Thursday, November 29, 2007

Fluffy Filler

(Recently I've been busier than I've been in years. Not having time to do some half-way serious writing, I decided to post some mindless fluff.)

Kicking Butt -- Hopefully Not Mine

"When this class is over, I'll be able to kick butt!'

Julie took two physical fitness classes this term and made the above statement back in August. She ran, did lunges, squats and other strenuous exercises with kids less than half her age. Some students, including young men, stopped in the middle of exercises but she kept going, endured the pain and the sore muscles. Today is the last session of the second class.

Last night we were lying in bed and I felt the firmness and size of her thigh muscles, felt my leg where muscle should have been and then felt her thigh again. One the second time she did something unkind. She tightened her muscles and they grew in size and hardness.

It's just not right. In some rule book somewhere it's written that women are supposed to let men think they are the strongest.

(While driving back from Amarillo last weekend some memories popped into my head. My sister and daughter -- who's interested in genealogy and family history/stories -- read this blog. These memories are for them.)

Fruit of the Vine

About a year ago, for medicinal purposes, I began drinking one small glass of wine with supper. I've always avoided alcohol because of the number of alcoholics in the family and my memories of some really bad experiences.

Actually, I first drank wine or some kind of alcohol when I was preschool age. One of the benefits of being among the youngest of about 20 cousins is that I was introduced to alcohol, cigarettes, profanity, jokes about sex and some other shocking/disgusting behavior at an early age. After almost sixty years I still remember the jokes and the experience of older cousins watching for my reaction when they gave me that first drink. By the age of four I knew when among a group of guys to hide my true reactions and lie if necessary -- "It's good!"

Wet Socks

When I was preschool age, my paternal grandmother lived in a small three-room house without plumbing. Water was carried in for cooking, washing and cleaning and the waste water was carried out. The outhouse was some distance from the house at the end of a dark path so it was unusable at night. A chamber pot which we called a "slop jar" was kept in the bedroom and was emptied each morning.

Whenever I spent the night I slept on the couch in the living room across from a pot-bellied coal stove. One morning I awoke and retrieved my shoes from beside the stove. When I pulled my socks out of the shoes they were wet. I immediately shouted "the roof leaks". An uncle started laughing. "The roof doesn't leak. You peed in your shoes!".

I recalled a vague memory of awaking in the night and looking for the pot. How dumb does one have to be to mistake shoes for a pot?


Blogger Tim Hodgens said...

Hey Paul,

Re the boy who peed in his shoe...maybe you can start a Dr. Seuss series of stories "from the old ages" and then there will be countless numbers and generations of children who can sing about the boy paul who mistook his shoe for a pot.


11/29/2007 12:13:00 PM  
Blogger Buffalo said...

You have me laughing. We had slop jars too, but I wouldn't use them. One of these days, provided I work up the nerve, I'll tell you what I did instead - until I got caught.

11/29/2007 01:02:00 PM  
Blogger Anvilcloud said...

This isn't mindless fluff; it's the stuff of humanity.

11/29/2007 10:00:00 PM  
Blogger Tim Hodgens said...


Well said.


11/30/2007 05:48:00 AM  

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