Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts

Overheard


For the sake of anonymity, let's just say that I happened to have this conversation with a small child sometime in my teaching career:


She was showing me the stuffed animal that she brought from home, and was forlornly explaining that the animal used to have shoes and a cute hat, but those got thrown away! My first thought as a parent was that she left them out when she was told to put them away and her parents got tired of picking them up for her and just finally tossed them. Kind of like I throw all those Nerf darts away when I find them around the house.

It turns out that I was somewhat close to the truth. She continued sadly to tell me that her mother just did not give her time to put them away, and then her baby brother was putting them in his mouth.

"Because he puts things in his mouth," she said, and then added, "He chews on everything." Then shook her head and finished up mournfully, "So my mommy picked them all up, and now I don't have any chokeable hazards to play with at all."

Yep - got to hate to not have any chokeable hazards to play with.

photo by by tassiesim on Flickr (Creative Commons License: Attribution, Non-Commercial)

Read more...

A New Turkey Story

In honor of the fast-approaching Thanksgiving holiday, today I bring you a turkey story. Of course, I have already told one turkey story, but it turns out that I have more.

Actually, I have two turkey tales. One is about the time that Jason and I (living in Prague) carried a frozen turkey with us on an overnight train all the way to Bulgaria. We were visiting our friends the Masseys for Thanksgiving. They could not could buy turkeys there for some reason, so we brought one along in a cooler. It turned out to be a very agreeable traveling companion, and a very tasty meal.

My second turkey story is another overseas story. One of our last Thanksgivings in Prague, we decided we would make a traditional holiday meal for our little family. As you might imagine, it is not easy to find your typical Thanksgiving fixings in a central European city. However, I had caught word in the expatriate rumor mill that they were selling fresh turkeys at the local Tesco store. So off I went, boys in tow, to buy us a turkey. When I arrived, I couldn't see any fresh turkeys at all behind the meat counter, so I approached the counter and asked after one. I already knew the Czech word for turkey - or rather the words for turkey. If it's a male bird, it's krocan. If it's female, it's kruta. I didn't really think it mattered, until the butcher asked me which one of those I wanted.

At this, I was completely flummoxed. Ummm, did it matter? And if it did matter, which one did I want? I might at first thought assume that a male bird might be tougher, and a female bird perhaps...plumper, but I wasn't really sure. Some females can be pretty tough, and of course males can be...plump.

Well, in the end it didn't really matter, because he didn't have any fresh ones that day anyway, and wouldn't have any more until after the holiday. He directed me to the frozen fowl section instead.

There I found an assortment of frozen birds, but they all seemed rather small. I'm had my desired kilogram range all figured out ahead of time, but none of those scrawny birds were making the cut. As a result, I decided I would just get two small birds, and then we would surely have enough.

Ahhh, the joys of living where you have to use another language. When I got home, the Official Turkey Preparer (Jason) was aghast to discover what it was that I had actually bought. Yes, it turkey, but I had missed that one little Czech word - pulka. Pulka means "half" in Czech, which means that I had bought two halves of turkeys. Presumably from two different birds, although I'm not sure what that mattered. I can tell you that Official Turkey Preparer was truly all aflutter over this development - something about keeping the bird moist while cooking and all.

Well, I thought about the problem for a bit, and then decided that surely we could make the best of what we had. So I just placed the halves side by side in a big pan and pulled their skin up and together. Then I did my best to "sew" them together using toothpicks. I would stick the toothpick through the two layers of skin and then out again, like you would pin fabric together. Come to think of it, I don't know why I didn't just use safety pins, or even sew them together with some white embroidery floss. I'm not sure it would have made a difference.

Well, the turkey turned out just fine, and after hours of preparation and general turkey angst, the boys finished their fancy holiday meal in about 8.9 minutes. I'm sure, however, that the turkey wasn't as moist and delicious as Jason might have hoped. It just goes to prove that just as two wrongs don't make a right, two turkey halves don't make a full bird.

Read more...

Skunk Stories

I don't know if you know this, but my in-laws are some sort of skunk magnets. Alas, this is true. I'm not sure what it is, but skunks love their house.

It all started about 10 years ago on a cold, winter night. Carol and Larry were going about their regular activities at home when the heater furnace came on. In that same moment, the house was engulfed with skunk smell. Not just your regular, "Hmmm, I think there might be a skunk in our neighborhood" smell, but rather a "Take cover!" kind of smell. It was as if an army of little skunks stealthily made their way to every air vent in the house and (at the secret signal) all lifted their tails and sprayed all at once. It was as if the very air they breathed had immediately been replaced by skunk fumes. It was - well, you get the idea - it was bad.

Their first reaction of course was to flee the premises. They spent that night (and the next seven) living somewhere else. During this time, they tried everything they and anyone else could think of to remove the smell. They tried the "air/wash the smell out" approach. They kept the windows and doors open (in February). They washed every single piece of washable clothing they owned, and sent every non-washable piece to the dry cleaners.

They tried the "masking/odor killing" approach, which beside the expected over-the-counter odor spray, included burning candles, setting out dishes of vanilla, and lighting cedar branches in black skillets.

Finally, they resorted to the "clean the air with technology" methods. They rented ozone machines and ran them for days. These machines reportedly change the molecular structure of the air, and thus get rid of the smell. For health reasons, they couldn't be in the house when these machines were running, but of course, they didn't want to be in the house anyway. The downside of these machines (besides the health concerns) is that they leave a black, smoky film on everything plastic in the house. Even plastic items hidden away in drawers were smogged.

When they finally were able to endure living in the house, they still caught whiffs of skunk smell here and there - especially by their back door door when the wind was blowing. Fortunately, it was just whiffage in the weeks after that.

Finally, months later, a crew of termite people were inspecting under the house and ended their report by saying, "Hey - did you know that you have a dead skunk under there?" Jason's parents had of course had done some looking under the house before this, but the skunk was hidden in some old duct work that they had not looked in.

As far as they can tell, the skunk had been crawling around under the house when the whooshing of the furnace either toasted him, or sent him straight into a little skunk heart attack. At either of these events, he sent his one last blast up and into the real duct work, where it was carried throughout the house by the moving heater air.

The good news was that once the skunk was gone, the smell was, too.

So, when the whole family was gathered at Carol and Larry's new house a few weeks ago for Great Grandad's birthday party, I thought that when I caught a whiff of skunk smell in the house that it was just some long-forgotten repressed skunk memory coming back to haunt them. However, it was just a day later when someone found the dead skunk under the porch, this time only leaving a (comparatively) minor skunk scent for all to smell. Fortunately, he was easy to locate and easy to remove.

I'm not sure why these skunks like Larry and Carol so much. Perhaps it's like those stories you hear of beggars coming to your door in other countries. If you give them something, they somehow put a secret, hidden mark on the door to show others that you're kind and generous. Perhaps there is some kind of hidden skunk symbol at the Locke house(s) that one of them scratched with his little skunk claws after finding a particularly full pail of garbage outside. But perhaps now in the light of the recent skunk tragedies, all of the grieving skunk relatives will scratch it off.

I'm sure Larry and Carol hope so.

photo by mariusstrom (Creative Commons License: Attribution, Non-Commercial)
Open on Flickr

Read more...

Married in the Back of a Car

Today is Story Day. We've really had a great opportunity to hear people tell some interesting tales as we sit and visit and get to know them in the past few months. As a result, I have been thinking lately that I should tell some of the more interesting ones here - with any incriminating details left out, of course.

Today, however, I want to tell you a story about Jason's grandfather. A few weeks ago at his 90th birthday party, he was recounting different stories about his life. In the midst of these was the fact that he and Jason's grandmother were married in the back of a car, which seemed to surprise most who were listening.

I suppose being married in a car isn't as interesting as being born in the back of the car, or as eyebrow-raising as being conceived...well, you get the idea. But it is interesting.

It seems that on their wedding day, Granddad Ted picked up Grandma Mary at her family home in Moundsville, West Virginia and they went to the house of a resident preacher to perform the ceremony. No parents, siblings, or friends to stand up for them. Just the two - or, rather, three of them.

Unfortunately, it came to light before the ceremony that Granddad had actually had picked up the marriage license across the river, which was actually in Ohio.

"I can't marry you," the preacher said. "We're in the wrong state." Fortunately, this was West Virginia, which is at its largest a smaller state, and they were right on border, besides. So, Granddad and Grandma piled into the car with the Preacher, and they drove across the bridge until they were in Ohio. They pulled over, and he married them right there.

Then off they went on a honeymoon to Niagara Falls.

I may think about this story the next time I hear of someone planning an elaborate wedding, with lots of bridesmaids and dresses and cakes and thousands of those tiny pastel mints.

Jason's grandparents were married many happy and blessed years. And to think it all started in the back of a car.

Read more...

  © Blogger template Shush by Ourblogtemplates.com 2009

Back to TOP