Blobbity

My gosh. My good gosh. I think my chilluns are ganging up on me. I glanced at the picture of the blobfish (my buddy) and I saw something almost heartbreaking. The blob is me. The BLOBFISH is truly me. I know dang well that you all did this on purpose. Don't look so surprised. The blobbin' blobfish has DROOL on the lower corner of his mouth. Yer Ma has been telling you that I drool. HASN'T she? So sad. Nothing is off limits.
Anyhoo, this an addendum to my previous post. Mary P. brought family members closer together. But my family unit had already been torn asunder. Mom left the day after I graduated high school. I didn't feel dumb because I barely got through high school. I merely could not imagine what life might ever hold  for me. I stayed with Dad because of plentiful work. When I found a new life in Price, Utah, none of us ever lived together again. Mom and Dad were probably baffled by my new life with my own Mary Poppins.
My parents were never comfy and close with us kids. I don't remember Dad ever telling me he loved me. Mom probably stopped being love/verbal when I was 6 or 7. They didn't need to say it. I knew that they both, in their own way, loved me beyond words to describe. A sad footnote to this is the fact that I may seem a bit slow in expressing my love for my kids. What do you expect from a man who finds his drool in full display on his blob?
Just before she died, Mom told us of the wonderful home we would all someday have together, across the river. Everyone thought the river was the Arkansas, just 200 yards from her house. But I knew better. That other Mary Poppins probably knew nothing of the extent that families CAN be rebuilt across the river or across the veil. Thanks for committing to hep in the yard..... d'Pa

Saving Mister Banks

CAUTION!!!! If you have not seen Saving Mr. Banks and WANT to see it, proceed no further. I may ruin it for you. Jodi mentioned it to me when it first came out. I wanted to see it but life got in the way. I found out 2 days ago that she and Babs had neither one seen it. TSK. What a great movie. I think Babs has it so maybe we can all see it. Anyhoo, I saw it twice in about one week recently. It's just fabulous. It's all about Walt Disney, Mary Poppins and the lady (named Pam) who wrote the story. Pam had a disastrous childhood in Australia.
Her banker father, whom she loved very much, died a terrible alcoholic death when she was 5 or 6 years old. His nurse assured Pam that she would see her papa through his crisis. The nurse bore a strong physical resemblance to the character later known as Mary Poppins. Imagine Pam's pain when this nurse's promise failed. Note, then, that Mary Poppins was a person who had full control of everything. She could glide UP a banister. She had a magic umbrella. No earthly worry was a concern to Mary.
The movie slowly confirmed that Mr. Banks, in fantasy, was stable and perhaps heroic. Pam's work was all about preserving the image of her beloved father. Incredibly touching.
We saw Mary P. in about 1964 when it first came out. Fun movie, but nothing earth-shaking or life-changing at the time. But, watching Tom Hanks tell Pam that the entire story was about her own father and not the 2 cute children, I found myself relating in many ways.
I had not one, but two parents caught up in the tragedy of alcoholism. My dad was a hard workin' hard drinkin' hard fightin' fun lovin' hard rock miner. When a county commissioner died, some friends came to Dad asking him to finish that term, and then to run. When they were gone he said to Mom, "I can't do it. I'm too big a drinker." Eddie heard that sorrowful confession. I heard it from Eddie some 40 years later. After retirement, Dad quit drinking and died at about age 75.
Mom took to her drinking quietly, probably in desperation over a failing marriage. She spent the last few years of her life living back yard to back yard with her daughter, my sister, Mildred. Mildred was instrumental in helping Mom get rid of that awful monster, gin. Losing Mildred to cancer surely brought on her stroke and to her death at age 89.
I had no idea that my life had a loose parallel to Mary Poppins. I have become quite emotional and tearful in my advancing years. I am glad to be writing this instead of trying to verbalize it. I cried all the way through Saving Mr. Banks, especially as Walt Disney told Pam of his difficult young life in frozen Minnesota.
My life was without meaning or direction. I barely got through high school. I stumbled forward, knowing nothing about anything. When Mary Poppins arrived, without her umbrella, I married her. Life is great.

Saving Mr. Banks

hii

Will the real singer please stand.

This is my first blob since June, 2011. Many years ago, (well, "Many Years Ago" is a better start than "It was a Dark and Stormy night", but not much better) Brian was kinda taken with the brand new release of Whitney Houston's signature song "I Will Always Love You". It was a great piece of work. Just a quick bit of background: Young'uns are never impressed with Dad's old Oldsmobile, so it was no surprise that Brian had little tolerance for his Mom's and Dad's oldies music, either. Like a big-mouthed buffoon, I let it slip that this was an old Dolly Parton tune. Brian's face went white for a moment before it went to an enraged hue of red-purple. "That's Whitney's song! Dolly Parton is a shameless imitator." Being a witless moron, I said "Dolly wrote the song." Brian's shoulders kinda drooped, but for only a second. He had no answer. Fast forward many years to the present. At our fiftieth wedding anniversary Todd and Jodi and the kids assembled a wonderful big-screen montage of family photos, accompanied by some of our favorite oldies songs. Before the guests began to arrive we all watched and listened. I had sworn that my emotions were NOT going to play in, but this was a bit unexpected. Ma and I were really surprised by all the fabulous decor put up by our kids and spouses. Anyway, one of the songs was "I Will Always Love You"........... By Dolly Parton. It received good comments, like " Ooh, nice" and "This is great!" But I was was watching Brian. He didn't disappoint. He spoke in measured tones, saying "Dolly Parton Murdered Whitney Houston and stole her song."

We had a dilemma. Our ol' toilet in my bathroom hasn't been working too well. It became apparent yesterday that it must be replaced. We were sitting in the living room discussing the awfulness of the situation. Dilemma: do we pay $379.00 for a plumber or do we pay $144.00 and turn me loose on the project. I am not a plumber. For one thing, my pants don't go down nearly far enough to even begin to show a plumber's butt crack.

I decided that it was just too risky. Translated, that means that I'm just too dang lazy and fearful. Having never installed a toilet before, I decided, with finality, that it was too scarrrry. Suddenly, someone on the tv said "Eleanore Roosevelt once said, 'you should do something that scares you every day'". That's the truth. The timing was perfect. Perfectly horrid! I looked at Maudeen. She looked at me.

I KNOW there is a life after death, because I KNOW I will eventually find Eleanor Roosevelt and give her a piece of my mind.

The guy at Home Depot showed me all the fine points of my upcoming project. I was especially impressed with the notice that said "no tools needed". I asked about that. The guy said, "If you believe that, I have a bridge I can sell you. If your fingers are as strong as Arnold Schwartzneggar's, you will be fine. Otherwise you will need tools. Just be gentle." Oh, now I'm supposed to be a gentle plumber.

Several hours later, after dragging out a heavy "twalatte" and dragging in a heavy twalatte and dealing successfully with that demoralizing WAX RING I was done. as in d-o-n-e. I hadn't broken the porcelain. I hadn't stripped any threads. There were no leaks. I even put my tools away. Okay, I lie. The tools are not yet put away, but they are stacked neatly in the corner.

Deenie said: "I can't believe this. I just cannot believe this". She thought I would be on the phone shouting,"Kenneth, get over here".

So, if you need a plumber, feel free to call..... Buttcrack Plumbing. You can find them in the yellow pages.

We are the greatest grandparents in the WORLD! Not - in this case - great grandparents, merely grandparents, but great, you understand. We support Connor in every last thing he does. He can always count on us. We are just... outstanding, y'know?

This has been one of our best weeks. We waved a Pikachu flag at his graduation. His friends pounded on his back quite a bit, pointing at us. He tried to look nonchalant, mostly looking in the other direction. What a guy.

Then, the next evening, the graduating class of Jordan High held a celebration party. Not a single parent showed up. Not a single school administrator showed up. Not a single adult showed up. We were the only grandparents there. We were so proud. We danced the light fantastic. We seemed to be the center of attention. We loved it. However, Connor didn't seem to be feeling too well. He sat over in a corner with his hands over his eyes. We eventually went over to him and asked if he'd like for us to get him an aspirin. He was so sweet. He said, "no, you have done enough". His hands never left his eyes.

He is planning a trip to Ireland right away. He doesn't know it yet, but we have our reservations made and our bags packed. We don't know exactly where he will be, but we'll find him. We WILL find him.

Editor;s note: Yes, this a spoof. He hasn't graduated yet. Grandma Maudeen casually mentioned to me that Connor was planning a party the night after graduation. But, she knows that I am easily befuddled, so she quickly added, "but we won't be attending that". The incongruity of it all hit me pretty hard. I awoke in the night, thinking, wow, there hasta be a blob in here somewhere.

Frank

I cannot bring myself to compose a complete personal history, so the next best thing might be to tell stories from my past. Some personal histories are so dry! I hope this will be a litt-a-bit easier to read.


During the late spring of 1959, I found myself running around at 6:30 or 7:00 a.m., getting ready for school in Monticello, Utah, 55 miles away. We were acting a bit crazy, as the school year was almost over. I can't for the life of me remember why I was tearing around with Frank Long at that outlandish hour when he was not in school.
Maybe he had just gotten off graveyard shift at one of the mines.I guess he was lonely. He had graduated a year earlier from some high school in central Utah. I didn't know him too well. He had stories to tell. He had tossed up an outlandish hook shot from midcourt at the buzzer to win a game for (Salina?)High.

Jay Lish, Jim McTaggart, Ralph Ramstetter,Jimmy Dennison and I were planning to run to school that day in Jay's old '48 Plymouth. (Later owned by Eddie Burton.) Frank said, "ride with me at least as far as La Sal Junction." I thought about it and said, "naw, if I did that I would (A) have to wait for them at the junction, or (B) not get a front seat." I really don't remember why I bailed out of Frank's car.

We headed out while the school bus was loading up with high schoolers. Jay was a speedy guy, but I don't remember us being in a hurry. Jay looked in his rear view mirror and shouted, "here comes Frank". That Plymouth was no slouch, but Frank was in a '51 Mercury. We stepped on it. We were soon doing 80 or 90 miles per hour, just short of the turnoff to the mining district where most of us lived. Frank must have been doing 110 or even 120 as he started around us. That Mercury was a piece of work. It was faasst.

His left wheels just barely got off the pavement. At a lower speed this would have been no problem. But he couldn't correct. He went into the barrow pit (who coined that silly phrase, "barrow pit" anyway?) He slammed into the berm (another silly word) containing the turnoff.He went airborne for a bit, then landed on the highway not more than 15 feet in front of us. But he was sideways to us. I saw - for an instant - the panic on his face. Then, he was gone in a cloud of dust.

It took 200, maybe 300 feet to stop. We went running. It must have been a windless day, because we ran into the cloud of dust, unable to see anything. We found the demolished Merc. No one knows how many times it rolled, but it ended up on its wheels. We couldn't find Frank. I was afraid he might be under the car. We could never have rolled that big monster over onto its side. We went running around, screaming, "Frank". Someone said "he's over here". He had been crushed by the car.

He was breathing, but he had an ominous pink fluid on his lips. (Sorry for being a bit graphic, but you knew this was coming.) He soon stopped breathing. The school bus came by. The driver jumped out to see if he could help. He jumped back into the bus to get the kids away from that gruesome sight.

Carloads of miners came by, heading for work, all of them jumping out to try to help, then sadly moving on. We stood there in silence. I couldn't help noticing the perfect clear blue sky. Frank's brother and grandmother soon arrived from the trailer court where they all lived. Seeing Grandma's face was a terrible moment.

After surveying the scene, the brother, (Jack?) (My memory fails) went over and sat on the running board of his old pickup truck. After a while he had some words for us. But not many. He clenched his fist and said "if I ever catch any of you speeding, I'm gonna....".

It took two hours for a Highway Patrolman to arrive. I knew the local fuzz, but I cannot remember whether it was Claude Lacy Or another guy. Ahh, my wonderful memory. I'm glad I am getting this all down. My friends would now all say, "no, it happened this way, or this way" but I haven't seen any of them in fifty years. The Patrolman sent us on our way. We wanted to stay and help get Frank into an ambulance or hearse, but we followed instructions.

As we walked into the high school at about noon, we told the principal that we had to go to the Highway Patrol office to file reports. Principal Burr told us to report and then take the rest of the day off. All the way down to the office, we worked frantically to make sure our stories jibed, I.E.,"Oh no, we weren't speeding. Oh, no, Frank wasn't speeding". We were interviewed separately. None of us were sentenced to 20 years for lying. The cops weren't dumb. They were just not interested in prying the truth out of us. Or maybe someone TOLD the truth, satisfying the interrogator.