The contest’s halfway over and already running out of gas.
*Sigh* As I see it, one’s happy memories are in the front line defending sanity. Let’s share some more of them, shall we?
And there’s a prize–an autographed book of your choice, or a snappy red T-shirt that says “If they have to kill us, they’ve lost.”
Anyone can play! Enter as often as you like. I’ve put these posts up to provided you with a handy place to post your entries. Some of you out there who are new to this blog–c’mon, jump in, the water’s fine!
Okay, I’ll include another one!
Some years ago, around 2006 or 2007, I got a job as a banquet server at a conference center. June was a very busy time, with graduation dinners, wedding dinners, etc. Of course, some of these involved a fair bit of alcohol, and it was not unusual for my shift to end at 1 or 2am. Normally, I would just walk home, but it was a pretty sketchy area at night, so my husband insisted on driving me home on those nights.
It was after a particularly successful banquet, with much celebratory imbibing, that I was standing outside the main entry, still in uniform, waiting for my husband. Some very, very happy people were milling around. One older gentleman suddenly approached me, told me how beautiful I was, and handed me a beautiful, artificial white rose. Then he cheerfully kept walking.
I still have that rose.
Now that’s cool.
Cobblestone pavement, though rare, could still be found in and around Milwaukee’s downtown streets. A fixture since April 1890, streetcars traveled on a network of steel rails throughout much of the city. However, largely due to the widespread adoption of gas-powered automobiles and buses, the ridership waned greatly until that fateful day, March 2, 1958, when the service was discontinued. As fortune would have it, I rode with mother on the last trolley as it made its twilight journey into the history books.
During my childhood, occasionally we shared the joy of canine companionship. The first dog I can recall was a good-natured, Labrador mix—short-haired, black in color, and fifty pounds of stick-chasing, rough-and-tumble fun, whom I named Dusty.
One summer day while mom was chatting with a neighbor, a salesman decided to call upon our home. As he walked up our gravel driveway, all decked out in a black suit and tie, I’m sure he thought he was about to give another dull, routine sales presentation.
Dusty saw him approaching and, not taking too kindly to this stranger, went for him in a very aggressive fashion. Her back and shoulders were all hunched up, grizzly bear style, and the fur around her neck looked like a lion’s mane, with all of it standing at attention as she lunged, stiff-legged, at him. She looked ferocious as she bared her teeth and growled in a frightening, menacing manner. The saliva was also a flyin’ each time she barked.
I’m sure Dusty’s target was eminently happy he remember-ed to bring his color-coordinated, black leather briefcase to this sales call. For he was now engaged in a curious type of dance, a rather desperate struggle to keep his briefcase between him and this jumping, wild-eyed, uncontrolled beast, who was doing her level best to see if peddlers were “aw good eat’n.”
While Dusty and the salesman were kicking up stones and dust during their vigorous exercise, mother, upon hearing the commotion, looked up, and when she saw what was happening, started to laugh very hard, for she had never seen our sweet-tempered hound act this way before. She struggled to control her laughter as she tried to reassure the salesman with comforting words, “Don’t worry, she doesn’t bite.” But the salesman was not assured, and mother’s words did not erase the look of terror on his face. Their enthusiastic tango continued until mother was able to grab our spirited pooch by the collar and drag her away.
I’m sure mother’s boisterous laughter continued to ring in his ears throughout the remainder of the day, and our dog’s ferocity must have haunted his dreams for years to come.
“She doesn’t bite”–famous last words.
One Christmas, when I was ten, my brother, Gary, got a really neat gift: a large, realistic-looking tank that actually shot plastic shells that could fly for about 10−12 feet. Even powder that you could put into the barrel came with the tank, and when you fired the shell it looked like smoke was coming out. Of course, mother spoiled some of our fun; she wouldn’t let us use the powder, for she said it was too messy.
Our Christmas tree was adorned with large, pink glass ornaments. Well, dad got down on the floor to play with Gary and me and the tank. And wouldn’t you know it, those large baubles sure made for inviting targets. By the time mother came into the room, at least three ornaments were lying in pieces on the green wool carpet, wholly destroyed by plastic shells accurately launched by the tank crew. After her arrival in the room, we three artillerymen skulked out and looked for different targets.
All three comments from my book “The Path Life Takes.”
How about one more from my book.
When we first started our family weekend camping trips, we would always go to Camp Luwisomo in central Wisconsin, an hour-and-a-half drive from our home. There was a good group of families our parents got to know, and there were always good times when these folks camped with us.
On one weekend mom made chicken for lunch, but she did not cook it long enough and it was still raw when we bit into it. After she cooked it a little longer, we deemed it fit for human consumption. After lunch our family took a sightseeing trip, and when we returned there were signs posted all over the campground with caveats like “Raw Chicken All You Can Eat,” “Raw Chicken Eat At Your Own Risk,” and so forth. Their friends had heard about the raw chicken and found great humor in noting the event. My parents kept those signs for many years.
I was 4 years old when my mom took me for a visit to our next-door neighbors — a common occurrence. They were a couple whose kids had grown up and gone away. They were showing my mother something in their garage when I spotted a box of box of old (but in good condition) toys in a corner of the garage.
The next day I wandered by myself back into the neighbors’ garage to look at the toys. I spotted some toy guns and excitedly grabbed them and ran to our backyard where my older brother (6 years old) was playing. I told him we could play cowboys and Indians with them. He immediately went to our mother to tattle on me. My mother went back with me to the neighbors so that I could return the guns and apologize. They were very gracious and thanked me for being honest and courageous enough to return the toys. Lesson learned! The neighbors wrapped the guns and gave them to me as a gift the following Christmas.
Siblings that tattle–shameful!