flu. Doctor Mrs. Firecracker tch, tch-ed at his symptoms and resolutely declared that if he wasn't miraculously healed by Saturday, Little Lurry would not be joining his fellows for the Enchanted Forest journey. No amount of begging, pleading, or crying was sufficient to shake Mrs. Firecracker's resolve. A pajama-clad Little Lurry waved good-bye to his siblings from the window of his sick room on a sunny Monday morning.

By mid-week, Little Lurry was back in the pink. Mrs. Firecracker announced that following Wednesday Night Bible Study, a sympathetic visitor would be joining the family for dinner - bachelor-friend of the family and fellow Minister-in-Training, affectionately known to Little Lurry as "Uncle" Eugene. A curly-haired Nordic Giant supped with the half-family that night, and after polishing off a plate of spaghetti and copious amounts of homemade bread, Uncle Eugene presented a pastry box to Little Lurry. The contents of this treasure box will forever be burned in my memory - four chocolate cupcakes with green frosting, each a perfect replica of my favorite Muppet, Kermit the Frog.

In between tears of joy and mouths full of chocolate cupcake, Little Lurry inscribed Uncle Eugene's name into his Book of Heroes. Not satisfied with Hero Status equivalent to Third Grade Teacher, Uncle Eugene went for the winners' circle, announcing that he had convinced the Church Camp Elders to refund a portion of Little Lurry's pre-paid camp fees. The Nordic Bachelor earned an illuminated inscription in Lurry's Book of Heroes when he announced that he would supplement the refunded camp fee, and the following Saturday, Uncle Eugene escorted Little Mister Left Behind to the local dog pound. Little Lurry was getting his own puppy!

Saturday morning at the pound presented Little Lurry with the toughest decision of his 9 and a half years. Up and down the aisles I went, getting to know every occupant. I knew that somewhere here, my new friend would be found. I initially picked a dog who reminded me of our former housemate, Suzette. I was counseled to make another pick, as this sweet girl was already "in a family way." The Nordic Bachelor solved the conundrum, calling Little Lurry over to a kennel where a little duck-tailed, white with black spots treasure was found. Little Lurry introduced himself, and this little fella gave Lurry the face kisses. We played together while the Nordic Bachelor processed the paperwork, and after a short ride back to the house (not a home), Little Lurry thanked Uncle Eugene for the gift of a lifetime.

Little Lurry and his new puppy, Prince, spent the rest of that day, romping and basking in the Summer sunshine. Best. Day. Ever.

And the moral of this story is... By the time I turned 10, I missed out on Summer Camp, but met a Prince I would remember for a lifetime. Little Becky Longstocking got a Campground Snog and learned to drop the F-bomb. In the long run, who got the better end of that deal? (Hint: Pick the puppy.)

A House is not a Home (Part I)

2009-05-23T23:09:00.000-07:00

At the close of our last installment, 4 young Pack Dogs watched as our precious Casa de Circus Troupe was traded for a quick buck. How would Mr. Gypsy Feet spend this hoard of Leprechaun's Gold? Well, it couldn't have been tuition for College of the Bible Thumpers - that expense was covered by our patriotic Uncle Sam. No, the proceeds of the home sale were applied to a Future Minister's Wardrobe - you guessed it, polyester suits, white patent leather belts and shoes - not to mention the five relocations of the Circus Troupe in the next 3-1/2 years. Any wonder why Lurry refers to his father as Mr. Gypsy Feet?

For the next three and a half years, the Circus Troupe was schooled in the fine art of packing and unpacking their belongings. Let's peek in on the happy family and see what transpires next...

Move 1 - Post-Salvation, Pre-Sanctification

After Casa de Circus Troupe sold, Mr. Gypsy Feet parked the family in a small brown adobe while he waited on two critical items - acceptance to College of the Bible Thumpers, and sanctification. Upon arrival of these godly gifts, the boxes were packed, the moving van was loaded, and we made the six-hour journey to the Colorado Rockies.

Move 2 - Mega-churchin' in the Shadow of Pike's Peak

Never one to fully research his options, Mr. Gypsy Feet plunked down cash on a 3-bedroom blue-and-white rental in the shadow of Pike's Peak. For the next 9 months, the Circus Troupe gagged through life - Mr. Gypsy Feet's economical find was positioned about a quarter mile down wind from a sulphur-spewing paper mill. Lurry finished the Fourth Grade in his stocking feet, all the while corresponding with a Japanese pen pal. (Our experimental elementary school was carpeted throughout, and Mrs. Rogers' class was connected by Air Mail to a sister city schoolroom, halfway across the globe.)

Mrs. Firecracker was too distracted to notice that her brood was being schooled in the progressive style - she nestled in, proud as a peacock at the Poisoned Mind Mega-Church, joined the choir, and churned out wave after wave of von Trapp family outfits on her trusty Singer. Mr. Gypsy Feet attended College of the Bible Thumpers by day, and swept floors at a Chrysler dealership by night.

Move 3 - An Eye Opener

The stink of the paper mill was left behind in a move to suburbia - next on the agenda was a year in the half-brick house on a hill. Fifth Grade was a world of confusion for our Little Lurry. Fifth Grade teacher (aka, Pumpkin Head) was not to be counted in the Parade of Heroes. Mrs. Pumpkin Head popped her puss out the classroom door on the first day of school, and belted out "Hello, Fifth Graders!" Mrs. Pumpkin Head earned her nickname in the first week of school, removing her partial and wiping it down before a room of horrified 10- and 11-year olds. As if that weren't enough to frighten the young 'uns, Mrs. Pumpkin Head had an affinity for her chair on wheels. She would hike her skirt to scoot around the room, flashing her knee-high supp-hose, and proudly demonstrating the principles of propulsion by orthopedic shoe. I thanked my lucky stars that Fifth Grade introduced the concept of teachers for different subjects. At least I got to spend two thirds of each school day in the presence of adults whose breath didn't stink! Oh, didn't I mention the breath? Mrs. Pumpkin Head was a husky, fire-breathing troll whose breath smelled like a mixture of coffee, too many cigarettes, and sour Sugar Smacks.

Secular education aside, Mrs. Firecracker got busy reinforcing her army of Christian Soldiers. Nights were spent in Bible Study, chapter and verse memorization mandatory, and the brood was indoctrinated in Boot Camp for Future PKs (preacher's kids). This thinly-veiled attempt at Biblical Brainwashing was countered by an unexpected source, Little Becky Longstocking, a red-headed neighborhood chum who wielded 2 secret weapons - the Book of Mormon and a magical F-word.

One Spring day, Becky Longstocking shocked Little Lurry's Bible-steeped brain, repeatedly dropping a word heretofore unheard... the F-bomb. Champion speller and vocabularist of the Fifth Grade, Little Lurry insisted on a definition for this mysterious word. Little Lurry's ears burned upon hearing Becky's explanation. Becky Longstocking laughed at Little Lurry's shock... didn't Little Lurry know where babies came from?

Unable to sleep that night, Little Lurry crept out of bed to ask Mrs. Firecracker whether Becky Longstocking told truth or not. Fumbling at this forbidden topic, Little Lurry blurted out his question, "Mom? Do humans have to, uh, mate to have babies?"

Although she turned five shades of red, Mrs. Firecracker managed to hold her composure and replied, "Yes, honey. Humans mate to have babies."

"That's not what we learned in church! What about Jesus? What about Moses?" I cried.

"Jesus was different, honey," she replied. "Now have a cookie and go back to bed."

I was crestfallen. Little Becky Longstocking had been right. I returned to bed, eating a cookie made from the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.

(To be continued...)

Colorado or Bust

2009-05-16T21:20:00.000-07:00

In our last episode, First Grade Teacher had just released Lurry from right-handed prison. Upon further investigation, she discovered that Little Lurry had already read both the First and Second Grade Primers. At the next parent-teacher conference, First Grade Teacher convinced Mrs. Firecracker and Mr. Gypsy Feet to dip into the cookie jar for a batch of used books. One trip to the flea market later, and Game On! The Tallywhacker Brothers transformed into three racing bookworms, devouring their way through a bookshelf of Hardy Boys mysteries.

The next few years of Little Lurry's life went spiraling by... a new family member was adopted - Suzette, we called her - a medium-sized (moyen), black French poodle. Imagining our newest family member safe behind a 5-foot cement block wall, Mrs. Firecracker and Mr. Gypsy Feet neglected to have Miss Suzie fixed. One good solid heat later, and Miss Suzie soon presented the Circus Troupe with a litter of 6 puppies, all of different breeds. My temporary charge was the runt of the litter - Squeaky, as christened by Little Lurry - the tiny result of the best 10 hot minutes of a neighborhood Chihuahua's life.

A parade of grade school superheroes flew in and out of Little Lurry's world... from Second Grade Teacher - in the guise of Mrs. Padilla, the mild-mannered school piano player - with her black beehive hair-do, cat-eyed glasses, and bubble-gum drop earrings, to Third Grade Teacher - a Betty Crocker lookalike traveling under the moniker of Mrs. Sackett - who wielded the super powers of Cursive Handwriting and Long Division, to Fourth Grade Teacher - an unassuming mousy, short blonde who called herself Mrs. Magruder - who showed us a world where fractions and the grades U, S, and E were considered childish. Fourth Grade Teacher brandished the all-mighty decimal point, and replaced our infantile achievement markings with the big kids' grades, A through F.

Unwilling to allow secular education to be our only guide, Mrs. Firecracker trundled her brood off to Sunday School every Sunday morning, Bible Study every Wednesday night, and Vacation Bible School every Summer. Mrs. Firecracker was building an army of Christian Soldiers - catechized and baptized - for continuous onslaught against a drinking, smoking, and carousing Mr. Gypsy Feet. In the name of our Lord and Saviour... Amen. Praise the Lord, and Pass the Judgement!

Following the crushing defeat of his political hero (George "Segregation Forever" Wallace for President) in 1968, Mr. Gypsy Feet looked around and realized that his world was slipping out of control. His progeny were befriending children of every color and creed. He was out-classed and out-flanked by Mrs. Firecracker and her band of Christian Soldiers. Catching Mr. Gypsy Feet in a weak moment - drunk, wounded, and shamed by the army sprung from his seed - Mrs. Firecracker lost no time luring Mr. Gypsy Feet to a church tent for the final, crushing blows. For a solid week, Fire and Brimstone rained down on Mr. Gypsy Feet's soul, spewed from the mouth of a self-righteous, fire-breathing monster... the dreaded Traveling Revival Preacher.

On a Friday night, four teary-eyed Pack Dogs watched while their world was destroyed... Daddy was about to drink the Kool-Aid. Mr. Gypsy Feet made the long walk to the altar, wailing like our ancestral Banshee, and repented his sins to the tune of Old Rugged Cross. Weeks later, Mr. Gypsy Feet announced to the Congregation of the Church of the Poisoned Mind that he had been called - by an Angel of God, no less - into the ministry. Within months, Casa de Circus Troupe was sold, Mrs. Firecracker was taught to drive in the 3-on the column, standard transmission Rambler Wagon, the U-Haul was packed, and the troupe was off (after several lurching, herky-jerky starts of the Rambler Wagon by Mrs. Firecracker). We were being transported to the epicenter of Protestant Fundamentalism, the Colorado Rockies.

Postscript: Not to worry, dear Readers. As with all mystical transformations, Mr. Gypsy Feet's conversion didn't last forever. He was down, but not out... his old habits of carousing, smoking, and drinking will return to the party like Ghosts of Christmas Past.

Educating Lurry

2009-05-16T11:14:00.000-07:00

Last we knew, Uncle Hero was called to duty in the US Navy. The Pack Dogs were sad to see him go, but summer was ending, and three lunch boxes soon appeared on the kitchen table. Little Lurry was lined up behind Oldest Brother and Next-Older Brother, and issued a ticket on the Grade School Express.

Mid-Summer in '66, Oldest Brother and Next-Older Brother were swept away to Vacation Bible School, and with Little Lurry and Younger Sister at her feet, Mrs. Firecracker busied herself singing church hymns at the altar of her Singer sewing machine. From one bolt of cotton-poly blend, she would churn out a dress for herself, three matching shirts for the Tallywhacker Brothers, a jumper for Sister Sue (Younger Sister had a nickname too), and a necktie from the scraps for Mr. Gypsy Feet. We were transformed into the von Trapp Family Circus.

Late Summer that year, Little Lurry crept up on 6 years old. The local child-catching authorities were alerted to the upcoming milestone, a shopping list was issued, and Little Lurry's fate was sealed. Armed with her coupons and cookie jar money, Mrs. Firecracker was off with a gaggle of shopping Church Ladies, and following her list to the letter, returned with a Big Chief tablet, a chunky #2 pencil, a pair of blunt-end scissors (right-handed, of course - lefty-scissors were *much* too expensive), an 8-pack of Crayolas, a pot of school paste, and (luxury of luxuries) a blue-and-white Huckleberry Hound lunch box and thermos. Under cover of night, the treasure hoard was packed, and on Monday morning, a third spiraling top was spun off after Oldest Brother and Next-Older Brother. It was time for Little Lurry to make the 5-block walk, and introduce himself to First Grade Teacher.

First Grade Teacher (operating under the smoky-voiced guise of Mrs. Robertson) was a fun-loving, stocky ball of laughter - her secret mission (issued by the local child-catching authorities) was to seduce a room full of racially-diverse monkeys with the magic of colored construction paper and afternoon snacks. Little did the Monkey Band know, First Grade Teacher was going to sow our fertile monkey minds with the Seeds of Knowledge. From the Monkey Band roster, First Grade Teacher spoke each of our names, out loud and proud. Each of us presented our hoard of treasure for inspection, and upon tallying 20 identical pairs of blunt-end scissors, First Grade Teacher charted a course of right-handed instruction.

Not yet a rule-breaker, Little Lurry followed the lead of First Grade Teacher, and like the rest of the Monkey Band, made wobbly right-handed hieroglyphs in his Big Chief tablet. Even though his mind wandered during reading lessons - he had polished off the First Grade Primer two years past - Little Lurry worshipped First Grade Teacher. She said, "Jump!" and Little Lurry was first off the launch pad.

In late Fall, Mrs. Firecracker received word that Uncle Hero had earned his commission, and was soon to set sail on the Pacific. Our long-awaited communications channel had been cleared... Uncle Hero had a new mailing address. Four Pack Dogs went running to their corners on a Saturday night, scratching out missives to our Pack Leader. Into one large envelope went 4 sealed envelopes, and the next Monday morning, Mrs. Firecracker persuaded an unsuspecting postal worker to deliver this bundle of adoration to Naval Officer Alpha Dog Hero. Not content to wait for replies, the Pack Dogs turned Saturday nights into a ritual. After a Saturday night scrub-down (we had to be clean for Sunday morning services at the Church of the Poisoned Mind), each Pack Dog would tuck a letter into a manila envelope bound for the Pacific.

The first 9-week quarter of school ended, report cards were issued in hand-constructed covers, and Little Lurry scored E (for excellent) in Citizenship, Attendance, and Arithmetic, S (for satisfactory) in Art and Penmanship, but the dreaded U (for unsatisfactory) in Reading. "Little Lurry is unfocused during Reading lessons. He passes his tests, but is unwilling to participate in lessons with the other children." Mrs. Firecracker was not pleased - no child of hers had ever brought home a report card bearing a U *and* a critical statement. Apparently grades E and S meant nothing in contrast to a Scarlet U. Secret Agent Pack Dog 3 confessed his shame in the next weekly missive to Naval Officer Alpha Dog Hero.

Thanksgiving flew by, and in the next few weeks, letters began arriving - the first addressed to Oldest Brother, the second to Next-Older Brother, and the third addressed to Younger Sister. I watched mournfully while each of my siblings opened their treasured communications from Uncle Hero. I couldn't believe that Alpha Dog Hero still hadn't written back to Secret Agent Pack Dog 3. I poured everything I had into those letters. I told him everything about my first months in school. I introduced him to my new friend, First Grade Teacher. I knew he'd be proud of me... I told him how we took care of Uncle Hero's Ghost. Alas, no letter addressed to Little Lurry.

Christmas was approaching, and First Grade Teacher instructed 20 monkeys in the making of reindeer face napkin holders from brown, black, and red construction paper. We were paroled by the child-catching authorities for a 2-week Winter break, and Little Lurry finally received a letter from Alpha Dog Hero. This magical letter was enclosed in an Air Mail envelope. I held in my hands the best Christmas present any child had ever received. I opened the envelope and discovered not one, but two pieces of paper - one bore the handwriting of our beloved Uncle, the other a scrawled language I didn't recognize. I devoured Uncle Hero's letter... he apologized for taking so long to write to me, but he had trouble deciphering my letters. He told me about his travels, and how much he loved hearing from the Pack Dogs. Toward the end of the letter, he gave me instructions for a secret mission. "Hold the other letter up to a mirror for a coded message." I looked over the other letter, but couldn't decipher the missive until I followed his instructions. I held the letter up to a mirror, and like magic, the message was revealed. "I have to hold your letters up to a mirror to read them. Take this letter to school. Show Mrs. Robertson how you write with your left hand. She should be able to help. Love, Uncle Hero."

Winter break ended, and Little Lurry turned himself in to the child-catching authorities. He screwed up his courage, stayed after school one Winter day, and showed First Grade Teacher the secret letter from Uncle Hero. First Grade Teacher reviewed the letter in the nearest mirror, and instructed Little Lurry to take out his Big Chief tablet, hold his chunky #2 pencil in his left hand, and without looking at the chalkboard, write down his letters. In perfectly formed lines, curves, crosses and dots, Little Lurry scribed the alphabet for First Grade Teacher, each a mirror image of the letters written on the big green chalkboard.

I don't know if this episode brought a tear to First Grade Teacher's eye - I cry like a wounded puppy every time I think about this day in my life - but First Grade Teacher made the necessary mid-course correction. Little Lurry was instructed to wield his chunky #2 pencil left-handed from that day forward. I walked home that afternoon with two treasured possessions in my school bag - Uncle Hero's letter and a used pair of left-handed, blunt-end scissors.

Postscript: Thirteen years later, I returned to First Grade Teacher's classroom, late one Spring afternoon. I knocked on her classroom door, entered once invited, and she called out my name, as loud and proud as she had pronounced it on my first day of school. I learned that she was retiring at the end of that school year, and I told her how much she meant to me. When I asked her how she had remembered my name, she told me that upon reaching adulthood, many of her students had returned for a nostalgic visit. "I've taught the first grade for thirty years. For the first nine months of your school lives, I get to look into your adoring faces and call each of you by your first names. I've never failed to recognize a student's face."

Filmstrip at 11

2009-05-13T03:14:00.000-07:00

Poor Big Fatty... he's having a few difficulties communicating.

Cool suit, ParticleMan!

2009-05-12T18:44:00.000-07:00

Heaving Apple Pancakes

2009-05-12T18:14:00.000-07:00

Since Dubious Intent has been elected to be the audio conduit of teh interwebz, the gravitational center of the known universe has allowed me can haz recipe conduit. This one's for you, GumboGuy.

The Original Pancake House--an old chain of breakfast places scattered around the country--makes better pancakes than I've had anywhere. Not only are their straightforward flapjacks excellent, but they make a line of specialty pancakes that move into territory hitherto unknown for most people. The best and most unusual of all the Original Pancake House's pancakes is its apple pancake. It's baked, not griddled, and comes out about an inch thick . It's bubbling with superheated apples, releasing a marvelous cinnamon aroma. The recipe is a secret, but knowing well what the final product is like I've come up with a close approximation.

1/2 stick butter
2 medium-size apples, preferably on the tart side
1/2 cup dark brown sugar
2 tsp. cinnamon (or more)

1 cup self-rising flour
1 tsp. cinnamon (or more)
1/4 cup white sugar
6 eggs, separated
2 tsp. vanilla extract
1 cup buttermilk (or 2 percent milk)
1 Tbs. butter

Preheat oven to 350 degrees, with a ten-inch black iron skillet on a rack in the middle.

1. Peel, core, and slice the apples into crescent-shaped pieces about a quarter-inch thick.
2. Melt the butter in a saucepan over medium heat. When it begins to bubble, add the dark brown sugar and cinnamon. Cook while stirring until the sugar is no longer gritty. Add the apples and cook, stirring now and then, until they soften. Add 1/4 cup water and stir to make a syrup around the apples. Reduce the heat to low.
3. Combine the flour, cinnamon, and white sugar in a small bowl. In a second bowl, combine the egg yolks, vanilla, and milk. Pour the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients and mix with a wire whisk until a few small lumps remain. Add up to 1/4 cup of water to the batter to lighten enough that it pours easily.
4. With an electric mixer, beat the egg whites until foamy, with soft peaks. With a rubber spatula, stir the egg white froth into the batter.
5. Remove the black iron skillet from the oven (with a potholder, of course) and swirl the 1 Tbs. butter around in it until the sides and bottom are coated. Pour the batter into the skillet, about a half-inch from the top of the rim. Return to the oven. Bake for about ten minutes.
6. Turn the oven up to 425 degrees. Remove the skillet and scoop the apple mixture over the batter. With a fork, force about two-thirds of the the apple pieces down into the batter. Return the skillet to the oven and bake for 20-25 minutes, or until you can actually see the pancake heaving in the pan.
7. Remove and allow to cool for about two minutes, then loosen the pancake with a knife and slide onto a plate.

Serves two to four.

BFO Episode 331... the great letdown

2009-05-12T15:29:00.000-07:00

... but you gave us mah-nayse. You know, poetic license makes a great salve for that.

Great Expectations for BFO Episode 331

2009-05-12T15:18:00.000-07:00

We had such great expectations, Big Fatty...

Hero Worship

2009-05-10T23:41:00.000-07:00

After the passing of Grandpa Shorty, the world spun 'round, and Life presented a new game to the circus troupe. It's a time-honored tradition, and who hasn't played this game? Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the many faces of complete, abject Hero Worship!

One fine day in the Desert Southwest, the Tallywhacker Brothers snarfed down their Corn Flakes and escaped the compound for a day in the wild - racing on bikes (steering clear of tumbleweeds), nudging ants into ant lion traps (a popular sport on the mesa), chasing blue-tailed lizards (little critters that shed their tails when caught), and rubbing the bellies of horny toads (put 'em on their backs, rub their bellies, and they go to sleep). A comet streaked across the sky that day, followed by the piercing air horn sound of Mother's yell. We had no choice, recognizing the syllables of our True Names, we were summoned back from the wild.

On our return to Casa de Circus Troupe, we discovered a 6' tall, 18-year old, black-haired, pale-skinned stranger. Mrs. Firecracker introduced her younger brother and while she chattered about bunking adjustments, my mind turned backflips. Dare we hope? Somebody pinch me! Queue the fanfare, Uncle Hero was in da house!

Uncle Hero basked in the adoration of four young troupers. He was at the magical nexus of life - still enjoying the twilight of childhood, only beginning to contemplate a grown-up existence. He was the Alpha Dog of our pack. We cherished every joke that he made, every story he told, and every game he invented. Uncle Hero was the center of the known universe, and all was right in our world.

While the younger members of the Circus Troupe were distracted by Uncle Hero, Mr. Gypsy Feet and Mrs. Firecracker practiced their own versions of the game of Hero Worship. Mrs. Firecracker basked in the light of her favorite church leader - Pastor Sunshine - while a drinking, smoking, and carousing Mr. Gypsy Feet put the satellite of his burgeoning racism in orbit around George Wallace for President. Mrs. Firecracker dragged her brood to church, three times a week, and dreamed of starting a Bible-Thumping Jug Band while, irony of ironies, our Black Irish father - whose skin was so dark he had been refused housing to the tune of, "We don't rent to no Mexicans" - had decided to delude himself in the My Shit Don't Stink department.

Alas, all good things must come to an end. Uncle Hero left Casa de Circus Troupe to join the Navy, but in his last nose-thumbing at the grown-up world, he gave the young Circus Troupers something to remember him by... Uncle Hero's Ghost. Every time a coyote howled at the moon, or the wind blew a door closed, 4 hero-worshipping Pack Dogs would look at each other and whisper, "Uncle Hero's Ghost!"

This one's for you, Uncle Hero. You're the one Hero this Blue-Eyed Lefty will never forget.

Do these Krusty Nips make me look fat?

2009-05-10T06:49:00.000-07:00

Poor Big Fatty. Dear Sweet Gussie, indeed!

What's not to love? Dawn French as Bjork

2009-05-10T06:05:00.000-07:00

Rockin' the 'stache at 24...

2009-05-10T05:39:00.000-07:00

Just call me Lambchop... or Unibrau

2009-05-10T05:37:00.000-07:00

Wookie holding an Ewok...

2009-05-10T05:36:00.000-07:00

Wondering if I'll grow into those ears...

2009-05-10T05:33:00.000-07:00

Me Write Funny One Day

2009-05-08T16:39:00.000-07:00

By the time Baby Lurry earned the next in his string of nicknames (Little Mister), Mr. Gypsy Feet was once again packing the circus wagon. Where to next in this unending series of moves? We're off to Potato Land.

Playing cops 'n robbers in the Land of Potatoes managed to hold Mr. Gypsy Feet's attention for nearly two whole years. The grass however, always grew greener just beyond the horizon.

Younger Sister had almost graduated to spanky pants, and we were off again to the Desert Southwest. For the next 5 years, the clan settled in the only place that Little Mister would ever nostalgically refer to as Home. This cozy little green and white, three-bedroom cottage sported a rock garden, a huge weeping willow (perfectly positioned for backyard hijinks), and a large apricot tree.

A year flew by, and Oldest Brother was enrolled in school. Using the ingeniously contrived game of make-believe school, Little Mister tricked Oldest Brother into teaching him to read 2 years before he was to start school. Reading was the easy part. The tricky Little Mister also let Oldest Brother demonstrate writing, but this plan backfired. Two years later, Little Mister was shocked to discover that he wrote backwards.

(Note to self: Righty teach Lefty how to read just fine, but when Lefty imitate Righty's writing, Lefty make mirror image of Righty's words.)

The year Next-Older Brother enrolled in school, Mrs. Firecracker was informed that Step-Father Shorty would soon be meeting his Maker. The circus troupe was piled into the Rambler Wagon for a little early childhood trauma.

At one pit stop on the journey, Mr. Gypsy Feet pulled in for a fuel-up and the relief of six bladders. Ten or fifteen minutes later, and after a quick head count, 5 members of the circus troupe hopped back into the wagon and drove off into the sunset. Two minutes later, Little Mister came out of the restroom, saw the Rambler idling at the nearest intersection, and decided that he'd rather rejoin the circus than be raised by wolves.

The Rambler Wagon sped off as the light turned green, and a screaming 5-year old sprinted through the intersection, chasing the family wagon for several blocks. If it weren't for Mrs. Firecracker insisting that Oldest Brother and Next-Older Brother check under the blankets (Mrs. Firecracker was sure that Blue-Eyed Lefty was hiding in the back of the wagon), I might be writing an entirely different blog. One traumatic experience down, one to go.

Grandpa Shorty lay dying in his hospital bed, of lung cancer. Mrs. Firecracker and Mr. Gypsy Feet went into the room first. Still oblivious to the environment or the purpose of our visit (Grandpa Shorty had never met this brood of grandchildren), one by one, we were escorted into the room to "Say goodbye to Grandpa." All I remember was being introduced to a cadaverous stranger, my hand being placed into his, and simultaneous tears from both of our eyes.

Score one snarky point for the parental units.

Fuel for the trip - $50
A couple of boxes of Cheez-It crackers for the ride - $1.29
Introducing the kids to Death before puberty - priceless!

The Game of Life

2009-05-07T17:20:00.000-07:00

As of our last installment, 6 players have lined up on the board: Mr. Gypsy Feet (the father), Mrs. Firecracker (the mother), Oldest Brother, Next-Older Brother, Angel Baby (aka, Baby Lurry), and Younger Sister. Players identified? Check. Now let's review the rules of the game.

Board game rules applying to Mr. Gypsy Feet:

None.

Board game rules applying to all other players:

First and foremost, no complaining about the rules.
No smoking.
No drinking.
No dancing.
No gambling.
No lying, no cheating, and no stealing.
No popular entertainment.
No mixed gender swimming (I shit you not).
Male players will refer to their genitalia as the "tallywhacker".
Female players will deny the existence of genitalia, but upon direct confrontation will refer to their stuff as "Down There".

And last, but not least:

All rules are to be broken frequently, and with wild abandon (once out of eyesight or earshot of Mrs. Firecracker).

If the board game rules haven't clued you in, let me flesh out the stage. Mrs. Firecracker was determined to raise her brood to be God-fearin', Bible-thumpin', Catholic-hatin', Jesus-freakin', Fundamentalist Christian Stepford children. And she might have succeeded if we'd all been lobotomized as soon as we could wipe the drool from our own chins.

As it turns out, the tighter you cork the genie's bottle, the more explosive the inevitable uncorking (more on that in future chapters).

Lookie what I found

2009-05-04T17:37:00.000-07:00

I know someone who's got her eye on the prize...

2009-05-04T17:34:00.000-07:00

LurryDean's Curry Chicken Salad

2009-05-04T15:26:00.000-07:00

About 1 cup each of:

Diced Sweet Onion

Chopped Celery

Chopped Walnuts

About 2 pounds of cooked chicken (I use boneless, skinless thighs), cooled and cut into bite sized pieces.

About 3/4 pound of *sweet* green grapes.

Mix together with a good quality canola mayonnaise and 1-3 tablespoons of curry powder.

In order to allow the curry to infuse, refrigerate for at least 1/2 hour before serving.

Depending on your taste, use either a mild American curry powder or a spicy Vietnamese curry powder.

This recipe goes over great with people who normally can't stand curry dishes.

Third Son from an Angry Womb (Part II)

2009-05-03T20:48:00.000-07:00

When last we left our Happy Family, bun number three was in Mrs. Firecracker's oven, Oldest Brother was nearing graduation to rubber pants, Next-Older Brother was off the teat and mobile, and Mr. Gypsy Feet was packing the circus wagon. Off we went to the chilly Pacific Northwest.

Mrs. Firecracker was convinced that she was carrying twin tadpoles. The agenda was set in her mind - twin names were picked out, one for a boy and one for a girl. Well, little did she know, this tadpole just liked to swim. He busied himself deciphering cave paintings left by the chamber's former tenants. He bounced off the walls... he slept perpendicular... he made Mrs. Firecracker very uncomfortable.

Well, tadpole's due date came and went. Two weeks later, Mrs. Firecracker resorted to her secret recipe for bun eviction - spaghetti dinner followed by running up and down stairs. Baby Lurry made his debut just after 3:30 the next morning. Next-Older Brother thought he got a cool reception. Baby Lurry was supposed to have olive-colored skin and brown eyes. Baby Lurry had the gall to pop out all tow-headed and blue-eyed. Baby Lurry looked like the milkman's child. Baby Lurry was supposed to be twins. Baby Lurry was if nothing else, supposed to be a Little Miss Firecracker. Sorry Mom, that's not how Baby Lurry do.

Fives of Kodak Brownie 127 pictures later, Baby Lurry earned his first nickname - Angel Baby - holding out his arms to fly while being carried from room to room. Mrs. Firecracker was not satisfied. While Mr. Gypsy Feet was out playin' good cop, bad cop, Mrs. Firecracker decided to dress up blue-eyed Angel Baby like a Little Miss Firecracker. Mr. Gypsy Feet came home early and hit the roof! Irish temper met Irish temper. Somehow this resulted in the Irish two-step, and on April Fool's Day, bun number four went into the oven.

Nine months later, Younger Sister, not willing to wait for the bun eviction ritual, broke Mrs. Firecracker's water on the kitchen floor. Younger Sister made her debut on the gurney ride to the delivery room. Mrs. Firecracker finally got what she wanted, a brown-eyed, olive-skinned Little Miss Firecracker. Mr. Gypsy Feet finally got what he had wanted two tadpoles ago, a vasectomy.

LurryDean's Sausage and Cheese Grits

2009-05-03T15:36:00.000-07:00

This one's for you, Laura Smith. Enjoy!

In a large frying pan, break up and fry 1 pound of country sausage (in bite-sized pieces).

Remove the sausage, but leave the drippings in the pan. While the pan is still on the heat, stir in 2-3 tablespoons of flour to make a roux (add a few tablespoons of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter if necessary), and then slowly stir in 1 cup of lowfat milk. Stir continuously, until the gravy begins to boil and thicken. Add salt and pepper to taste.

In a medium saucepan, stir together 3 cups of water, 1 cup of lowfat milk, and 1/2 teaspoon of lite salt. Stir frequently until the liquid boils.

Turn the heat down to low-medium, and slowly stir in 1 cup of 5-minute grits. Cover the saucepan, and cook for 5 minutes, stirring frequently. (Be careful when you lift the saucepan cover... grits are like hot bubbling lava!)

Remove the grits from the heat, and stir in 1/2 pound of provolone cheese. Fold in the sausage and the gravy.

Scoop the mixture into one or more containers, and refrigerate for at least 2 hours. The mixture will set up and can be cut into individual servings.

Microwave a serving for 1 minute, and serve with a poached or fried egg on top. (Serve with a bottle of hot sauce on the side.)

Now if this was my Grandma's version, she would have used heavy cream instead of lowfat milk in both the gravy and the grits, she would have added at least half a stick of butter to the roux, and would have used regular salt instead of lite salt. To reheat the casserole servings, she would have fried the slices in bacon grease. Follow her version of the recipe at your own risk, but she did live to be 93.

Third Son from an Angry Womb (Part I)

2009-05-03T11:55:00.000-07:00

A couple of years ago, I read about a Canadian study of gay men and birth order. One [misogynistic, IMHO] theory spawned by this study is what I refer to as the "angry womb" effect; successive passages of male children through the [angry] womb yield increased probability of a homosexual male emerging from the chamber. Given the same data, I would have postulated a "practice makes perfect" theory - not every oyster produces a pearl on the first try, but practice makes perfect!

In the late-1950s, my 19-year old, black-haired, hazel-eyed, olive-skinned, strapping 6'1" father-to-be lay in an Air Force hospital, suffering from Asian Flu. On his perceived death bed, he threw caution [and common sense] to the wind, and wrote proposals of marriage to 4 high school girlfriends. Three of his proposals went unanswered, but Lady Fortune bestowed a 0.25 batting average on this Black Irish lad, and my mother-to-be answered affirmatively.

My 21-year old, fiery red-haired, brown-eyed, milk-and-freckles complected, 5'2" firecracker of a mother-to-be never got over being dumped by her high school sweetheart. Once Mr. Sweetheart discovered that Mom's father died in a mental institution, he dropped her like a cold stone. Mom worked as a waitress in my paternal Grandparents' cafe, and at one point went on a single date with my dad. I'm not sure why only one date, but knowing Dad, I suspect he tried to taste the buttermilk, and got a face full of Irish "Oh, no you didn't!"

Spin forward to Christmas Eve, and the deed was done. Dad got the taste of Irish buttermilk he craved. Mom got a second edition Betty Crocker Picture Cookbook and a bun planted in her oven. Santa delivered Frisbees, sock monkeys, and Betsy Wetsy dolls all across North America.

As their first son grew in Mom's belly, Dad got busted tasting someone else's buttermilk (note: this will become a pattern). He asked for a divorce, but no self-respecting, Betty Crocker-wielding, Irish firecracker of a 50s mother-to-be would let her man off that easy. Hell to the no, Mr. Man, you're going to go to church and pray that pickle back into your pants. Score one for Mom in the "I'll make a man out of you yet" department, but now we've got this "angry womb" to deal with.

Nine months to the day since Santa's last global flight, and Oldest Brother elbowed his way out of the chamber thinking, "Wow! It started out kinda nice, but man it got uncomfortable in there. Hey! You! Don't just stand there, start taking pictures! I'm your number one son!"

Hundreds of Kodak Brownie 127 pictures and 4 months of good behavior later, the Irish two-step was danced on Washington's birthday, and bun number two was popped into the oven. Nine months later Next-Older Brother heaved himself out to the welcoming comment of, "Oh... I was hoping for a girl. Guess I'll have to work harder next time." Turns out, Dad was gettin' busy telling Miss Nurse the name for his new papoose, but Mom got the last word... she changed Next-Older Brother's name on the paperwork. Apparently, Mother trumps Father in the game of baby naming. Finger!

Fifties of Kodak Brownie 127 pictures later (sorry, Next-Older Brother, you'll always be second in Papa's eyes), Cupid shot darts at our happy contestants, and bun three was tossed into the crucible. Months later, Dr. Doctor told Mrs. Firecracker that he suspected she was carrying twin tadpoles in the belly. In self defense, Mr. Gypsy Feet announced that these tadpoles would not be born in the blessed sun of the Desert Southwest - he picked up the clan and ran back to Momma in the chilly, rainy Pacific Northwest.

(To be continued...)

Introducing LurryDean

2009-05-03T10:22:00.000-07:00

Hello world. Welcome to my little corner of the internets. I've been meaning to get to you, but I've been a little busy.

Folks call me LurryDean, one of the many nicknames I've picked up in life. I am a 48-year old gay man, happily partnered for the past 18 years, and hoping for at least another 20 years with the man who makes me a better person.

When I was 20, one of my employers encouraged me to write my story, but at that age, I just laughed at the prospect. Well, 28 years have flown by since then; maybe it's time I got started.

Hopefully, you'll find these stories funny, sad, and everything in between. Since I decided to take on this project, my head has been swirling with things to write. When I try to sleep, I dream like I'm bathing in Dumbledore's pensieve. I think I'll start at the beginning... in hopes that the chronology will glue the stories together.

Have fun! I'm looking forward to the journey.

-- LurryDean