Tag Archives: Family

Gotta Call a Professional

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“Everybody quit talking, Teresa’s here.”

Those are the first words I heard when I climbed out of my car to join my family at our Labor Day bonfire.  It has finally dawned on them, after 18 weeks of blog posts, that they are the main cast of characters in Crazie Town.  They were, therefore, on their best behavior – which means, no story for this week.

Just kidding, Strangely-Normal Family, I have plenty of old bonfire stories.

This is one of my favorites that my niece Kim shared with me.  She’d asked my dad if she could invite a bunch of friends from college out to the farm to have a big bonfire.

“We’ll take care of everything,” Kim said.  And like all good teenagers, they showed up after dark, with all the necessary supplies – graham crackers, chocolate bars, marshmallows and beer.  After several attempts to ignite a log using a Bic lighter, Kim went inside to ask Dad’s help.

“Just pour some diesel fuel on it,” Dad said, never budging from his rocker in front of the TV.  “It’s in the red can in the shed.”

When she had no luck locating the red can, she returned to the house.  “Can you pleeeeease help us?” Kim asked in her best ‘I’m your only granddaughter’ voice.

“Wrasser, frasser,” he mumbled. (Did anyone else’s parents use those words?)  Dad stood up, re-fastened his jeans and lumbered outside.  He rummaged around inside the shed and found the red can.  It was empty, so he did what every good farmer does – he grabbed a gas can and a hose, walked to his truck and siphoned enough gas to fill the can.  He walked over to the pile of logs and splashed the gasoline in the general direction, picked up the lighter and VOOM!,  lit the fire.

Dad tossed the gas can a few feet from the fire and walked back into the shed.  He came out carrying two quarts of oil, which he proceeded to pour onto the blaze, tossing the empty plastic bottles into the fire.

Kim’s friends sat frozen in place, with the mouths agape and motor-oil-fried marshmallows dangling from their roasting sticks.

“You want something done right, you gotta call a professional,” he said and retired back to the house to finish watching his basketball game.

I Shocked the Sheriff

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I’ve had several subscribers ask how I got to be such a control freak (i.e. weirdo.)  It’s all quite embarrassing and I don’t know where to begin.  But, as I’m always advising my critique group, “You have to open a vein onto the page.”  So here’s a humiliating glimpse into my Crazie upbringing.

My mother was the world’s worst housekeeper.  In her defense, she worked full time and had eight irresponsible kids.  I remember that there was a chart of household chores that we were required to do each day. (My first attempt at control freak-dom?) One might expect that we came home from school and completed our chores, then went out to play.

Not us.  We jumped off the bus, ran inside and immediately planted ourselves in front of the TV to watch Gilligan’s Island and/or any other nonsense show that was broadcast.  Someone sat by the window that had a view of the hill Mom would be driving over on her way home.  We had to change lookout’s every day, because even though it was a perfect view of the road, it was not a perfect view of the television, and that’s just not fair.  When the lookout saw our battered green station wagon crest the hill they’d shout “MOM!”

Thus began the wild rush to complete our tasks before she drove, what couldn’t have been more than three minutes, into the driveway.  I distinctly remember one time when she walked into a smoke filled house.  Rather than bend over and pick up one of my brother’s socks that was lying on the floor, I decided to vacuum it up instead.  Luckily we had extinguished the fire before she got in the door.

Keeping up with dirty clothes was another task she never quite got control of.  She’d wash and dry them, then dump them on the dining room table.  When the pile began to slide onto the floor she’d call out “Clothes Folding Party.”  We sat in a circle and she held up an article of clothing.  One of us would shout out “Mine” and she’d toss it to us.

My bedroom was upstairs and rather than walk up all those stairs, I placed my folded clothes on the step, figuring I’d take them up with me on my next trip.  I never did.  I just picked out my clothes from the ones on the stairs and eventually they were clear…until the next clothes folding party.

When I was in high school our house was robbed while I was home.  I heard the thieves knock down the back door and I dropped to the floor of my bedroom to hide under the bed.  Only there was so much junk under there already, I couldn’t fit.  I had to run to my brother’s room and hide under his bed.

When the sheriff arrived, he took one look around and said “Oh my god, they trashed the place!”  I was too embarrassed to tell him the truth.

There you go, dear reader.  Mortifying and shameful.  Now you’ll have to excuse me while I go find a bandage for my bleeding vein.