since it is obscenely late at night i think i should talk about bedtime stories in the boys room. we never had fairy tales or any of that other normal nonsense. we listened to stories from dad, Brian and a few others befitting to Rugglets.
of dad, we almost exclusively asked for bible stories from the old testament. i tell that to people and they give me that "you come from a weird family look." i remember us excitedly asking for " the fire building contest" loud enough to wake Chanda. we listened to a story few other 8 year-olds knew that we had memorized a dozen times over with rapt attention. dad would go over the story in excruciating detail of the brave(and bald) prophet taking on those wicked priests of Baal. toward the end, at just the right moment, we would say (more or less in chorus), "and then the people of israel slew 417 priests of Baal!"
Brian was famous for much different stories, but he can write a better post about that than me. the same invitation goes for the rest of you. what was your favorite bedtime story and who told it?
Monday, December 29, 2008
Morgan's first christmas with the ruggles
Morgan's first Christmas at our house was fraught with confusion fear and wonder....and humor for us. he could give a better post for this but i remember us purposefully mispronouncing "the Bargaining" as much as we could. Up till Christmas eve night he thought we traditionally tobogganed Christmas eve night. his illumination to the true nature of "the bargaining" was priceless.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Salt and Dad
Ruggleses tend to develop some level of hypertension as they age, and Dad is no exception. Periodically, our beloved Morton's salt would get replaced with some small white-labeled shaker of No-Salt with *gag* Potassium Chloride.
Did Dad ever stop loving salt? I rather doubt it. He used to grill chicken seasoned with fistfuls of salt, and my eyes would water. But I was turned off to salt long before that.
In keeping with the Christmas season, this story is still heavily entwined with Christmas. Once, a long time ago, we were making Mom and Dad their obligatory breakfast for in-bed consumption, and I was assigned egg-making. I salted to my taste, which is enough, I think. Dad, before even tasting it, asked for more salt because surely I could not meet his distinguished taste. I took his plate back, and I salted those eggs - a lot - because Dad likes his Sodium. When I brought the plate back, (probably on one of those little red floral-print TV trays), Dad demanded he be given the salt shaker so he could see to it, that he got his. I tried reasoning with him saying that I gave him salt and a lot of it. He would hear none of it, and he salted away - for the third time. Naturally, one bite convinced him that there is, in fact, an upper limit to the amount of salt a person can reasonably handle in a week, much less a meal. And around then, the whole experience has seen me shying away from salt since.
Maybe I won't have hypertension to go with my high cholesterol.
Did Dad ever stop loving salt? I rather doubt it. He used to grill chicken seasoned with fistfuls of salt, and my eyes would water. But I was turned off to salt long before that.
In keeping with the Christmas season, this story is still heavily entwined with Christmas. Once, a long time ago, we were making Mom and Dad their obligatory breakfast for in-bed consumption, and I was assigned egg-making. I salted to my taste, which is enough, I think. Dad, before even tasting it, asked for more salt because surely I could not meet his distinguished taste. I took his plate back, and I salted those eggs - a lot - because Dad likes his Sodium. When I brought the plate back, (probably on one of those little red floral-print TV trays), Dad demanded he be given the salt shaker so he could see to it, that he got his. I tried reasoning with him saying that I gave him salt and a lot of it. He would hear none of it, and he salted away - for the third time. Naturally, one bite convinced him that there is, in fact, an upper limit to the amount of salt a person can reasonably handle in a week, much less a meal. And around then, the whole experience has seen me shying away from salt since.
Maybe I won't have hypertension to go with my high cholesterol.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
The Christmas present Dad hated
So every year my Ruggles family does the mythical bargaining (which somehow took on a Bostonian accent) on Christmas eve wherein the kids beg and plead to open presents the night before, and Mom and Dad try to weasel breakfast-in-bed out of us.
The result has remained the same since inception with minor nuance. We would open one present - from either our designated cousin or from G-ma Oppelt, and Mom and Dad would get eggs, toast, and gravy or some other fancy bartered breakfasty accoutrements.
One year, I had either Ali or Natalie giving me my present, and it really seemed to come from Uncle Tim - a toy blow gun with suction darts. Dad was naturally mortified as evidenced by the horror etched on his face being as how anything that moves through the air can remove eyes magnetically merely in passing. Or through contact or something. I don't know - surely it involves some sort of death wish.
Anyway, we didn't sleep much that night as we were having too much fun shooting stuff. There were three holes on each side at the end to act as a muzzle brake, but eventually I discovered that my range increased dramatically when I slid my foam grip out over the holes.
The real fun (as the twinners can attest) began when Craig and I discovered that his random wax toy crap (what in the heck was that about?) could be molded into various bullet shapes and sizes. On the way down to visit Tim's crew in Sweeney, Craig and I were in the back making new shapes like hollow points and cylindrical slugs, and I tested them on Craigs thigh across the way from me. If they hurt sufficiently, they were deemed worthy. Only the best for Timmy and Tracy.
Then, at Tim's, Craig and I hunted the twins for real, and Nat and Ali for pretend, and we shot them - over and over. Once, I was in the girls' room, and I saw one of the twins, Tracy?, in Tim's room. I lobbed a slug out the room, down the hall, into the other room, over the bed, right into a body shot. It was amazing - not to brag, I am seriously awesome. How did that never get taken away? We must have done a great job at convincing Tim and Tracy to not tell on us. Maybe we offered them free shots at us or something.
Blowguns make for great fun presents, but they may be considered a touch dangerous.
The result has remained the same since inception with minor nuance. We would open one present - from either our designated cousin or from G-ma Oppelt, and Mom and Dad would get eggs, toast, and gravy or some other fancy bartered breakfasty accoutrements.
One year, I had either Ali or Natalie giving me my present, and it really seemed to come from Uncle Tim - a toy blow gun with suction darts. Dad was naturally mortified as evidenced by the horror etched on his face being as how anything that moves through the air can remove eyes magnetically merely in passing. Or through contact or something. I don't know - surely it involves some sort of death wish.
Anyway, we didn't sleep much that night as we were having too much fun shooting stuff. There were three holes on each side at the end to act as a muzzle brake, but eventually I discovered that my range increased dramatically when I slid my foam grip out over the holes.
The real fun (as the twinners can attest) began when Craig and I discovered that his random wax toy crap (what in the heck was that about?) could be molded into various bullet shapes and sizes. On the way down to visit Tim's crew in Sweeney, Craig and I were in the back making new shapes like hollow points and cylindrical slugs, and I tested them on Craigs thigh across the way from me. If they hurt sufficiently, they were deemed worthy. Only the best for Timmy and Tracy.
Then, at Tim's, Craig and I hunted the twins for real, and Nat and Ali for pretend, and we shot them - over and over. Once, I was in the girls' room, and I saw one of the twins, Tracy?, in Tim's room. I lobbed a slug out the room, down the hall, into the other room, over the bed, right into a body shot. It was amazing - not to brag, I am seriously awesome. How did that never get taken away? We must have done a great job at convincing Tim and Tracy to not tell on us. Maybe we offered them free shots at us or something.
Blowguns make for great fun presents, but they may be considered a touch dangerous.
Lip Hussie
This is technically a relatively recent story, but it covers a whole history of a particular sibling, and it was dang hilarious. Back when Carrie and I lived in Jersey with Naomi, and Chanda and Morgan lived in VA, we went down to visit them for a little bit. Carrie and Naomi actually stayed for the week, and I dropped them off and then picked them up at the end of the week.
I don't remember if it was the first night or the last, but on one of those, when Naomi and Maeve were sleeping, we growed-ups were hanging out in the living room telling stories. Somehow we got started talking about Andy's kissing promiscuity, and Chanda blurts out, "He's a lip hussie!"
We all laughed hysterically and took twice as long as normally necessary to get a sentence out because we were all short of breath. Chanda kept calling Andy a lip hussie, and we all cried when we thought of the term. Chanda suddenly wanted to prank call Andy and just yell "Lip Hussie!!!" but no one answered the phone, so she left the message instead. Carrie previously thought of Chanda as relatively mature and serious, but this set the record straight. Turns out, Chanda is a Ruggles, too; she just represses it sometimes. I think Morgan came to know our family a bit better that night as well.
I have never in my life used the term "Hussie" except in relation to this story, but I used it a lot that night. It was hilarious.
I don't remember if it was the first night or the last, but on one of those, when Naomi and Maeve were sleeping, we growed-ups were hanging out in the living room telling stories. Somehow we got started talking about Andy's kissing promiscuity, and Chanda blurts out, "He's a lip hussie!"
We all laughed hysterically and took twice as long as normally necessary to get a sentence out because we were all short of breath. Chanda kept calling Andy a lip hussie, and we all cried when we thought of the term. Chanda suddenly wanted to prank call Andy and just yell "Lip Hussie!!!" but no one answered the phone, so she left the message instead. Carrie previously thought of Chanda as relatively mature and serious, but this set the record straight. Turns out, Chanda is a Ruggles, too; she just represses it sometimes. I think Morgan came to know our family a bit better that night as well.
I have never in my life used the term "Hussie" except in relation to this story, but I used it a lot that night. It was hilarious.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
The Enemy
No matter how deep the divide, no matter how fierce the argument, there was one enemy that united us all, one war that superseded all other causes, yes, I speak of our crusade against cockroaches. All of us fear them, all of us loathe them. Occasionally we would wake up with one chewing the last remnants of dust and food from our eyebrows, we've all been attacked by a kamikaze roach going straight for our face (Ruggles lore has it that a roach only uses its wings when it's about to die). Roach bombs only delayed them because, you see, they came in from the outside: there was no getting rid of them. The buggers turned up everywhere. Our weapons were pretty much Raid and our ingenuity (the latter proved more effective). I once used different blends of shampoo and graham crackers as bait to poison them. Any roach we caught alive went to the tarantula, for you see, there were no prisoners in this war, they weren't taking any, and neither were we. Once late at night I was taking care of some business on the pot late at night went a roach began to meander toward me, not at its usual breakneck speed. Any roach moving erratically and out in the light we labeled as diseased and my revulsion was exquisite. I grabbed the only thing I could, a can of pressurized air freshener. The Glade autumn scented air freshener (not that any of us had ever smelled "autumn" in Texas) foamed on contact with the vermin, instantly immobilizing it and killed it rapidly. I had found my favorite weapon against the unstoppable tide. Roaches even seemed to shrug off Raid. I know they say they can survive a nuclear holocaust, but I say it's still worth a shot. Warning! The following picture may be too graphic for younger viewers
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:Kiefers
So, we all remember the unforgettable but not so delectable Kiefer pear. The Kiefer has an odd variety of characteristics that made it important to our childhood. The first is that it grows like a weed in Texas. While most of Dad's fruit trees were suffering from fire-blight or struggling to break free of the black gumbo, the Kiefer stood tall and proud, producing bushel after of bushel of pears, so many its limbs would fall off if unsupported. Some years I think we got as many as 8 bushels of pears from the tall, scraggly tree; it was unbelievably fecund. The second important feature of the Kiefer was that it was hard as a rock. Literally. We played baseball with these puppies, and one pear could last for several solid hits. Speaking of puppies, we used these more than once as dog-deterrents. Eating them fresh required a chisel and a lot of patience. Usually they were only edible after a few months of being canned. Harvesting them was always a challenge, just because the crop was large and the tree tall. Usually it fell to one of the smaller Rugglets to climb into the tree and shake it like your life depended on it while everyone else gathered them (the pears had about the same chance of bruising when they fell as a diamond shattering after falling from the same height). This was generally a painful experience for the hapless tree climber, the ordeal akin to a Mosaic stoning. One day when I was on tree duty I attempted to find some kind of helmet. Toy fireman helmets were OK, but my favorite was always a cornucopia put on top of my head because the long back part would shield my neck when I ducked down. Kiefers were one of the important building blocks and playthings from our childhood. They were always on hand for whatever sort of mischief we could contrive for them.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Improv
I had a sudden flash of stories to tell, but we'll get over it. Anyway, Andy and I had both done some drama early in our school life, but I think we got our abilities to improvise from Mom - who got her special powers from having to deal with large doses of us in the summer.
We would be sitting down for lunch, and I would typically do something mean or provoking to one or more siblings. Mom would tell me to stop, but it didn't always work with words alone. So she would use whatever was in her hand. I got whacked in the head and about everywhere else by a huge variety of things. The most memorable of which were wooden spoons and a full Kool-Aid jug. I remember being rather shocked when I saw Mom's frustrated face and a plastic jug full of summer refreshment speeding toward my melon. It didn't hurt at all, but the shock value stunned me briefly before I complained loudly.
Which reminds me of Mom's bad aim. When she tried using a belt to spank me, it would wrap around and hit my thigh, lower back, and it would get dangerously close to my crotchal region. So she wised up and got the infamous paddle. The paddle then hung where the hall emptied into the dining area to remind us of its authority. But I think I speak for us all when I say we would much rather take a paddle (or anything else) directly on the bum than risk the uncertainty of a belt hitting where it may.
Of course, for further spanking stories, we need to defer to Andy, as his backside was tanned like bearhide from the many whuppings he got. And that despite the fact that he could get out of spankings by looking at mom weirdly and making her laugh. That still irks me.
We would be sitting down for lunch, and I would typically do something mean or provoking to one or more siblings. Mom would tell me to stop, but it didn't always work with words alone. So she would use whatever was in her hand. I got whacked in the head and about everywhere else by a huge variety of things. The most memorable of which were wooden spoons and a full Kool-Aid jug. I remember being rather shocked when I saw Mom's frustrated face and a plastic jug full of summer refreshment speeding toward my melon. It didn't hurt at all, but the shock value stunned me briefly before I complained loudly.
Which reminds me of Mom's bad aim. When she tried using a belt to spank me, it would wrap around and hit my thigh, lower back, and it would get dangerously close to my crotchal region. So she wised up and got the infamous paddle. The paddle then hung where the hall emptied into the dining area to remind us of its authority. But I think I speak for us all when I say we would much rather take a paddle (or anything else) directly on the bum than risk the uncertainty of a belt hitting where it may.
Of course, for further spanking stories, we need to defer to Andy, as his backside was tanned like bearhide from the many whuppings he got. And that despite the fact that he could get out of spankings by looking at mom weirdly and making her laugh. That still irks me.
Maybe it was a stroke...
So one day we sit down to dinner, and we are about to begin. Dad turned to me and says, "Did you clean the peanut butter off the porch?"
Naturally, I was taken aback and a little confused. "What?" I asked calmly back.
"Did you get the peanut butter off the porch like I asked?"
"What?"
"Brian, did you get the peanut butter off the porch?" with a bit more urgency.
"Dad, I don't think I know what you are talking about."
Dad is getting frustrated with my incompetence at this point. He raises his voice and says, "Get the peanut butter off the porch!"
"There is no peanut butter on the porch, Dad."
"I just saw it out there, and I told you to clean it up!"
The other kids are chuckling by now, and I am getting worried, and Dad is getting red in the face. It took Mom intervening to discover the root here. I guess there was a bit of a mess of cat food on the porch, and Dad had peanut butter on the brain. It was funnier later. I was scared of a belting at the time - for once I would have been innocent.
Naturally, I was taken aback and a little confused. "What?" I asked calmly back.
"Did you get the peanut butter off the porch like I asked?"
"What?"
"Brian, did you get the peanut butter off the porch?" with a bit more urgency.
"Dad, I don't think I know what you are talking about."
Dad is getting frustrated with my incompetence at this point. He raises his voice and says, "Get the peanut butter off the porch!"
"There is no peanut butter on the porch, Dad."
"I just saw it out there, and I told you to clean it up!"
The other kids are chuckling by now, and I am getting worried, and Dad is getting red in the face. It took Mom intervening to discover the root here. I guess there was a bit of a mess of cat food on the porch, and Dad had peanut butter on the brain. It was funnier later. I was scared of a belting at the time - for once I would have been innocent.
Cell phones are good
Mom used to stay up and wait for me. Once, I had been out late the weekend before and was sorta on thin ice, but I needed to do a trip for science class. I got it allowed for me to go to a rock laser show at the planetarium to do a write-up for. Mom said I needed to be home by 11, which I thought was reasonable. Well, while we (Keith Kuykendall, Craig Lowe, Brad Odell, etc.) were in there, Keith's car got towed. After the show, the one cell phone in the group was with Brad's car, and we split with them before we discovered the car had been towed.
Coming out to find your car gone sucks, and it sucked for me to see someone else's car gone. Nowadays, it wouldn't be that big of a deal because I could just ring up Mom and tell her the situation. Pre-cell-proliferation, this was an issue. Anyway, someone's parent came and picked my carload up and took us back to Keith's house where I called home. I talked to Dad and told him what was up, and I asked him to tell mom. He said OK, and apparently promptly fell asleep.
When I got home, Mom had fallen asleep on the couch waiting up for me, and it was about 1:00-1:30 at this point. I gently woke her, andshe launched into her tirade. I spluttered, "Wait, wait, wait! I called! talk to Dad - our car got towed and it isn't my fault please don't kill me!"
Mom checked with Dad and I am alive.
Coming out to find your car gone sucks, and it sucked for me to see someone else's car gone. Nowadays, it wouldn't be that big of a deal because I could just ring up Mom and tell her the situation. Pre-cell-proliferation, this was an issue. Anyway, someone's parent came and picked my carload up and took us back to Keith's house where I called home. I talked to Dad and told him what was up, and I asked him to tell mom. He said OK, and apparently promptly fell asleep.
When I got home, Mom had fallen asleep on the couch waiting up for me, and it was about 1:00-1:30 at this point. I gently woke her, andshe launched into her tirade. I spluttered, "Wait, wait, wait! I called! talk to Dad - our car got towed and it isn't my fault please don't kill me!"
Mom checked with Dad and I am alive.
The evil mower
Once upon a time, there was a lawn mower that was put up against far more than it was designed for. We had the front 1/3 of our lawn divided up into about 4 areas and one more area in the back around the trees/vines in the back. This way, each Saturday, we would take a section and mow it.
That mower ran over everything imaginable. I personally mowed over grass taller than me, small trees and vines, cinderblocks, 2x4's, bricks, and giant fireant mounds. The ant mounds were particularly exciting as they would leave a cloud of grey dirt and red-brown ants floating in the air. It didn't matter how tough you thought you were, you shut the machine down and booked it.
Later, having worked in a store that sold the 2 highest ranked lawnmowers in the business (and we serviced them), I learned that the blade isn't designed to work forever. Turns out you should sharpen it at least once per year - even in Utah where you only use it 6 months of the year. I think that is part of why it worked so terribly. I don't know that we ever sharpened the blade, and the thing could not cut through anything.
I had a special relationship with the mower. Most of it stemmed from me hating mowing - and most of that came from a special condition to show up later. But beyond that, the mower only ever had problems for me. Out of gas? Guess who was up to mow next and had to ride a bike on a 6-mile round trip with a gas can tied to the front. Needing an oil change? Me. Air filter change? Me. Mom and Dad had no qualms making me work with the machine I clearly hated (and I swear it hated me even more back).
The real fun was after soccer games. I would be fine during the game, but upon sitting down for the ride home after all that standing, the hernia I had (that had gone undetected) all my life would start doing its hernial thing - namely, giving me that hernia feeling. It felt like the post-crotch-kick kidney pain mixed with post-bad-Mexican-food diarrheal bloating. I wanted to just be in the fetal position to mildly ease the pain.
Mom and Dad would have none of that. They were sure it was a ploy to get out of mowing. They wouldn't look me in the eye as they waved me out the door dismissing all my complaints. Remembering anatomy lessons in elementary school, I thought my appendix was on my right side, but the pain was focused on the left, but I would ask which side it was to be sure because I would feel like my appendix had ruptured. "Go out and mow. And no more excuses!" they would say.
It wasn't til on my mission that I was finally diagnosed with my hernia, and it turned out I had 2. But hernia or not, I hate that mower. (Fist shaking slowly)
That mower ran over everything imaginable. I personally mowed over grass taller than me, small trees and vines, cinderblocks, 2x4's, bricks, and giant fireant mounds. The ant mounds were particularly exciting as they would leave a cloud of grey dirt and red-brown ants floating in the air. It didn't matter how tough you thought you were, you shut the machine down and booked it.
Later, having worked in a store that sold the 2 highest ranked lawnmowers in the business (and we serviced them), I learned that the blade isn't designed to work forever. Turns out you should sharpen it at least once per year - even in Utah where you only use it 6 months of the year. I think that is part of why it worked so terribly. I don't know that we ever sharpened the blade, and the thing could not cut through anything.
I had a special relationship with the mower. Most of it stemmed from me hating mowing - and most of that came from a special condition to show up later. But beyond that, the mower only ever had problems for me. Out of gas? Guess who was up to mow next and had to ride a bike on a 6-mile round trip with a gas can tied to the front. Needing an oil change? Me. Air filter change? Me. Mom and Dad had no qualms making me work with the machine I clearly hated (and I swear it hated me even more back).
The real fun was after soccer games. I would be fine during the game, but upon sitting down for the ride home after all that standing, the hernia I had (that had gone undetected) all my life would start doing its hernial thing - namely, giving me that hernia feeling. It felt like the post-crotch-kick kidney pain mixed with post-bad-Mexican-food diarrheal bloating. I wanted to just be in the fetal position to mildly ease the pain.
Mom and Dad would have none of that. They were sure it was a ploy to get out of mowing. They wouldn't look me in the eye as they waved me out the door dismissing all my complaints. Remembering anatomy lessons in elementary school, I thought my appendix was on my right side, but the pain was focused on the left, but I would ask which side it was to be sure because I would feel like my appendix had ruptured. "Go out and mow. And no more excuses!" they would say.
It wasn't til on my mission that I was finally diagnosed with my hernia, and it turned out I had 2. But hernia or not, I hate that mower. (Fist shaking slowly)
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Price of Beauty
Rust Bucket was the name of our 1978 Buick V8 station wagon. The floors had rusted out in several areas allowing dust and exhaust to enter. When going down a dirt road you could hardly breathe. Coleman King named our car. I remember one time while we were giving him a ride somewhere he ducked when he thought one of his friends would see him.
Rust Bucket was the first car I drove. We were at church during the week and Mom was in the building in some meeting while I was waiting by myself out side. I sat in the drivers seat thinking a long time whether or not I should start the car and take it for a spin. I knew Mom was going to be there a long time. It was such a rush. Joy riding in the church parking lot doing donuts. I miss her.
It was a 7-8 seater. Two or three up front, three in the middle, and two in the back facing back. Even when the A/C did work, it never got to the back of the Rust Bucket. Despite the inconvenience of the rumble seat, it was still better than sitting next to the twins in their car seats screaming at the top of their lungs. Dad often said that they were the best stereo around. Other than the twins, the car had no working radio.
Quite often Chanda and I would sit in the back. Dad had installed a fan to help cool us down. We all thought is was very crafty and hi-tech. Chanda normally fought for the position closest to the fan. Every time Chanda's head got close to the fan by the car taking a turn or her head being shoved in that direction, her hair would get caught. I remember laughing so hard every time it happened. Chanda's head would get stuck in the fan several times a trip at times. I smile to this day thinking of Chanda crying because Dad couldn't hear her over the twins screaming to turn off the fan. Those were the days.
While I was in college, my dad was driving to work. Just after turning on 2218 the back axle fell off. Rust Bucket was no more.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Flingers
I am sure you all remember Nathan and Danny Rivera. Most of you probably remember the infamous flingers - little bits of picket fence that behaved rather oddly.
Danny and I discovered that if you gripped one end in your hand and flung the little beastie sidearm, the little slat of wood would make a bizarre buzzing sound and spin around its long axis and fly all crazy-like. It was akin to a huge, fast, goofy-shaped wasp. It still boggles my mind - I don't understand how that worked out to this day.
Also, it was a great length on to which one could affix a small mud-clay ball at one end and send the thing sailing the entire length of our property. We added a long-bomb capability to our warfare, as if it needed some new element of danger. We were about one conch away from hunting pigs and killing each other. It was AWESOME!!!
Danny and I discovered that if you gripped one end in your hand and flung the little beastie sidearm, the little slat of wood would make a bizarre buzzing sound and spin around its long axis and fly all crazy-like. It was akin to a huge, fast, goofy-shaped wasp. It still boggles my mind - I don't understand how that worked out to this day.
Also, it was a great length on to which one could affix a small mud-clay ball at one end and send the thing sailing the entire length of our property. We added a long-bomb capability to our warfare, as if it needed some new element of danger. We were about one conch away from hunting pigs and killing each other. It was AWESOME!!!
Jaindl Turkey
Around here in Pennsylvania there is a turkey farm-the Jaindl turkey farm. It isn't that far from our house. It is actually really close to my school. So Craig, Tim, and Tracy...correct me if I'm wrong. They were coming home from somewhere.(I don't have all the details.)While they were driving home they were taking one of the roads that passes the turkey farm, they then saw something small walking on the side of the road-it was a baby turkey!! It escaped!! So what do they do-Craig jumps out of the car and grabs the baby turkey and puts it in the back seat. Once they got home they rushed up stairs with the turkey, while my parents and I were very confused and were wondering why they were in a hurry. So apparently they took care of the thing upstairs in Tim and Tracy's room. The boys came downstairs in the kitchen where we were. And they were collecting the strangest food and rushed upstairs once more. Again with the confusion in our brains. So we went to bed normally and we either did not here its squaking sound any other turkey would make or they made sure it would not make any noise. Don't ask me what or how they did. They even made sure that mom wouldn't discover it while waking them up for seminary. But she eventually did, and strangely, i remember she went to Adams room being all suspicious of him.(would not blame her!) Anyway so she charged in and slammed a box on top of Adam. And he was just really really confused. It's like why is mom plopping a box on top of me?? then he saw this little turkey peek out and peeped at him!! so he's just like "what the heck!" so yeah he explained that it was not his doing at all. (although my memory could be wrong..probably was part of it...?) And mom already figured that the other boys had something to do with it. This is what i remember vividly, she woke me up...it was my turn to go to school. After breakfast I went to brush my teeth. I kept on hearing awfully strange noises from somewhere. So I went to peek in all the doors and then when i met the twins room very secretly i opened the door(so no one would yell at me for doing such a thing)and there was an immeditate stench that was just so disturbing. There was bird poop everywhere! Then I heard a chirp around the corner and I turn my head and looked at a turkey sitting on top of tracy's lamp! I was shocked. I closed the door and thought, "wow, I must not be awake yet." So I open the door again to make sure I was just imagining. It turns out I wasn't-it was there agian! So then I yell, "MOM, THERE IS A TURKEY IN THE TWINS ROOM!" I rush downstairs and mom was all cool about it as if it was a normal thing that every family deals with- i remember her saying "yeah I know, didn't I tell you?" "NO!"
We eventually took the baby turkey back to the farm. It was actually quite cute if you forgot how much he smelled.
We eventually took the baby turkey back to the farm. It was actually quite cute if you forgot how much he smelled.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Weird things from weird people (well, Andy)
I don't imagine most of you know this or care, but Andy taught me my first guitar lesson when he had Adam Stod's guitar on loan. He taught me how to play "Come as You Are" and little tricks like hammer-ons, pull-offs, slides, and possibly bends. Basically, the basics came to me from Andy. About the only really basic thing I learned elsewhere were harmonics. So, thanks, Andy. It is weird to attribute my first guitar learning to you.
Also, my first learning about manual transmission driving came when Andy borrowed Kevin McCardle's crappy old car. He explained when you shift up and down and why. He told me that you shift just into second if you are moving at all - rarely ever into first. And then, flash forward years later, at a BMW ride-and-drive event in Houston, I beat my teacher in a little autocross which was quite rewarding.
The first time I ever took the wheel in concert with the pedals was in Keith Kuykendall's old Mazda pickup. We were out on Rice field road, and Craig was in the bed. It was a manual, but, miraculously, I didn't shake it or stall it even once. I was pretty sure I was the king of drivingness, but it didn't last.
Fast forward a few years, and Morgan was teaching me to drive that sweet demon of an old Volvo he and Chanda had. I shook it. I stalled it. I nearly ran it into poles. The knob would pop off and my hand would get cut by the lever. I never got it down, but I got it moving under its own power. It was awesome.
I know these are lessons that bore or anger many of you, but I have to say I am really appreciative. So thanks, Andy, Keith, and Morgan.
Also, my first learning about manual transmission driving came when Andy borrowed Kevin McCardle's crappy old car. He explained when you shift up and down and why. He told me that you shift just into second if you are moving at all - rarely ever into first. And then, flash forward years later, at a BMW ride-and-drive event in Houston, I beat my teacher in a little autocross which was quite rewarding.
The first time I ever took the wheel in concert with the pedals was in Keith Kuykendall's old Mazda pickup. We were out on Rice field road, and Craig was in the bed. It was a manual, but, miraculously, I didn't shake it or stall it even once. I was pretty sure I was the king of drivingness, but it didn't last.
Fast forward a few years, and Morgan was teaching me to drive that sweet demon of an old Volvo he and Chanda had. I shook it. I stalled it. I nearly ran it into poles. The knob would pop off and my hand would get cut by the lever. I never got it down, but I got it moving under its own power. It was awesome.
I know these are lessons that bore or anger many of you, but I have to say I am really appreciative. So thanks, Andy, Keith, and Morgan.
Friday, December 12, 2008
The Stabbing
Hey do ya'll remember the stabbing? We were driving to/from the Laughmans and pulled off to the side of the road, next a field, was a car. The back door was open. A man was leaning inside stabbing another man while a woman pulled on his shirt screaming hysterically. Mom and Dad kept driving to a gas station where they called the cops. Dad had to testify in court to what he saw a few days later. Turns out that guy got stabbed 40 times or something. I think the twiners were just infants at the time.
That story reminds me of watching Cops. Love that show! And I love that my wedding video, the shooting of which was delegated to Adam and Timmy, is primarily a reenactment of Cops, with Timmy even telling people not to forget the heavy breathing while running. Nice.
That story reminds me of watching Cops. Love that show! And I love that my wedding video, the shooting of which was delegated to Adam and Timmy, is primarily a reenactment of Cops, with Timmy even telling people not to forget the heavy breathing while running. Nice.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
ultimate pets
as long as i remember we had alot of cool pets. we all grew up with a whole lot of cats. blacky was funny. she was known for being all sweet and then totally vicious. she would definately stand her ground and say she was the boss. especially infront of sandy and rex, the cats that in pennsylvania. well rex has been missing for a long time, it's sad that i haven't been able to see him. i remember whenever he would do something bad adam would just chuck the poor cat in the bushes(he did that to the boys that lived at our house......and their friends too) and go back to playing videogames or something. sandy he's just a sweet and kind cat that we still have, the cat that made us pay 300 bucks to out neighbors because they acused him of hurting their kitten. of course the nieghbors loved blacky with her random moodswings of being sweet and bad. he came to our house and acused sandy and then said that he was going to shoot him if he sets foot on the yard again. i think he exidentially thought it was sandy and saw rex because sandy would never do a thing like that and rex is gone now...... and that explains something. annabelle i knew her for her discusting and obsessive bleeding from her ear. when ever she would shake her head blood would splatter...it was grose, she eventually had to be put down. tigger ran away from home while we were in new jersey, it just a couple weeks before we moved to pa. there were other cats too. we also had lizards we had an iguana and a tegu. the iguana always bit adam so we sold it or something. i don't remember what happened to the tegu either. there was also several tarantulas over the years. i remember taking our tarantula rosy (rose haired) to my kindergarden class for show and tell. even in fifth grade and seventh grade too i think. people loved rosy or "love" in other ways. dad says "tarantulas are the perfect pet they are cute, fuzzy, and easy to take care of, go on vacation for a month or something.... still alive!" but rosy died just a few months ago though. rosy was a cool pet, i liked holding her-it felt like pipe cleaners. a funny story about rosy.......some missionaries came over to dinner and they were really interested so we took rosy out. we also had some star wars action figures laying out because some kid was playing with them a couple days ago or something. so one of the missionaries was holding rosy and his companion was like "hey, we should set up the figures and have the tarantula "attack" one of them!". and tarantulas can stay very still. so they were laying down a trooper looking helpless and another one standing up with a huge plastic gun aiming at rosy-who was on top of the helpless trooper, and they took a picture of it. it was hilarious!! and now i just got a sulcata tortise. it is so CUTE!!!! it's only about 5-6 months old!! it's able to get really big!!! i don't know how we are going to contain it later on. but it is still cute! there is alot more pets we've had. but i'll leave the rest of the pet stories told by others who remember. i know there must be other funny pet stories!!!!
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Where do I begin????
I love this lovely, lovely blog! Just got back from a quick vacay and it's been great reading everyone's posts. So here's my little addition: I remember the Leach's grandpa mowing the back forty like he always did, a couple times a year, and being attacked by Dad's bees. Actually, I don't really remember that part although there was a lot of yelling and someone calling 911. The part I remember was looking up from my book, Mr. Popper's Penguins, I think it was, and asking Mom why there were sirens. She unloaded on me for not knowing what the heck was going on because my nose was stuck in a book. And I'm afraid there's many a memory I do not share with all of ya'll for that reason. Much of my childhood was spent reading.
BUT, oh yes, I remember sweet Brian's sibling pleasing ways. The naked run was beyond awesome although I lived in mortal fear for a long time afterward that Dad would find out. Brian was the only one who'd play Barbies and horse stables with me. He would also offer to carry my backpack home from the bus stop (Where did that come from?). I usually spurned his kind overtures. Sorry Bri-baby. Nothing against you, I was just crotchety.
I remember our treks to Shadow Valley--pulling baby Adam in the wagon across cotton fields. That can't have been easy. I remember, pre-kindergarten, eating fresh bread and watching Price is Right with Mom.
I remember all of us yelling in unison at Mom for sewing and messing up the TV reception. I remember being in high school and coming home and watching cartoons in a dark, cool living room. Power Rangers, Animaniacs, Batman, they rocked.
I remember crying when Mom and Dad said they were having another baby (Cherish). Where would we put her? I loved her after she was born though. Everyone thought I was a teen mother when they saw me carrying her around the library, Wal-mart, the stake center. Strangers would ask me how old my baby was. I loved that and would never correct their naughty assumptions.
I remember the many missionaries in our childhood lives and their colorful personalities. One I nicknamed, Fat Albert, poor guy.
I remember bringing out every one of our pets when a visitor or the home teachers would stop by.
I remember galloping around the backyard, by myself, whinnying, pretending I was a horse. Or I'd ride my bike, aka the white steed, Spirit.
I remember Andy transfering the spirit of his old sneakers into his new ones. I also remember his Panther club, it was lame, all you did was fight with sticks.
I remember making Craig mad by telling him he had a spider on his back.
I remember the kitten weddings Brian and I would conduct in the mailbox. Not sure why but they had to get married in there.
I remember telling the twins about how I went to the other side of the rainbow and saw the treasure and leprechauns there--they totally believed me and always asked me about it.
I remember us all sneaking out of bed at night, crawling down the hallway, hiding behind the couch and spying on Mom and Dad while they watched TV.
I remember taking the weekly Saturday night bath then getting my fingernails trimmed and hair combed by Dad while we all watched Star Trek. I remember Brian stumbling all slippery wet out of the tub and landing in the kitty litter.
I remember holding slug races. We named them things like Speedy. Then the slugs started invading our house and I'd sucker Adam in to removing them from my room with a spoon.
To this day I am terrified of roaches. For a long time, after leaving home, when something moved out of the corner of my eye I'd jump thinking it was a roach. I remember occasionally "bombing" the house for roaches. We'd leave for the day then come home to lots of dead roaches and an smoky insecticide filled trailer.
I remember telling elephant jokes and making mom sing "Mother's Hands" when she tucked me in at night.
I remember my hair getting caught in the station wagon fans time and again. It was hell on earth back there, no A/C, facing backwards--car-sick, dust from the road filling your lungs and yes, the hair caught in the fan thing.
I remember baby Adam's nicknames, Sweetness and Jabba the Hut. He really was the sweetest little kid.
I remember Dad's way of punishing the twins--he'd hold them beneath the arm pits while he sat in his arm chair and read his book set off to the side. They'd scream forever and Dad was unfazed.
I remember "standing in the corner" and finding pictures in the faux wood pattern.
And I'm going to leave it at that for now. Love you all.
BUT, oh yes, I remember sweet Brian's sibling pleasing ways. The naked run was beyond awesome although I lived in mortal fear for a long time afterward that Dad would find out. Brian was the only one who'd play Barbies and horse stables with me. He would also offer to carry my backpack home from the bus stop (Where did that come from?). I usually spurned his kind overtures. Sorry Bri-baby. Nothing against you, I was just crotchety.
I remember our treks to Shadow Valley--pulling baby Adam in the wagon across cotton fields. That can't have been easy. I remember, pre-kindergarten, eating fresh bread and watching Price is Right with Mom.
I remember all of us yelling in unison at Mom for sewing and messing up the TV reception. I remember being in high school and coming home and watching cartoons in a dark, cool living room. Power Rangers, Animaniacs, Batman, they rocked.
I remember crying when Mom and Dad said they were having another baby (Cherish). Where would we put her? I loved her after she was born though. Everyone thought I was a teen mother when they saw me carrying her around the library, Wal-mart, the stake center. Strangers would ask me how old my baby was. I loved that and would never correct their naughty assumptions.
I remember the many missionaries in our childhood lives and their colorful personalities. One I nicknamed, Fat Albert, poor guy.
I remember bringing out every one of our pets when a visitor or the home teachers would stop by.
I remember galloping around the backyard, by myself, whinnying, pretending I was a horse. Or I'd ride my bike, aka the white steed, Spirit.
I remember Andy transfering the spirit of his old sneakers into his new ones. I also remember his Panther club, it was lame, all you did was fight with sticks.
I remember making Craig mad by telling him he had a spider on his back.
I remember the kitten weddings Brian and I would conduct in the mailbox. Not sure why but they had to get married in there.
I remember telling the twins about how I went to the other side of the rainbow and saw the treasure and leprechauns there--they totally believed me and always asked me about it.
I remember us all sneaking out of bed at night, crawling down the hallway, hiding behind the couch and spying on Mom and Dad while they watched TV.
I remember taking the weekly Saturday night bath then getting my fingernails trimmed and hair combed by Dad while we all watched Star Trek. I remember Brian stumbling all slippery wet out of the tub and landing in the kitty litter.
I remember holding slug races. We named them things like Speedy. Then the slugs started invading our house and I'd sucker Adam in to removing them from my room with a spoon.
To this day I am terrified of roaches. For a long time, after leaving home, when something moved out of the corner of my eye I'd jump thinking it was a roach. I remember occasionally "bombing" the house for roaches. We'd leave for the day then come home to lots of dead roaches and an smoky insecticide filled trailer.
I remember telling elephant jokes and making mom sing "Mother's Hands" when she tucked me in at night.
I remember my hair getting caught in the station wagon fans time and again. It was hell on earth back there, no A/C, facing backwards--car-sick, dust from the road filling your lungs and yes, the hair caught in the fan thing.
I remember baby Adam's nicknames, Sweetness and Jabba the Hut. He really was the sweetest little kid.
I remember Dad's way of punishing the twins--he'd hold them beneath the arm pits while he sat in his arm chair and read his book set off to the side. They'd scream forever and Dad was unfazed.
I remember "standing in the corner" and finding pictures in the faux wood pattern.
And I'm going to leave it at that for now. Love you all.
Ya'll He-lays Don't Know
Having been old enough and having lived everywhere long enough, I got lots of crazy stories to tell. Cluck cluck 1,2, 3, 4, and 5 are possessively mine, ya'll forgot about the owl didn't ya'll? cray 'Nam vet shot the dog while I was watching, and the empty revolver was clicked against my head; I got the trailer park on lock! The original crazy foster kids, dog washing antics and all, singlehandedly destroying our neighbors fence with a soccer ball and garage hockey waft a pleasant nostalgic aroma of New Jersey. That time we took T-gunna's jeep over a small ledge and then almost over a MUCH larger one in the gamelands, scarred cousin Carly for life, and explored Tom Cruise's mansion round out a short PA list. Remember that time I wanted to be a rally racer? Tracy will love reliving our peaceful drives to seminary in the mornings, he enjoyed that, heh heh.
Ahhh the ghetto, I'm not sure exactly when we got the idea, because we had always used them as javelins for the heck of it before, but at some point we made the decision that throwing them at eachother was ok. We used blood weed stalks mostly, stripped the stalk everywhere except at the top, broke off the long roots and hurled them as far as we could. Blood weed is kinda like a really ugly, shorter growing, more brittle bamboo/cane plant thingie. At first, it was just one of those you better get out of the way of my spear when I throw it, and quickley became the battlefield weapon of choice. I still have scars from where I had to yank out protruding spears from my leg. Over the years we started using even better weapons to fight eachother with, and bow staffs, swords, and spears were made out of all kinds of things, bamboo, bloodweed, cedar, or some unfortunate tree that fell in our path. Full scale battles ensued, and only ended when someone started crying.
I remember clubbing Brian in the back of the calf with some kind of mace thing I was playing with on the back side of the house by the fig tree. He was a lot bigger than me at the time, I ran. He grabbed my bamboo spear and chased me around the house, a good 20 yards behind, I jumped the porch by the trashcans and went to open the door to retreat to mom. Just as I opened the door I hear a SMACK! Brian had lined up, taken a little crow hop and line drived the spear at my head from behind the trampoline when he realized I was about to escape. The smack I heared was from the spear penetrating the corugated aluminum sheet metal siding of our trailer, just to the left of my skull. I quickley jumped inside and closed the door before he could find another projectile with which to challenge my life. Good times.
Ahhh the ghetto, I'm not sure exactly when we got the idea, because we had always used them as javelins for the heck of it before, but at some point we made the decision that throwing them at eachother was ok. We used blood weed stalks mostly, stripped the stalk everywhere except at the top, broke off the long roots and hurled them as far as we could. Blood weed is kinda like a really ugly, shorter growing, more brittle bamboo/cane plant thingie. At first, it was just one of those you better get out of the way of my spear when I throw it, and quickley became the battlefield weapon of choice. I still have scars from where I had to yank out protruding spears from my leg. Over the years we started using even better weapons to fight eachother with, and bow staffs, swords, and spears were made out of all kinds of things, bamboo, bloodweed, cedar, or some unfortunate tree that fell in our path. Full scale battles ensued, and only ended when someone started crying.
I remember clubbing Brian in the back of the calf with some kind of mace thing I was playing with on the back side of the house by the fig tree. He was a lot bigger than me at the time, I ran. He grabbed my bamboo spear and chased me around the house, a good 20 yards behind, I jumped the porch by the trashcans and went to open the door to retreat to mom. Just as I opened the door I hear a SMACK! Brian had lined up, taken a little crow hop and line drived the spear at my head from behind the trampoline when he realized I was about to escape. The smack I heared was from the spear penetrating the corugated aluminum sheet metal siding of our trailer, just to the left of my skull. I quickley jumped inside and closed the door before he could find another projectile with which to challenge my life. Good times.
A Texan's first snow
On the 27th of July, 1998, Craig and I landed in Philadelphia after a layover in the Cincinnati airport (in Kentucky) after spending a week at summer camp at the south tip of South Padre Island kicking it with dolphins and Mexico. On December 23rd, school got out for Christmas break. The snow started falling even before school let out, but it wasn't sticking yet.
Seminary made for a daily afternoon nap ritual, and when I woke up, it was dark outside. Only it wasn't very dark. The snow reflects light so well that you can see as well as on a very cloudy day - even better if there are street lights. I decided to take a walk in the beautiful fluffiness.
As I trundled along with my gorgeous locks flowing in the wind behind me (my hair was FREAKING long at this point), I marveled at the flakes gently floating downward like delicate leaves in the stream. I let the snow land on my nose, and blinked when it landed on my eyelashes.
Then I decided I was really, really cold, and I went home for some hot chocolate.
Thus began my hatred of the white death. It freezes my Texas.
Seminary made for a daily afternoon nap ritual, and when I woke up, it was dark outside. Only it wasn't very dark. The snow reflects light so well that you can see as well as on a very cloudy day - even better if there are street lights. I decided to take a walk in the beautiful fluffiness.
As I trundled along with my gorgeous locks flowing in the wind behind me (my hair was FREAKING long at this point), I marveled at the flakes gently floating downward like delicate leaves in the stream. I let the snow land on my nose, and blinked when it landed on my eyelashes.
Then I decided I was really, really cold, and I went home for some hot chocolate.
Thus began my hatred of the white death. It freezes my Texas.
Friday, December 5, 2008
What I remember.....hardly anything
I definitely have that feeling of the heat remembered. Texas itself is a place that I would never forget. But certain things were not there for me to experience or have memories of. I don't know if it was meant to be or something. It feels really awkward when someone trys to explain something that happened that long ago. I myself moved away from the homestead around 3 years old. So I don't have much to write, considering that the stories started before I was born. If I was a couple years older I wouldn't feel as excluded. I would then remember all the awesome moments of Texas, my siblings, and my friends- if I had any official ones. I guess the stories would be more clear with the ones who actually were old enough to recall them. So I won't say much in the memoirs anymore. Falling into fire ant hills, playing in the mud pool in the driveway or in the pits that the boys would make, climbing in my favorite tree, throwing a magnet at Adam and chipping his tooth, jumping on an old matress with some of my siblings and getting scars from the springs on our knees, playing with a whole bunch of kittens, sleeping with Andy on the couch when I was little so I wouldn't forget him while he was on his mission, the boys bringing toads to put in my play pen when I was crying, or seeing my brothers falling through the floor or out the window.......practically nothing. The original homestead-the actual trailer isn't there today for me to see. Not much to say....... just that I'm little sis number eight and a blessing to my sister. I might be young but I lived there and I'm part of the family so I might as well put in one word.
Cluck Cluck
We've all heard the saying that goes something like this: You can take the kid out of the ghetto but you can't take the ghetto out of the kid. This story proves it.
In the summer of 2001 Craig came back to Texas after moving to the east coast to visit me. I think this was the summer before Craig's senior year in high school. I had been married a couple of years and was working exclusively in real estate. Craig and I hung out a lot playing soccer and going back to the old homestead so Craig could visit some of his old amigos.
We were returning to where I live and as we entered the subdivision we saw a few workers who were taking a siesta under the corner store's tree chasing a loose chicken. I immediately stopped in the middle of the street to let Craig out and I parked in the corner store. Craig chased the chicken over to the country club's pond across the street to back over towards the corner store on the median of the subdivision's entrance. It appeared that Craig had it cornered so I took off in my car to get my fishing nets with poles. Upon returning, I tossed the net to Craig who quickly captured the chicken. By now many people were looking on as this was all taking place in the entrance of my neighborhood. I rolled down the window to allow Craig to get in the car and let the chicken hang out of the car as we drove to my home. The workers who had thought to take the chicken home with them expressed their disappointment that we beat them to it.
As we now drove home with our latest find many people kept pointing and staring to the nice Infiniti with a chicken hanging out of the window. During this time, Craig and I were talking about how awesome it was that we had caught a chicken and we started calling it Cluck Cluck right from the start. When we got to my home, we went in the back yard to let Cluck Cluck run around. I went inside to get something for Cluck Cluck to eat and found a box of Cheerios that we hadn't eaten in quite a while. Cluck Cluck loved them! We didn't have to cage him or any thing. He just walked around doing what Cluck Cluck did best.
Soon Craig returned to the east coast and I continued to leave Cheerios in the backyard for Cluck Cluck. He stayed for at least a week after Craig left and would always be on top of my fence checking things out. I've never taken those nets fishing but they've served me well in filling my backyard with chickens, turtles, craw fish, and whatever else may not fall out of them before I get home.
easy to mock
the mocking bird, the state bird of Texas. they were very aggressive to just about anything, including our cats when they got near their nests. i still remember one dive bombing Blacky repeatedly while she calmly walked through the yard. their name comes from their tendancy to copy other birds songs. two of my favorite stories about mocking birds are as follows.
I was walking to the bus stop in the early dawn, when I started to whistle. I had just learned how to whistle but i practiced when i was alone. suddenly my tune came back at me in a different voice. I looked around in the dim light, but couldn't see anyone. I kept whistling the same tune and it came back again. I tried another more complex tune while walking and looking for the source. I figured it was a mocking bird by then and, after a longer pause, it repeated the new tune. so my battle continued with my unseen opponent as i walked to the bus stop. i was having trouble coming up with new tunes and my throat was dry because i was new to whistling, but the mocking bird was really good. eventually i whistled something similar to the Heman masters of the universe song and that stumped my opponent. I never saw it, but when i got to the bus stop i was smiling and stayed that way for the whole day knowing i had defeated a master.
the second story is something that happened repeatedly with one particular mocking bird. He would come down and snatch a blackberry from our monster bush and take it to the top of the roof of our drunken neighboors. he set the berry down on the point, but as he took a bite of it, the berry rolled down the roof. he would fly down and catch the blackberry in mid air as it fell off the roof and carry it back to the top where he tried again. he set it down, bit it, watch it roll down off the roof , and he caught it again. it would take him about 5 tries to finish a blackberry and after he was done he would get another berry and start the whole process again. i remember when i walked outside and saw his antics i would think, "oh not this guy again!" it may have been multiple mocking birds and he may have been letting it fall for fun, but it was one of the stupidest things i've ever seen.
I was walking to the bus stop in the early dawn, when I started to whistle. I had just learned how to whistle but i practiced when i was alone. suddenly my tune came back at me in a different voice. I looked around in the dim light, but couldn't see anyone. I kept whistling the same tune and it came back again. I tried another more complex tune while walking and looking for the source. I figured it was a mocking bird by then and, after a longer pause, it repeated the new tune. so my battle continued with my unseen opponent as i walked to the bus stop. i was having trouble coming up with new tunes and my throat was dry because i was new to whistling, but the mocking bird was really good. eventually i whistled something similar to the Heman masters of the universe song and that stumped my opponent. I never saw it, but when i got to the bus stop i was smiling and stayed that way for the whole day knowing i had defeated a master.
the second story is something that happened repeatedly with one particular mocking bird. He would come down and snatch a blackberry from our monster bush and take it to the top of the roof of our drunken neighboors. he set the berry down on the point, but as he took a bite of it, the berry rolled down the roof. he would fly down and catch the blackberry in mid air as it fell off the roof and carry it back to the top where he tried again. he set it down, bit it, watch it roll down off the roof , and he caught it again. it would take him about 5 tries to finish a blackberry and after he was done he would get another berry and start the whole process again. i remember when i walked outside and saw his antics i would think, "oh not this guy again!" it may have been multiple mocking birds and he may have been letting it fall for fun, but it was one of the stupidest things i've ever seen.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
A litter of greys
One litter of kittens (and there were many throughout our childhoods) particularly stood out in my mind, mostly because so many of them lived for so long and didn't run away, plus another batch of awesome kittens was born almost the exact time. The cats were Sock (short for Soccadillo, a Power Ranger enemy, but later we rewrote history to say it was because when his feat were wet it looked like her had on socks, he was Adam's), Fat Boy (this was my cat, his name was Eleanor, which was Chanda's idea, until Andy spotted he was a male and gave him his new name), Annabelle (Brian's cat) and Ghost (Tracy's). Sock was, like all of Adam's cat's, extremely playful and friendly, and aggressive at both. Playing with him usually left scars happily worn. When he grew up he got big and stocky, a beast of a cat, and he became the alpha male for quite some time. He was a beautiful solid dark grey. Unfortunately, the stress of his new position made him a much less friendly cat late in life. His only real rival (Fat Boy was too lazy) was Soot, a massive black beast of a cat that was feral but still stuck around quite a bit. Sock's better nutrition and Soot's injured hind leg (Craig hit him with a rock to try to scare him away as feral cats can be dangerous to the one's we have) gave him a slight advantage, but the battles for supremacy were epic indeed. Fat Boy was Sock's counter in many things, where Sock was aggressive he was laid back. He was also smaller, despite his name (though he did have kind of a gut). He was a lot more cuddly and more likely to be laying around the porch. Despite how much work they proved, none of our cats was a better crawdad fighter (Sock usually tried to run away with one of the little beasties latched onto his face). He was a soft light grey, completely solid. Annabelle was the nicest cat ever. Period. She was constantly purring and she always looked like she was smiling with her gorgeous blue eyes. She was tricolored with light grey, peach, and white. She always did that thing where she kneaded you with her claws to show affection. She was one of the three cats that we took with us to New Jersey where she died of a horrible ear cancer. The last of the cats was Ghost, the smallest of the bunch and the most shy. When you did manage to get her into your lap, she loved to cuddle. She was solid grey, a shade between Fat Boy's and Sock's, except for her face which was a much lighter grey and splotchy. In the twilight she was nigh invisible, and she had creepy yellow eyes. She loved to stalk birds and mice, probably the best hunter of the group, and I once saw her hop into the air and pick a dragonfly right out of the sky. We had lots of cats that I remember very well, but four awesome cats from the same litter is a lot to expect, and I'm so glad we found them early.*
*Whenever you saw a mamma cat get suddenly smaller overnight, we all made it a priority to find the kittens as fast as possible by searching the usual places (the blackberries, the umbrella grass, under the house in the insulation, etc.) or by giving the mother food and stalking her back to her kittens. They were usually wary of followers and very protective, but tame mothers would often just stare at you proudly and contentedly as she was nursing her litter when we found her. I remember being under the house in the mud laying down, entranced by the sight of the little family.
*Whenever you saw a mamma cat get suddenly smaller overnight, we all made it a priority to find the kittens as fast as possible by searching the usual places (the blackberries, the umbrella grass, under the house in the insulation, etc.) or by giving the mother food and stalking her back to her kittens. They were usually wary of followers and very protective, but tame mothers would often just stare at you proudly and contentedly as she was nursing her litter when we found her. I remember being under the house in the mud laying down, entranced by the sight of the little family.
Trash Day is Every Day
When we first moved to the country there were many things that were not available. There were only gravel roads and sometimes when it would rain, no cars could leave. There were a few times when Mom made me walk in the rain to the bus stop (about 1/2 mile) because the car couldn't drive in the mud. I would get to school drenched and covered in mud.
Also not available was trash service. I remember thinking that we had moved up a notch in status when we could say that the trashman came by today to take away our trash. Until then however we burned our trash. We had two empty oil barrels that we would set fire to. By the time I was around 8 or 9 I was given the responsibility to start fire to and keep an eye on the burning trash. I suppose that my parents saw that I was fulfilling my duties and one day left me outside with Chris Regalado to keep the trash burning. It was during the summertime while Dad was working and Mom was inside tending to my siblings who couldn't feed themselves. Chris and I of course were burning things outside of the barrels and quickly putting them in the barrels when we couldn't hold on to them any more. Suddenly the wind picked up and blew one of the loose items we had just put into the fire onto the ground. Our yard at the time was covered by dry weeds and it immediately caught fire. Chris and I had put out a few other situations like this with the hose and we figured that this would go the same way. The wind though kept blowing and the fire spread very quickly. I remember that the fire was spreading in all directions and I just couldn't put it all out as it raced towards the back.
I was filled with panic and I of course had no intentions on bothering my mother who certainly didn't need to know that her shack was about to catch fire. From the back of the trailer to about half way to the cotton fields were on fire and I thought that the empty lot next door was next. Luckily though, as quickly as the wind picked up in speed, it died down. The fire then became manageable and we were able to put it out. Chris and I felt like true heroes. I remember Mom coming out on the porch and seeing nothing but a black back yard. Looking back on it I can't believe that they continued to let me burn the trash!! Chris and I only burned the back yard down one more time during our careers as trash burners. Not bad considering our lack of supervision.
Just 2 of many
Lion and Butterball. Two wonderful cats of mine who made an indelible impression on me.
Lion came much later, and he had the weirdest trait of wanting to bite any human big toe in sight. Wearing sandals? Keep lively becaus that cat would come up and rub against your legs and put his head down to snuggle and the next thing you know, tiny sharp teeth are piercing your toe from the top and bottom. Being barefoot was dangerous because the requisite tap dance to protect yourself was liable to give you splinters on your feet.
Then there was the excellent option of covering his face with a woolie or something and watch him shake his haed slowly and walk backwards. All you had to do was aim him off the porch toward the umbrella grass, and you could actually get him to fall. It was hilarious.
Once, though, he got some crazy eye infection that made one of his eyes swell up to apparently twice the normal size. We would swab it with bits of amoxicillin from a broken open leftover pill, and eventually the swelling subsided, but the weird blue-white color remained. It was kinda sad - at least until he tried gnawing off a toe at which point people's pity typically evaporated as fast as their foot could retract in a move part evasive maneuver, part wind-up.
Butterball came much earlier. He was part of one the earliest litters. He was chubby and black and about as laid back as they come. When I would go out to take the trash to the street, he would follow me up the driveway as I dragged the cans. When I left the cans and turned around, he was there - waiting. I would pick him up and carry him back with me to the door, but by the time I got to the porch, he would wriggle and squirm to be let down. He would literally follow me to be carried back to where he started.
Butterball went missing at some point, and the rumor was one of the older neighbors killed him - probably on purpose (the jerks!). He was a great cat even if he was a bit dumb and lazy - we could identify that way.
Lion came much later, and he had the weirdest trait of wanting to bite any human big toe in sight. Wearing sandals? Keep lively becaus that cat would come up and rub against your legs and put his head down to snuggle and the next thing you know, tiny sharp teeth are piercing your toe from the top and bottom. Being barefoot was dangerous because the requisite tap dance to protect yourself was liable to give you splinters on your feet.
Then there was the excellent option of covering his face with a woolie or something and watch him shake his haed slowly and walk backwards. All you had to do was aim him off the porch toward the umbrella grass, and you could actually get him to fall. It was hilarious.
Once, though, he got some crazy eye infection that made one of his eyes swell up to apparently twice the normal size. We would swab it with bits of amoxicillin from a broken open leftover pill, and eventually the swelling subsided, but the weird blue-white color remained. It was kinda sad - at least until he tried gnawing off a toe at which point people's pity typically evaporated as fast as their foot could retract in a move part evasive maneuver, part wind-up.
Butterball came much earlier. He was part of one the earliest litters. He was chubby and black and about as laid back as they come. When I would go out to take the trash to the street, he would follow me up the driveway as I dragged the cans. When I left the cans and turned around, he was there - waiting. I would pick him up and carry him back with me to the door, but by the time I got to the porch, he would wriggle and squirm to be let down. He would literally follow me to be carried back to where he started.
Butterball went missing at some point, and the rumor was one of the older neighbors killed him - probably on purpose (the jerks!). He was a great cat even if he was a bit dumb and lazy - we could identify that way.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
More requests
Dad's ridiculous gardening, crawdads, toads(catching, skipping, mating, singing, feeding, keeping, etc.), Cherish crying for toads, 1001 uses for tomato cages, the Place, tarantulas, our bike chop shop, "dog fighting," the bus, the S-curve, the Handy Store, flingers, those golf clubs we found one day, that old pillow in front of the TV and its 1001 uses, Jackson Middle School, Mrs. Guinn (sp?), the infamous flamingo incident, Andy's wanderings (literal), Andy's wanderings (figurative), cats flocking to the porch at the sound of a shaking bag, that cow skeleton we brought home, Dad's old dissecting kit, mocking birds, anoles, the speckled king snakes, the number 11, "mommy made it die," "these black cherries taste funny," the twin terrors, mom's fancy double wide, Uncle Tim's family visits, kite flying, the hills, that time we fasted for the storm that took out our power, reading is obscure places, FHE, SMC's, lightning storms, tornados, flash floods, hurricanes, our insatiable addiction to Atari and all things video games, kittens!
More stinging insects!
This is a brief explanation about leashing bees and wasps. First off, the things were everywhere and there are a lot of stories to be told. Leashing them consisted first of catching one in a plastic bag. The next step is to put them in the freezer for a while(at least until they stop moving). Next break into your mother's string supply. Take the wasp out and put him on the operating table. While it's still too cold to move, tie the string around its abdomen. Tada, you've got a leashed wasp! If you don't tie the knot before the wasp heats up, that's your problem. When your done playing, kill the thing or cut the string short to let it go, tagged for further study.
Oh, what the archaeologists may find!
First off, this is going great. It is funny that when Carrie saw the picture Andy posted, she said she believes us with our stories - she believes we "aren't even exaggerating."
That never even occurred to me. Those stories - all the ones from our childhood - are pretty crazy.
This is an ode to gumbo, however. Not the beautiful, slimy goodness gracing a vat of crabs ladled over rice, but the schizophrenic black dirt of our part of Texas.
When the place is flooded, gumbo is as slimy as dirt can be slimy. Complete mush - like pond scum at the bottom of a - you guessed it - pond. From this, crawdads would fashion bizarre little towers whose function I still do not understand.
As it dries, it turns to merely a slippery mess. This is where mudding trucks dream of. Mud boots sink deep and get sucked right off your feet. As it dries further, it cakes onto boots literally 4-6 inches thick. Just as heavy as it sounds, I assure you. This happened to be fun to go mudding in - four-wheeler or truck.
The next drier stage is where it got fun for kids. It turned to a clay. This black clay could be fashioned into a ball and flung at people. Upon contact, it would flatten like a cookie in the oven, and often stick. On light colored clothes, it would leave a gray circle. From here, it could be peeled off and re-balled up for further flinging. It was great for epic battles. Also, it could affixed to the end of a rigid stick and flung pretty much the length of the yard, though with little accuracy. Our yard was, as I remember, 436 feet long, and we could howitzer-ize those puppies about that far. That was an interesting discovery - the battles grew in scale.
As the dirt got drier, it would get firm and not very pliable or fun. Mud wars at this point were nearly sadistic. But as it got harder, it felt like rock - only brittle and crumbly. Chasms 8 inches wide and several feet long would snake around the yard as the water evaporated into an impossibly humid atmosphere. The chasms would snake downward, too, so you couldn't see more than up to 18 inches down, though they were far deeper. The problem was that by this point, the dirt was so hard that you could not readily dig it up with a shovel. So when our He-man or ninja turtle toys fell into the abyss, we could only hope they stopped at a reachable depth. If they fell far enough, we couldn't get to them before the rains came, sealing them up forever at various strata levels in our yard. Some weirdo archaeologists who are in to campy 80's toys are gonna have a field day there someday.
A quick note about those aforementioned crawdad towers: when they get dried out they were rocky, hidden towers of barefoot death.
Now for a request. I think we need stories of the pit and possibly the bricks at this point. I don't remember the pit much - especially when it was new and like 5 feet deep, so we are gonna need Andy for some good pit stories. Also, we need some Chanda and even Cherish stories. Cherish may need to tell more about what she has gathered from our crazy existence.
That never even occurred to me. Those stories - all the ones from our childhood - are pretty crazy.
This is an ode to gumbo, however. Not the beautiful, slimy goodness gracing a vat of crabs ladled over rice, but the schizophrenic black dirt of our part of Texas.
When the place is flooded, gumbo is as slimy as dirt can be slimy. Complete mush - like pond scum at the bottom of a - you guessed it - pond. From this, crawdads would fashion bizarre little towers whose function I still do not understand.
As it dries, it turns to merely a slippery mess. This is where mudding trucks dream of. Mud boots sink deep and get sucked right off your feet. As it dries further, it cakes onto boots literally 4-6 inches thick. Just as heavy as it sounds, I assure you. This happened to be fun to go mudding in - four-wheeler or truck.
The next drier stage is where it got fun for kids. It turned to a clay. This black clay could be fashioned into a ball and flung at people. Upon contact, it would flatten like a cookie in the oven, and often stick. On light colored clothes, it would leave a gray circle. From here, it could be peeled off and re-balled up for further flinging. It was great for epic battles. Also, it could affixed to the end of a rigid stick and flung pretty much the length of the yard, though with little accuracy. Our yard was, as I remember, 436 feet long, and we could howitzer-ize those puppies about that far. That was an interesting discovery - the battles grew in scale.
As the dirt got drier, it would get firm and not very pliable or fun. Mud wars at this point were nearly sadistic. But as it got harder, it felt like rock - only brittle and crumbly. Chasms 8 inches wide and several feet long would snake around the yard as the water evaporated into an impossibly humid atmosphere. The chasms would snake downward, too, so you couldn't see more than up to 18 inches down, though they were far deeper. The problem was that by this point, the dirt was so hard that you could not readily dig it up with a shovel. So when our He-man or ninja turtle toys fell into the abyss, we could only hope they stopped at a reachable depth. If they fell far enough, we couldn't get to them before the rains came, sealing them up forever at various strata levels in our yard. Some weirdo archaeologists who are in to campy 80's toys are gonna have a field day there someday.
A quick note about those aforementioned crawdad towers: when they get dried out they were rocky, hidden towers of barefoot death.
Now for a request. I think we need stories of the pit and possibly the bricks at this point. I don't remember the pit much - especially when it was new and like 5 feet deep, so we are gonna need Andy for some good pit stories. Also, we need some Chanda and even Cherish stories. Cherish may need to tell more about what she has gathered from our crazy existence.
The Setting: Dove Meadows
As Brian and I were talking about our wonderful new blog, a mutual friend of ours commented, "I never knew you guys grew up in a trailer park," intending it, I'm sure as a jibe. My response was something along the lines of, "It was more like a farmer's field mowed down for Mexicans to live in; 'park' makes it sound like a nice place."
Dove Meadows, as our neighborhood was known, consisted of two streets off of Power Line Road, White Wing and Mourning Dove, ours being the latter. I never strayed over to White Wing very often, even though it was so close, except to visit the creek where it met Power Line. Mourning Dove was about a quarter to a half a mile long and ended in a cul-de-sac. We saw the place go through a lot of changes. When we first got there it was a dirt road (although I'll need confirmation on this one, seeing as how I wasn't born or was very young when they changed it). Next came gravel and tar, the way I remember it the most. There was typically a smooth part with mostly tar at the center of the road, much more comfortable to run on than the gravel in our constantly bare feet (shoes are for white boys). On a scalding hot day in Fort Bend County, Texas, the black tar, however became incredibly hot (so hot bubbles would form which we would fit each other to pop walking home from school), so we cut irregular paths down the road, running half the time on the smooth but burning hot tar and half the time on the sharper but cooler gravel. By the time we left it was a more respectable asphalt. My most vivid memories of that road were walking to the bus stop in the morning, kicking rocks to each other and dodging slug trails in the fog. We saw people move in and out, but mostly in as more and more trailers (and by the end two honest-to-goodness houses) popped up. Each lot had an acre of land, and we remained the only white people on the street besides a crazy 'Nam vet and his sun fearing family, plus a retired cop with his two ex-police dog German shepherds. Even the name of the road changed to Morning Dove when a sign maker made a mistake. I don't think anybody cared, although some might have been glad that they finally fixed the spelling.
Our neighbors to the left had one of the houses, a nice Mexican family, probably the nicest on the street, but the least fluent in English. On the other side was an incredibly drunk family (they filled multiple trash cans a week with booze cans), and past them were the Delgados, a family with two kids our age, Eric (between me and Craig) and Britney (about my age). Other than that I'll leave the description of the neighbors to those that knew them better.
Thinking back to the old homestead, I think of Brigham Young's words praising the harsh Salt Lake valley as the perfect place to raise righteous Latter-Day Saints. Our own little barrio was filled with crime and poverty and blessed little else besides mud and ditches, rocks and sticks, but I can't imagine a better place to raise a pack of Ruggles...es...ei...Rugglei...
Dove Meadows, as our neighborhood was known, consisted of two streets off of Power Line Road, White Wing and Mourning Dove, ours being the latter. I never strayed over to White Wing very often, even though it was so close, except to visit the creek where it met Power Line. Mourning Dove was about a quarter to a half a mile long and ended in a cul-de-sac. We saw the place go through a lot of changes. When we first got there it was a dirt road (although I'll need confirmation on this one, seeing as how I wasn't born or was very young when they changed it). Next came gravel and tar, the way I remember it the most. There was typically a smooth part with mostly tar at the center of the road, much more comfortable to run on than the gravel in our constantly bare feet (shoes are for white boys). On a scalding hot day in Fort Bend County, Texas, the black tar, however became incredibly hot (so hot bubbles would form which we would fit each other to pop walking home from school), so we cut irregular paths down the road, running half the time on the smooth but burning hot tar and half the time on the sharper but cooler gravel. By the time we left it was a more respectable asphalt. My most vivid memories of that road were walking to the bus stop in the morning, kicking rocks to each other and dodging slug trails in the fog. We saw people move in and out, but mostly in as more and more trailers (and by the end two honest-to-goodness houses) popped up. Each lot had an acre of land, and we remained the only white people on the street besides a crazy 'Nam vet and his sun fearing family, plus a retired cop with his two ex-police dog German shepherds. Even the name of the road changed to Morning Dove when a sign maker made a mistake. I don't think anybody cared, although some might have been glad that they finally fixed the spelling.
Our neighbors to the left had one of the houses, a nice Mexican family, probably the nicest on the street, but the least fluent in English. On the other side was an incredibly drunk family (they filled multiple trash cans a week with booze cans), and past them were the Delgados, a family with two kids our age, Eric (between me and Craig) and Britney (about my age). Other than that I'll leave the description of the neighbors to those that knew them better.
Thinking back to the old homestead, I think of Brigham Young's words praising the harsh Salt Lake valley as the perfect place to raise righteous Latter-Day Saints. Our own little barrio was filled with crime and poverty and blessed little else besides mud and ditches, rocks and sticks, but I can't imagine a better place to raise a pack of Ruggles...es...ei...Rugglei...
Magic Bike Reflector Shield
Even as an infant Craig scared me with his rage. He couldn't have been more than three when he charged me from behind with a butcher knife because I had probably taken a lego piece from him. If it wasn't from Brian's warning, I may not be writing this story now.
Craig always acted on some strange sort of mojo that seemed to always end in luck. Being the only white family in our neighborhood called for quite a bit of attention. There were six of us brothers and about six to eight neighborhood kids that we spent time with outside. We normally had rock fights with two teams: Mexicans against the Ruggles boys. We would set some sort of boundary that created a distance between you and the opposing boy wishing to hit you between the eyes. Usually the loser was the first group to retreat or start crying. On our team, we would have the twins supply the ammo by finding rocks or creating mud balls while Brian, Craig, and myself would try to bring home the head of one of our beloved friends.
During one battle, we were losing ground due to one of the twins getting hit and our ammo production slowing down, and all of a sudden Craig pulled out his lucky bike reflector and stood on the line holding it towards our enemies. Those Krauts started throwing rocks straight at him totally distracting them to allow Brian and myself to get them where it hurt. The amazing thing was that Craig was never hit other than his reflector that he held in the palm of his hand! I remember the reflector getting hit at least four times.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
I never did name it.
My memory of this story is hazy and I still don't believe it but I was there and it happened to me. Pleas correct me if I'm wrong. I'd like to hear others recollections of the story too.
I don't know how you actually help dragonflies when they get injured and that does not happen often. They are fierce hunters that eat anything they can fit in their mouths and move like lightning up, down, over, and through. I could never catch the big ones. their bright wings were always a few feet away from my outstretched hand. I would run around till I was dizzy and have nothing but gumbo in my toes. The dragonfly was the unicorn of my childhood. Mom always said I had a way with animals and still thinks I should be a vet. So when I saw a big reddish-maroon dragonfly injured on the ground, I decided to help it. That basically meant taking it inside away from the fire ants and look at it twitch feebly. Tim and I got to look at a living dragonfly closely for the first time.
Before our attentions spans could waver the dragonfly started flying around in our living room, but amazingly it kept landing near us. even if it landed somewhere far away it would let us come near it without flying away. We figured it was too wounded to move around much. I remember its favorite place was on top of that lamp coming out of the living room wall. The 3 of us frolicked around the living room for a little while when I got the idea to imitate Chanda calling to Nighthawk by saying "Come!" and holding out my finger. That only worked on Nighthawk occasionally and I figured Tim would get a laugh out of it, but to everyone's amazement, the dragonfly flew from the lamp to the tip of my finger. All 3 of us froze. Tim and I starred at the dragonfly while it looked straight at me and everything else in the room( it had like 20,000 eyes). I think the dragonfly was the first to move. I thought it was a fluke, freak accident, whatever, but It did it again, and it only flew to me. I can't remember who all saw it but it was amazing. My only conclusion was that I had somehow tamed an uncontrollable force of nature. I had rescued a fallen unicorn and bent it to my will.
After two days of pretending to take care of it, the dragonfly recovered and I let the thing go outside again. It wasn't right to keep it inside and once it left I never saw it again. I never fed it anything and I never had a cage for it, but the fact that it actually came when I called made that dragonfly feel more like a pet to me than most arthropods I've owned. Since then, I've never even tried to duplicate that experience, but every time I see a dragonfly I think of the one I let go.
I don't know how you actually help dragonflies when they get injured and that does not happen often. They are fierce hunters that eat anything they can fit in their mouths and move like lightning up, down, over, and through. I could never catch the big ones. their bright wings were always a few feet away from my outstretched hand. I would run around till I was dizzy and have nothing but gumbo in my toes. The dragonfly was the unicorn of my childhood. Mom always said I had a way with animals and still thinks I should be a vet. So when I saw a big reddish-maroon dragonfly injured on the ground, I decided to help it. That basically meant taking it inside away from the fire ants and look at it twitch feebly. Tim and I got to look at a living dragonfly closely for the first time.
Before our attentions spans could waver the dragonfly started flying around in our living room, but amazingly it kept landing near us. even if it landed somewhere far away it would let us come near it without flying away. We figured it was too wounded to move around much. I remember its favorite place was on top of that lamp coming out of the living room wall. The 3 of us frolicked around the living room for a little while when I got the idea to imitate Chanda calling to Nighthawk by saying "Come!" and holding out my finger. That only worked on Nighthawk occasionally and I figured Tim would get a laugh out of it, but to everyone's amazement, the dragonfly flew from the lamp to the tip of my finger. All 3 of us froze. Tim and I starred at the dragonfly while it looked straight at me and everything else in the room( it had like 20,000 eyes). I think the dragonfly was the first to move. I thought it was a fluke, freak accident, whatever, but It did it again, and it only flew to me. I can't remember who all saw it but it was amazing. My only conclusion was that I had somehow tamed an uncontrollable force of nature. I had rescued a fallen unicorn and bent it to my will.
After two days of pretending to take care of it, the dragonfly recovered and I let the thing go outside again. It wasn't right to keep it inside and once it left I never saw it again. I never fed it anything and I never had a cage for it, but the fact that it actually came when I called made that dragonfly feel more like a pet to me than most arthropods I've owned. Since then, I've never even tried to duplicate that experience, but every time I see a dragonfly I think of the one I let go.
Brian's Career Path as a Stripper
Brian has always been one to want to please his siblings. I, as his older brother, found that he would do any thing that appeared to entertain me. Things started out innocently at first. Brian would make funny faces or would constantly repeat the word crap like he had turrets. He would often get in trouble for trying to carry out my pranks and I would act like he was just another disobedient sibling trying to upset Mamma.
One day, while Mom and Dad were gone, I thought I would try to see how far we could take Brian's desire to make Chanda and I laugh. At first we dared Brian to run to the end of the driveway and back naked. He quickly stripped down to his birthday suit and took off only to return to our laughter. Taking advantage of his current wardrobe, we decided to dare him to run to the end of the cul-de-sac and back. Mind you that to the cul-de-sac and back is about 450-500 feet both ways. I still remember Brian running down the street butt naked on a partially asphalt/gravel road while we and a few neighbors looked on. Before Brian even reached the cul-de-sac, I started to realize what a bad idea it was to do this to my faithful brother. I recall thinking that Mom and Dad should never know about this so long as I lived under their roof.
I never purposely tried to discover how far he would follow ever again...
Maybe one of the reasons why Brian didn't ever have an issue with having people know of our circumstances, is that he had nothing to hide. After all once you're standing naked in front of your neighbors what else can you hide?
One day, while Mom and Dad were gone, I thought I would try to see how far we could take Brian's desire to make Chanda and I laugh. At first we dared Brian to run to the end of the driveway and back naked. He quickly stripped down to his birthday suit and took off only to return to our laughter. Taking advantage of his current wardrobe, we decided to dare him to run to the end of the cul-de-sac and back. Mind you that to the cul-de-sac and back is about 450-500 feet both ways. I still remember Brian running down the street butt naked on a partially asphalt/gravel road while we and a few neighbors looked on. Before Brian even reached the cul-de-sac, I started to realize what a bad idea it was to do this to my faithful brother. I recall thinking that Mom and Dad should never know about this so long as I lived under their roof.
I never purposely tried to discover how far he would follow ever again...
Maybe one of the reasons why Brian didn't ever have an issue with having people know of our circumstances, is that he had nothing to hide. After all once you're standing naked in front of your neighbors what else can you hide?
Oil Well Riders
By popular demand, (Tim, you are so popular) the "Oil Well Rider" story:
Clearly, riding oil wells does not make much sense, as they are rather stationary. However, the pumps move rather rhythmically, and they are kinda fun. Once, when Uncle Tim and the girls were over at the trailer, I believe, Craig and I went on a short journey. We went to the pump just south of Powerline and just east of our road - you guys remember the one?
Anyway, we took turns grabbing part of the "head" when it approached the ground and holding on as it lifted us far into the air (as far as Texas flatlanders reckon vertical distance). It was all quite exhilarating.
After a bit of this goofiness, we noticed that Tim and Tracy had followed or gone out searching for us. We saw them plodding east down Powerline and turn and see us as one of us (I don't remember which of us it was) rose slowly into the air aboard the pump. They turned and ran homeward.
We freaked - we sprinted the half mile or so home. We arrived shortly after they did in time to hear them ratting us out to Dad mid-conversation. He turned and looked at us appraisingly. Craig, in a fit of evasive brilliance, said, "Yep. We were riding the oil wells. We're the oil well riders."
The next thing gave birth to classic post-Chanda Ruggles Legend. He began the song.
"We're the ooooiiill weeelll riders!" Over and over. I am working hard trying to remember whether Craig had the presence of mind to come up with other lyrics, but I don't think he did. Dad looked at him further. I was flabbergasted, and sorta tried to sing along, but I wasn't with it. Dad eventually got tired of it and told Tim especially to stop being bothersome. I must say, Tim's look was pretty classic as well. He was both pissed and livid, and it was all classic.
Clearly, riding oil wells does not make much sense, as they are rather stationary. However, the pumps move rather rhythmically, and they are kinda fun. Once, when Uncle Tim and the girls were over at the trailer, I believe, Craig and I went on a short journey. We went to the pump just south of Powerline and just east of our road - you guys remember the one?
Anyway, we took turns grabbing part of the "head" when it approached the ground and holding on as it lifted us far into the air (as far as Texas flatlanders reckon vertical distance). It was all quite exhilarating.
After a bit of this goofiness, we noticed that Tim and Tracy had followed or gone out searching for us. We saw them plodding east down Powerline and turn and see us as one of us (I don't remember which of us it was) rose slowly into the air aboard the pump. They turned and ran homeward.
We freaked - we sprinted the half mile or so home. We arrived shortly after they did in time to hear them ratting us out to Dad mid-conversation. He turned and looked at us appraisingly. Craig, in a fit of evasive brilliance, said, "Yep. We were riding the oil wells. We're the oil well riders."
The next thing gave birth to classic post-Chanda Ruggles Legend. He began the song.
"We're the ooooiiill weeelll riders!" Over and over. I am working hard trying to remember whether Craig had the presence of mind to come up with other lyrics, but I don't think he did. Dad looked at him further. I was flabbergasted, and sorta tried to sing along, but I wasn't with it. Dad eventually got tired of it and told Tim especially to stop being bothersome. I must say, Tim's look was pretty classic as well. He was both pissed and livid, and it was all classic.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Fire ants
The entomological landscape of our backyard was rather...homogeneous to say the least. If it didn't fly or build a web, the fire ants got 'em. Larger grasshoppers, banana spiders, bees, wasps, flies and the occasional tenacious cricket were the only variation from fields and fields of fire ants.* Taken alone, a fire ant is not a very threatening thing. They are about the size of harmless black ants or sugar ants, albeit ominously colored in black and red, a single sting will cause local irritation only (occasionally a puss-filled wound the size of a zit if you scratch it too much), in short, not the toughest kid in school. But, what they lack in physical presence, they easily make up for in numbers and shear ferocity.
When one dares disturb a fire ant's black mound, unlike other ants who merely attempt to repair it and prevent invasion, fire ants send out scouts for retaliation. When they find you they do not attack at once, oh, no, they are much too crafty for that, a fire ant knows her weaknesses. Instead they release a pheromone, attracting squads of ants like magnet, and climb ever surely up your leg. Once thirty or so ants have worked there way up your leg, that is in when they strike and the pain begins. Many an unsuspecting Rugglet's carefree gamboling was viciously interrupted by a sprint to the hose, the only tool that could effectively remove the stinging ants, latched on by their little tiny jaws, body curled for continual stinging. Any dead animal, any pile of cat food, was sure to have a trail of fire ants leading from it to halfway across the yard. Time spent by Rugglets following these trails (or attempting to distrup their supply lines by wiping away their scent trails) all together probably totals to several months.
Despite our natural animosity to them, we generally respected the fire ants as a force of nature, uncontrollable and untamed. When we finally destroyed the armies of an invading bumblebee queen with nothing but a trampoline net and a metal pipe, we chose the fire ants, not ourselves, to be the bee's executioners. They became a symbol of toughness and resourcefulness. An invasive species, fire ants spread north from South America, but no climate proved insurmountable to them. Even Texas flash-floods weren't enough wipe them out; the conniving buggers would clump into grapefruit-sized living barges and float down ditches ready, like the rest of us Texans, to rebuild after the storm.
My first disappointment when we moved to New Jersey came when I got out of the moving truck and I found a small black ant hive and knocked it apart with my finger. The poor creatures looked more confused than angry, and I quickly let them alone, leaving me longing for my old childhood nemesis, the fire ant.
*There was one kind of ant that didn't get pushed around by fire ants, little red and grey ones that lived only in our rocky driveway. Even smaller than fire ants, they never attack humans, don't spread very rapidly, and were so little and cute we generally called them sugar ants. However, whenever a fire ant colony felt uppity and wanted to wipe them out, you could always tell by the rings of dead fire ants the sugar ants would neatly form around their modest nest.
When one dares disturb a fire ant's black mound, unlike other ants who merely attempt to repair it and prevent invasion, fire ants send out scouts for retaliation. When they find you they do not attack at once, oh, no, they are much too crafty for that, a fire ant knows her weaknesses. Instead they release a pheromone, attracting squads of ants like magnet, and climb ever surely up your leg. Once thirty or so ants have worked there way up your leg, that is in when they strike and the pain begins. Many an unsuspecting Rugglet's carefree gamboling was viciously interrupted by a sprint to the hose, the only tool that could effectively remove the stinging ants, latched on by their little tiny jaws, body curled for continual stinging. Any dead animal, any pile of cat food, was sure to have a trail of fire ants leading from it to halfway across the yard. Time spent by Rugglets following these trails (or attempting to distrup their supply lines by wiping away their scent trails) all together probably totals to several months.
Despite our natural animosity to them, we generally respected the fire ants as a force of nature, uncontrollable and untamed. When we finally destroyed the armies of an invading bumblebee queen with nothing but a trampoline net and a metal pipe, we chose the fire ants, not ourselves, to be the bee's executioners. They became a symbol of toughness and resourcefulness. An invasive species, fire ants spread north from South America, but no climate proved insurmountable to them. Even Texas flash-floods weren't enough wipe them out; the conniving buggers would clump into grapefruit-sized living barges and float down ditches ready, like the rest of us Texans, to rebuild after the storm.
My first disappointment when we moved to New Jersey came when I got out of the moving truck and I found a small black ant hive and knocked it apart with my finger. The poor creatures looked more confused than angry, and I quickly let them alone, leaving me longing for my old childhood nemesis, the fire ant.
*There was one kind of ant that didn't get pushed around by fire ants, little red and grey ones that lived only in our rocky driveway. Even smaller than fire ants, they never attack humans, don't spread very rapidly, and were so little and cute we generally called them sugar ants. However, whenever a fire ant colony felt uppity and wanted to wipe them out, you could always tell by the rings of dead fire ants the sugar ants would neatly form around their modest nest.
Requests
I thought it might be a good idea to make some requests for stories that need to be retold:
Oil-well riding, dragonfly-taming, cat-watching, and entire series of articles dedicated to bloodweed, castle building, a map of our yard, Craig getting pushed out of a window, the pits, gumbo, gumbo, the Laughmans, keifer pear harvests, "Bless our hearts...", whacking day, the first time we held a tarantula, drop kicks on the trampoline, lego wars, space wars, stick wars, mud wars, warring over the computer, etc., Cherish eating butter, Chanda eating cockroaches, all of us eating catfood, Blacky the zombie cat, cockroaches in general and the terror they inspire in us to this very day, Dad's tickling ability and secret ninja moves, that wonderful TV, using the rumble of the Beluga to dive for bed, the bay house, crazy mexican neighbors, crazy drunk neighbors, crazy French speaking nam vet neighbors, metal fans, wind tunnels, hide-and-seek, homemade bread, eggplant, wheatberries, the "bagganing", fire ants, mowing the lawn, winning soccer seasons, pathetically losing soccer seasons, blow-gun fights, Masters of the Universe, and oh, so much more.
Oil-well riding, dragonfly-taming, cat-watching, and entire series of articles dedicated to bloodweed, castle building, a map of our yard, Craig getting pushed out of a window, the pits, gumbo, gumbo, the Laughmans, keifer pear harvests, "Bless our hearts...", whacking day, the first time we held a tarantula, drop kicks on the trampoline, lego wars, space wars, stick wars, mud wars, warring over the computer, etc., Cherish eating butter, Chanda eating cockroaches, all of us eating catfood, Blacky the zombie cat, cockroaches in general and the terror they inspire in us to this very day, Dad's tickling ability and secret ninja moves, that wonderful TV, using the rumble of the Beluga to dive for bed, the bay house, crazy mexican neighbors, crazy drunk neighbors, crazy French speaking nam vet neighbors, metal fans, wind tunnels, hide-and-seek, homemade bread, eggplant, wheatberries, the "bagganing", fire ants, mowing the lawn, winning soccer seasons, pathetically losing soccer seasons, blow-gun fights, Masters of the Universe, and oh, so much more.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The beginning of an era
This blog will be something special. It will be a place to chronicle experiences to make each other laugh, cry, and more often wince. It will be a place to let Mom and Dad know things like how
Andy had me run down the street naked as a small kid (which they just told me they recently heard about). We can lay out our individual experiences about the source of the Camp Nunny Cha-Ha shirts with all the floaty-deflating madness that preceded it. We can tell stories of hernias, ruptured kidneys, life-threatening rashes, ironic arm-breaking timing, etc. We need various angles to tell these stories. There are two cluck-clucks who need their stories told completely.
Maybe the stories will be new to some of us. Maybe the married among us will lose respect from their spouses if that's even possible. Maybe people will be mortified with stories of removing bits of floor to clean vomit. But our posterity could demand such clarity (probably not). If nothing else, we can remember some wacky formative years with spiderman underwear and crazy archery fights. Email me to get added to the list to add stories. It will be awesome . . .
Andy had me run down the street naked as a small kid (which they just told me they recently heard about). We can lay out our individual experiences about the source of the Camp Nunny Cha-Ha shirts with all the floaty-deflating madness that preceded it. We can tell stories of hernias, ruptured kidneys, life-threatening rashes, ironic arm-breaking timing, etc. We need various angles to tell these stories. There are two cluck-clucks who need their stories told completely.
Maybe the stories will be new to some of us. Maybe the married among us will lose respect from their spouses if that's even possible. Maybe people will be mortified with stories of removing bits of floor to clean vomit. But our posterity could demand such clarity (probably not). If nothing else, we can remember some wacky formative years with spiderman underwear and crazy archery fights. Email me to get added to the list to add stories. It will be awesome . . .
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