Spa Lougie

Imagine standing barefoot in the snow, the wind chill is below zero, and your teeth are chattering. The night is crystal clear and every star twinkles like rhinestones on a midnight-blue velvet dress. Orion’s belt slowly rises on the eastern horizon and shades of green brightly undulate in the northern sky. A blast of icy wind sends chills over your body as your breath dissipates in a misty cloud. You take a deep breath and sprint across the snow-covered deck. Bounding into the 102-degree water makes it feel like a boiling pot. You ease into the soup while Walzie sings “Chestnuts Roasting”. That’s a winter Saturday night in our hot tub.
For years, we thought there was something a little bit risqué about getting into a hot tub. That silly idea must have come from watching too many movies. Our first hot tub experience occurred when we visited our friends Ron and Robin who live near Lancaster. They had just built a new, lavish home, complete with a spa, and they invited us to come see it during the Christmas holiday.
The 25 feet high entryway with its crystal chandelier made my jaw drop. We wouldn’t sit in the living room for fear of soiling the white furniture and carpeting. They hustled us hillbillies into the family room where we sat on floor pillows and watched the television that was a big as a Jumbotron. Through the opposite window-wall we noticed it had started to snow.
“Hope you guys brought your bathing suits,” Robin said.
We laughed, thinking she was joking.
“Oh yeah,” Ron added. “There’s nothing like soaking in the hot tub with the snowflakes falling. It’s really beautiful.”
Walzie and I looked at each other like cornered rats. “Uh no,” we said in unison. “We don’t do hot tubs.”
Not one to take no for an answer, Robin quickly ran upstairs and brought us bathing suits. Walzie nearly panicked. I know he was praying for his jungle-rotted feet to fall off. No amount of refusing would deter Ron and Robin.
Ron snapped on the outside lights and we saw the spa on a snow-covered deck about 50 feet from the house.
“We gotta go clear out there?” Walzie balked.
“Come on you two big sissies. You’ll love it.” And Ron took off running towards the spa. Robin, carrying a tray of Margaritas, pushed us from behind.
We were freezing. They laughed at us. We eased into the water. Walzie was embarrassed and they laughed at him. But, it was really relaxing and immediately warmed us. Ron turned on the jets. It massaged Walzie’s back and feet; he actually liked it. It was unbelievable how comfortable it was. We finally relaxed and enjoyed the snow along with the hot bubbles.
“This does wonders for my arthritic knees,” Ron said.
“You think this would help with my aching back?” Walzie questioned with sincere interest.
“Absolutely! After my car accident, the doctor actually prescribed spa therapy,” Robin told us.
Suddenly, the back door of the house flew open and their twelve-year-old son (who was exceptionally large for his age) ran towards us as if he were catching a Hail Mary pass and did a cannonball into the center of the spa - so much for keeping my hairdo dry.
A few months later, we were sitting in our own hot tub spa on the deck behind our house.
And so our friends, Robbie and Brenda, came over to marvel at our new purchase. We were a little reluctant to let others into our spa, but with a little coaxing, I finally caved in. Walzie’s mind was set; there was no way he was getting into a tub of water with anyone who was not his wife or grandchild. So Robbie, Brenda, and I eased into the spa. We chatted, laughed, and enjoyed the jets that by now were sucking all the soap powder out of our friends’ clothing and creating quite a frothy head in the water.
All of a sudden, Brenda sneezed. I saw something shoot from her mouth and I thought, “Oh geez, my friend hocked a lougie in my tub!” I was horrified.
“Brenda,” I shouted. “Did you blow snot in my spa?”
“Nuh uh,” she mumbled through her fingers. “That was my false teeth.” Poor Brenda was mortified.
“No problem,” offered Robbie. “I’ll get them.” He dove like Shamu to the bottom of the frothy little ocean and water sloshed over the edges and splattered the deck. Shortly, Robbie emerged brandishing his wife’s teeth like a prized seashell.
Walzie, who had been watching the whole incident from behind the glass sliding door, was rolling on the floor with laughter.
We finally decided that our spa was not for recreational use, but only for medicinal purposes. It takes away all our aches and warms our toes on those cold winter nights.
And, oh yeah, I guess Santa will be bringing Brenda some Polygrip next Christmas.

WD-40

Bees – now there’s a real love/hate relationship. We love the honey but hate the sting. Sounds a little like life, doesn’t it? Don’t you just hate it when you pick up your soda can and a bee has slobbered all over the rim?
The other day my grandson, Rhett, asked, “Granny, why did God invent bees?”
So I gave him the old “pollination” speech and assured him that God had a good reason for inventing them. Oh yeah, I included honey, too.
“Okay,” he said. “So why did he have to give them stingers?”
Then he got the “protection” speech.
“Oh, I get it now. So that’s why they stung Grampy when he burned their nest.”
That brings us to the gist of this story.
Walzie is a bee arsonist. He got that from his dad, John. One day when our friends from Texas were visiting, their daughter Staci was playing tag with our boys. Staci brushed against one of the cedar trees in the front yard and suddenly, she began to scream. Yellow Jackets swarmed nearby and one of them got Staci on the cheek. Walzie found the nest hidden deep within the thick foliage of the tree. John quickly volunteered to dispose of those nasty bees come nightfall.
Darkness came and so did Johnny the Conqueror, armed with a can of WD40 and a cigarette lighter which when combined, makes a super duper flamethrower. He told Walzie to slowly separate the branches and expose the nest. Now I know I saw this once in a cartoon; it may have been the coyote and the road runner, but the flames shot out and all that was left was a smoldering snag.
“Holy cow, dad,” Walzie shouted. “Ya’ burned up my tree.”
“So? Got rid of them bees didn’t I?” John said proudly.
Couldn’t argue with that.
Our next encounter with bees happened a few years later as Walzie was moving some landscaping ties around the back yard. He lifted one that had been embedded in the dirt for quite some time. All at once, his sweat pants were covered in undulating black and yellow. He dropped the tie with a thud and ran for the house, screaming all the way.
“Get the WD40,” he shouted. “I’m getting stung.”
He dropped his drawers in the back yard, sprayed the WD40, and lit it – poof – no more sweat pants, no more bees. Except for those still clinging to his … ahem!
“Here,” I offered. “Gimme that flamethrower, I’ll get ‘em.”
“Are you nuts?” he cringed. “Just get the hose and squirt them off. And hurry!”
Then just last week, he came through the house carrying a can of gasoline and a long pole with a rag wrapped around the end. (He was out of WD40.) I knew he was on a bee barbeque mission. We marched across the yard to the mower storage shed. Under the metal ramp was a huge hornet’s nest. Walzie soaked the rag-wrapped pole with gas, lit it, and shoved it under the ramp. Flames shot from under it and licked the end of the shed. I thought sure he was going to burn it down. All of a sudden, Walzie threw the burning stick in the air, ripped off his shirt, and shouted, “Yeow! Gettin’ stung! Gettin’ stung!”
He swatted and I ran. No way was I going to stick around for the massacre. Uh, three weeks later there were still bees under that ramp.
A few days ago, our neighbor, Jody called and asked for the services of the “Critter Gitter”. Seems as though they’ve been hearing a strange buzzing sound coming from inside their kitchen wall, and bees have been seen crawling inside the windows.
Walzie said, “I’ll be right there. You got any WD40? If not I can use gasoline.”
“For what?” Jody asked suspiciously.
“I’m gonna burn those bees,” Walzie informed her.
Jody’s face turned pale. “What if you burn my house down?”
“Don’t worry, Jody,” I piped up. “I have a direct line to the fire department.”
The very next day we saw the exterminator parked in their driveway. I guess that was for the best, gasoline is priced to high anyway!

One-legged Deer Hunter

On the first day of buck season there was a steady, miserable drizzle. The fog hung so heavily over the valley that from the tree stand placed high on the bluff, it looked like gray cotton balls soft enough to leap into. Don shrugged his collar higher around his neck and shook the rain from his orange cap. Nobody in their right mind (human or deer) should be out wandering in this nasty weather. This was one lousy opening day.
Boredom set in. Don lit a cigarette and shifted back and forth from his real leg to his prosthetic leg. Who the heck cared? He could smoke and dance all he wanted to, there were no doggone deer to be seen for miles anyway. He wondered how many deer his brother, Walzie, was seeing across the adjacent field – probably none. No shots fired.
Whatever made him glance up, he didn’t know; but the slightest glimpse of movement sent his heart to pounding. With its head down low, the biggest rack buck Don had ever seen was silently sneaking through the brush about 75 yards in front of him. Slowly, he shouldered his rifle. Unnoticed, the rifle butt crushed the cigarette dangling from his mouth. He watched the buck through the scope. It was a beauty. Don drew a deep breath; the buck’s shoulder entered the crosshairs; BAM! The deer dropped in its tracks.
Every experienced hunter knows to sit tight for a few minutes and let the animal lay before approaching it. Don shivered. Was that the excitement of the kill or just plain cold wetness? Whichever, didn’t matter, his “real” foot was falling asleep; he needed to move. Leaving his rifle and fanny pack in the tree stand, he carefully picked his way down the ladder, slipping now and then on his “wooden” leg. Finally, he shuffled toward the downed deer. He couldn’t see the bullet’s entry wound, but the deer looked dead alright. He picked up its head, proudly counted each of the ten points, and whistled at the rack on that bad boy. Old Walzie’s gonna eat his heart out with jealousy!
He dropped the deer’s head with a thud and went back to the tree stand to get his gun and fanny pack that had the gutting knife. That’s when he heard a snort. Quickly he turned. The ten-point was trotting away like nobody’s business.
At the top of the rise that dropped into the fog-shrouded valley below, Don saw the deer disappear over the edge. That rotten bugger knew where he was going – down the side of the mountain into the fog. Well, yes sir, two can play this game.
Don grabbed his rifle, leaped over the rise, and bounded down the mountainside chasing after the deer. He could see it meandering along the trail just ahead of him. Suddenly, his boot caught on a root and he fell forward. With a pop, the suction let loose that held the wooden leg onto his thigh. Ever heard the saying, “busy as a one legged man in a butt kicking contest”? That’s exactly how busy Don was trying to keep upright on that steep Billy-goat trail. He hobbled, wobbled, and then tumbled down the mountainside like a tractor tire with a lopsided blow-out. The entire road that skirts the Little Juniata is usually a dry cinder path, except for one sloppy mud hole that Don found to be mighty cold and deep.
As he wiped the mud from his eyes, he realized the buck was standing just fifty yards ahead of him on the road. (Probably laughing like a Tickle-me Elmo.) He leaped to his one leg, stood stork-like, and aimed. Ever try to balance on one leg and shoot a rifle? Not a good idea. The crosshairs seemed to be weaving in wide circles. Don shot.
When he picked himself back up out of the puddle, the deer was gone and so was what little adrenalin he had left. Now he had to crawl like a drenched, one-legged mountain goat back up that ungodly steep hill to retrieve his leg.
Suddenly, Don heard a whistle. At the top of the hill stood Walzie waving his brother’s long lost leg.
“Hey, brother,” he shouted. “Lose something?”
“Shoot! Bring my leg here, would ya’?”
Walzie joined his brother on the side of the mountain. As Don put himself back together he told Walzie the big buck story.
“Yeah, right,” Walzie chided. “Sounds like a redneck story to me. Let’s go home for supper. Venison steak was going to be my choice … hope you like fried grease, dead-eye!”

We Love Camping, uh huh!

The lightening flashed. It looked eerie through the tent, and my heart pounded. Lying on my cot, I reached across to Walzie who seemed restless. Our kids were safe inside mom and dad’s camper, but we had chosen to brave this camping trip in our own cozy tent. It was cozy all right, only five feet square and barely big enough for two aluminum cots to fit side by side. I fit fine; I’m only five feet tall, but poor Mr. Six-footer had problems. As he flipped from side to side with his knees to his chest, he groaned something about rainy camping trips with tiny tents really sucked.
He vowed that after spending a year in the mud and muck of monsoon season in Vietnam, he would never spend another night camping in the rain. Well, heck, I’m no meteorologist; how was I to know that a rainstorm would hit Lewisburg, PA the night we decided to use that new tent.
So he rolled and tossed, I listened to the buzzing of mosquitoes that the rain had driven inside our little romantic abode. With each lightening flash, I zeroed in on ‘skeeters the size of Manhattan, smashing them against the side of the tent.
Walzie mumbled something about not touching the tent walls. Too late, it began to leak like a sieve. The steady plink, plink right on Walzie’s head brought him up like a bad weed.
“What the heck did you do?” he shouted at me. “Did you touch the tent?”
“Uh, sort of,” I tried to explain. “I was killing ‘skeeters. Maybe we should go sleep in mom and dad’s camper.”
“No way, little missey. This was your idea. We are staying right here. Maybe if you get your butt good and soaked, you’ll think before you decide that we need to go tenting. I told you we needed a camper of our own – but, noooo. We can’t afford one you said. Let’s buy a tent. It’ll be fun. Yeah, right. Now, roll over and go to sleep and don’t bug me! ”
So we weathered the storm inside that leaking tent. Next morning we were sopping wet and up to our knees in mud. Oh, yeah – that was fun.
So we didn’t do anymore camping, at least until a few years later. We finally bought a brand new Ford pickup and I talked Walzie into buying a camper to haul in the bed. Now, this will be so cool.
We followed mom and dad back to Lewisburg where we camped along the Susquehanna. We did some fishing and the boys swam and the day was winding down into a nice cool summer evening. Dad built a campfire and mom readied the weenies. Walzie whittled points on some sticks, and we were nearly ready for the big weenie roast.
I thought it was getting a little too cool, so I went inside our camper to get a sweatshirt. It felt a little chilly inside, so I lit the gas heater and adjusted it just high enough to take the chill away.
As we sat around the campfire, toasting weenies and telling stories, my mom said, “Look how nice the fire reflects on the side of your camper. It makes it look like such a pretty orange color.”
Walzie glanced up and horror filled his eyes. “Refection, my @$$. Our camper’s on fire!”
He ripped the back door open and black smoke billowed like a thunderstorm cloud. Flames singed his eyelashes. Mom rushed into their camper and literally tore their fire extinguisher from the wall (brackets and paneling, too). She tossed it to Walzie and he sprayed it inside our camper. The fire was out.
The worst of the fire was contained to the area of the gas heater. It looked as though when I stepped from the camper earlier, it jostled the plastic paper towel rack and it fell against the heater that ignited the paper towels. The fire climbed up the wall and devoured the mattress in the cab over bunk. Walzie was a little miffed … okay, a lot miffed.
Mom and dad took the boys to sleep in their camper and offered us the tent they keep folded up in the closet just in case of emergencies. I thought this constituted an emergency, but Walzie refused. Guess he and tents don’t fare too well. He insisted that we sleep in the burned out camper.
We put down the table and arranged the soot-covered cushions into a bed. It smelled like the charred remains of the city dump and every place you touched, made you look as if you were bathed in charcoal. We scrunched ourselves into the tiny space that would have been the kid’s bed. Mrs. Five-foot was comfortable; Mr. Six-footer was knees to chest and frowning – again.
Next morning we emerged looking like coalminers. Walzie looked me in the eye and said sarcastically, “Isn’t camping fun?”
So we got camping out of our systems back in the mid-seventies. Although, just last week, I saw the fright creep back into Walzie’s eyes when I asked him if he wanted to go to the RV show in Harrisburg.
Shucks, camping has changed since the seventies – hasn’t it?

The Cowpuncher

Walzie is a true-blue cowpuncher. Not only because as a kid he idolized Roy Rogers and Gene Autry, but also because he could throw a punch like Mike Tyson and knockout a cow. No, I am not kidding. She wasn’t just a teeny-weeny heifer either – a big twelve hundred pound milking cow. Let me elaborate.
He spent a few years working on a dairy farm in Warriors Mark. Walzie was a young scrapper full of spit and vinegar, and he spent many long hard hours baling hay, tossing hundred pound feed sacks, pulling calves (for you city-folks, that’s when the mother cow cannot birth the calf and someone has to go in and pull the calf out), and all those miscellaneous heavy-duty farming jobs. He was as strong as an ox and proud of it. (All that strength has since gone to his butt. It comes in handy now for holding down his wild bucking-bronco of a Lazy Boy.)
I hate to point out this fact to you animal activists, but when a cow has outlived her usefulness as a milker, she’s sent off to become hamburger. Walzie’s job was to round up old Bessie and herd her into the holding pen to wait for the slaughter truck. (The holding pen is an area where the herd of cows stands as they wait to enter the parlor at milking time.) Do you know what is left on the concrete floor after a hundred cows stand there for two hours? Well, it ain’t pretty, its ankle deep, and smells pretty funky.
So Walzie and Bessie sloshed through the muck and he closed the gate behind her. He left the cow to mill around the pen until the truck came, and then he went inside the milk house to wash up the dairy equipment.
Finally, the truck from Louie Kline’s Meat Shop pulled in and backed up to the loading ramp. Walzie began to shush Bessie toward the truck. Bessie must have known where this little bon voyage party was heading because she balked and ran to the back of the holding pen. Walzie ran behind her, slipping and sliding in the “you know what”, waving his arms to guide her in the right direction. Bessie ran from him, but suddenly she skidded to a stop. Bessie spun around and stared straight at Walzie. He was standing in the opening to the manure pit. (That’s where the farmer scrapes the “you know what” from the floor and stores it for use as fertilizer later.) Bessie dropped her head and charged Walzie like a bull. She was coming fast. Walzie didn’t have time to think. If they both tumbled into the pit, neither one would come out smelling like a rose, if indeed they came out at all. He let his fist fly and caught her flat on the cheek. It cracked like a 30.06 rifle shot. Bessie went down as if hit by a ten pound sledgehammer – knocked out cold.
Walzie shook out his fist, stretched his fingers, and went for the tractor. They pushed poor old unconscious Bessie onto the truck and away she finally went.
Later Walzie went to unload a tandem truckload of hay into the barn. He noticed his fingers tingling, but didn’t think much about it. Later that night he awoke to a throbbing hand that looked like it belonged to a Sasquatch. His middle knuckle was shoved two inches closer to his wrist and twice the size as normal. Mr. Tough Guy never did get it fixed; he’s still got a nasty-looking knuckle, but he learned not to go around punching cows anymore.
Twenty years later, we were at a picnic in Claysburg with some friends. We were introduced to our friend’s uncle. She told him that we were from Warriors Mark.
“Oh I used to haul cows from down that way,” Uncle Jim said. “I remember a fellow from there that punched a cow. Really! Knocked her out flat. It was the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve been telling that story all over the county for the past twenty years or so. I’ll never forget it.”
Walzie and I looked at each other and laughed.
“Yep,” Walzie said proudly showing his nasty knuckle to Uncle Jim. “That fellow was me.”
One never knows what strange tales may follow you forever. Watch your step, it’s a small, small world, and I wouldn’t go around punching any cows if I were you.

Walzie & the Squirrel

What does a hammer, a squirrel, and Walzie have in common? That’s easy: new floor tiles. I know what you are thinking, “she really has lost her mind,” right? Not so. Just listen to this one.
While sitting in “my” TV room last fall, watching the Steelers fumble once and get intercepted twice, I could hear a chewing sound coming from somewhere in the house that was louder than the groans of the Steelers’ fans (including myself).
So I shouted to Walzie who was sitting in “his” TV room, “Hey, what the heck are you eating? Quit chewing so loud, I can’t even hear the referee’s calls.”
He shouted back, “You’re nuts, I’m not even eating anything.”
“Yeah right,” I thought. He who sits in his recliner beside a whole stash of junk food that he claims is for the grandkids. “Well, then come here to my room. Listen to this crazy noise.”
Walzie grumbled and sauntered into my TV room. He flopped on the couch and started to shout coaching instructions to Mike Tomlin, when suddenly, he stopped mid-sentence. “What was that? Turn your TV down. Listen.”
It sounded as if a beaver was gnawing the floor joists under the house. Walzie kneeled and put his ear to the floor like he was scouting for buffalo. The sound was coming from right under the living room floor. He pounded his fist on the carpeting and the chewing stopped. “Ha, that scared the little varmint away,” he announced proudly.
No sooner had Walzie settled back on the couch, the chewing started again. This time, Walzie stomped with his heels. I swear he looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy doing the River Dance. I just wanted to poke his belly and see if he’d giggle.
“I guess this is going to take some heavy artillery,” he informed me as he went to the garage. He returned with a hammer. Hope the critter under the house had ear-plugs. Walzie dropped to his knees and began pounding the floor. Every few minutes, he’d give it a break and listen quietly. Only Walzie’s heavy breathing filled the room.
“Hey, I think it moved to the kitchen,” I shouted.
Yep, the little bugger moved away from the pounding noise and began to chew our kitchen floor joists. Walzie shuffled on hands and knees onto the kitchen floor. Pound, pound, pound! The critter moved left, Walzie pounded left. The critter moved right, Walzie pounded right. Sweat formed a “V” on the back of his shirt and his carpenter’s crack grew more exposed as his shuffling pulled at his sweatpants. “Don’t worry, Hon, I’ll chase him outta here,” he informed me.
I finally turned on the overhead lights. Do you realize what my kitchen floor looked like? Yep, like an elephant on stilts had danced the Rumba on the linoleum. There were a million 1” round hammer divots in it. But know what? The chewing sound had stopped.
A week or so later, as we were laying our new kitchen floor, I was cutting a tile to fit around the heat register when suddenly, the odor hit me like a ten-pound hammer. Ever smelled road-kill on a hot summer’s day? Yep, I mean like hot, exploded groundhog stinky.
“Walzie, you’ve got to crawl under the house and find that critter,” I gagged.
Reluctantly, Walzie shrugged on his coveralls, grabbed his flashlight, and slithered into the crawl space. I could hear him bumping and banging and muttering. Finally, he emerged dragging the remains of our little chewer. Heck, there wasn’t even enough meat left for a good squirrel potpie.
So as Walzie and I sit at our breakfast table with our bare feet enjoying the smoothness of that new kitchen floor, we watch the cute little squirrels scamper around the back yard. But if they know what’s good for them, they’ll keep their distance from the house. A .22 has replaced Walzie’s hammer and after all, squirrel potpie is yummy.

Grace & the Horse

At the end of every movie, Roy and Dale sang “Happy Trails to you” and rode off into the sunset on Trigger and Buttermilk. Remember that? The year was 1943 and the cost of those movies was five cents. Imagine that!
Bob was a seventeen-year-old scrapper full of spit and vinegar and a real smooth cookie with the ladies. Oh yes, there were several: like the twins next door who would give him a peek at their bloomers for twenty-five cents, and Evie, the preacher’s daughter who scared him off when she chanted in spiritual reverie and tried her darnedest to save his ornery soul. But he had been romancing Grace for a few months now; she was a city gal all the way from Altoona. Sometimes he picked her up in his older brother, Ken’s, car, but ever since he and Ab sideswiped a tree and tore the door off of it, Ken wouldn’t let them use his car anymore. So on this Saturday afternoon date, Grace arrived by streetcar.
Bob met her at the streetcar stop near the Grazierville bridge. She was a heavenly vision in jodhpurs, helmet, and riding boots. If this had been twenty years into the future, he would have thought Jackie Kennedy was in those pants. Hand in hand they walked to Hunter’s for an afternoon of horseback riding ($1 per hour) and maybe some hanky-panky in the hay field (priceless), if Bob could convince Grace that he had nothing more than gentlemanly intensions.
From the way Grace was dressed, Bob was certain that she was an experienced horsewoman, so he saddled her the big Tennessee Walker named Hank. He cupped his hands, Grace stepped in, and he hoisted her into the saddle. Her leg brushed his face; her fragrance was intoxicating. Bob sighed deeply and then saddled up Fish, the white gelding, for himself.
As they walked at an easy pace down the trail from Hunter’s barn, they heard Mr. Hunter shout, “Don’t you run those animals. I don’t wanna see them come back here all lathered up and such. You hear me, boy?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bob waved as he smiled into Grace’s eyes.
As soon as they rounded the bend and were out of Mr. Hunter’s sight, Bob urged Fish into a trot. The Walker responded likewise. Grace easily posted in the stirrups. (For those not too horse savvy, posting is to bounce up and down in rhythm with a horse’s trotting gate.) Hank pulled ahead of Fish, and the view from the rear was a pretty sweet treat to Bob’s eyes; he could watch her post all day.
Suddenly, Hank broke into a lope and then even more surprising, into a full-fledged, flat-out gallop. Grace screamed, dropped the reins, and gripped the saddle. Bob knew just what to do. After all, he had seen Roy rescue many a damsel in distress from a runaway horse. He spurred Fish onward. As the two horses came side by side, Bob reached out and grasped Grace by the waist. He pulled her off of Hank, but somehow it didn’t work like in the movies. She crashed so hard into Bob that she knocked him right off his horse, too. They went tumbling head over heels into the brush alongside the road as the riderless horses galloped off into the sunset.
The two of them lay along the roadside, stunned and breathless. Bob moaned and rolled toward Grace. His heart was pounding. What if she’s hurt really bad? How come Roy Rogers did it so easily? Dale never got mad, did she? Surely Grace won’t be mad. Bob had probably just saved her life.
“Are you okay?” he asked, gingerly.
“What the #@%% were you thinking?” Grace spat. “You could’a killed me. Just look at my new riding pants, they’re all torn. My ankle hurts. I think you sprained my ankle. Is my lip bleeding? I hope you’re happy. Putting me on a wild animal like that …” She rambled on and on and on … and the tears were flowing on and on …
It was a long hike back to the stable, especially with a ranting, raving angry woman. Bob’s shoulder was brush-burned and he limped on a bruised knee, but he still thought Grace was one beautiful little filly. Her fire made her even more attractive.
Well, Grace got over her mad spell and continued to date Bob for another year or so, until he joined the Army and got shipped off to Japan. He and Grace never became and item; it would be my guess that meeting my mom had something to do with that.
A few years after my mom passed, dad told me this story and asked me if I would try to find Grace. (At 82, dad is like a backward teenager, I have to do all the matchmaking.) After a little research, I finally found her. As I told her the story, she was quiet. Finally, she took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t remember. Bob who?”
Well, that took the wind right out of his sails. Perhaps if dad would’ve sung “Happy trails to you”, it may have jogged her eighty-year-old memory and things may have turned out differently.

Glass Doors and Goats

There’s nothing cuter than a baby goat. Well, okay, maybe a baby pig, but that’s another story. Let’s talk goats.
Maybe we don’t have a farm and maybe Walzie’s true name is not Noah, but we’ve crammed nearly every animal imaginable into our two acre ark, including several goats.
When walking through the goat barn at the Huntingdon County Fair, I first noticed how cute baby goats are. Naturally, I wanted one right away and my dear hubby, (who will do nearly anything to keep me happy, bless his little pea pickin’ heart!), quickly said, “Okay, you got it. But let’s get a miniature. It’ll stay tiny and make a really good pet. Shucks, maybe we could even make it a house goat.”
So for several weeks we perused the Bargain Sheet and finally one day, there was the following ad: For Sale, miniature kids, $15. Yahoo, assuming that they didn’t mean tiny children, we’d found our baby. Only thing was, the farm was in Cumberland, MD. Oh what the heck, it was only a four- hour drive (two down, two back), and we really wanted a mini. We sped off on a hot Saturday afternoon.
Following the farmer’s directions, we traveled back a long country lane sided by high weeds and rocky hills. Once in a while we’d see a flash of black and white darting among the weeds or hear a shrill “nnaaahhhh”. At least we knew we were in goat territory. Finally, we reached the farm.
An elderly Amish-looking man greeted us. We paid him the $15 and he instructed us to pick one. There must have been a hundred nannies, kids, and billies roaming in a weed patch. Pick one; yeah, right! Being young and knowing everything, Walzie and I dove in. From the corner of my eye, I saw that Amish man snicker.
We ran and we chased through the brier patch. Goats darted around, over, and even under us. Finally, Walzie was able to pounce on a teeny black baby. Oh, he was a cutie. As I stood there, oohing and aahing, I never heard the snort behind me. Old Billy’s rock-hard forehead connected with my buns. He sent me down the hill like a rolling donut dusted with thorns.
The Amish man asked if we’d like to have our prize catch neutered, “dey make mo’ betta pets dat vay,” he stated. We nodded. He instructed Walzie to hold the little guy by all four feet and bottom up. When I saw the pocket knife, I tightly shut my eyes, cupped my ears, and cringed.
Next thing I knew, the old man spit two grape-like things at my feet. The barn cats came running to scrap over those tiny desserts. I nearly lost my lunch.
“Don’t be squeamish, missie,” he said with a trickle of blood on his lip. “Dat’s the vay the shephard’s do it. More sanitary. Ya see, me teeth dey crimp da blood vessels. Not as messy dat vay.”
The baby goat cried and Walzie hugged him, “Calm down little Billy. That didn’t hurt too much, did it?”
“Ya vant to be next?” the old Amish man asked.
Walzie and I and our new baby got the heck out of there.
And so the little goat thrived in our back yard. You know they say that goats will eat anything – not so. This guy only ate flowers, shrubs, garden plants, and the bark off our trees. As the months flew by, Billy grew, and grew, and grew. He was no longer a mini-goat. He ended up being a full-sized goat with 6 inch horns and an attitude like a bull in a China shop. Do you think this may have had something to do with the neutering?
Billy absolutely hated our kids (the human ones, of course), our hound dogs, cows, his pen, weeds, squirrels, even Walzie and me. Billy would just as soon butt it as look at it.
On our back deck we have a glass sliding door. I’ll bet you can guess where I’m going with this. Our son, Jason, was about twelve years old; his job was to feed Billy. But Billy didn’t care if Jason was hand that fed him or not. I heard Jason scream and then the glass door slam shut. Suddenly, there was the shatter heard ‘round the world, and Billy stood in our kitchen! Jason was locked in his bedroom shouting, “shoot that sucker!”
And thus, our sweet little mini-goat that grew into a split-hoofed Tasmanian Devil went on a little trip to the Belleville Auction. I’ll bet that tough ol’ boy was like baked shoe leather on someone’s dinner table.
As time passed by, we forgot the terrible saga of that goat and bought several more goats, sheep, cows, chickens, ducks, horses, pigs … keep it up, Noah, we’ll soon need to build that ark.

Double Trouble

Bob was nearly frozen. It was still dark on this January morning in 1949 and even the thermometer’s mercury was frozen way below zero. He lit a cigarette and tried to inhale, but the bitter air stung his throat; even his nostril hairs were iced. Why the heck was he lying in a snow bank outside his twin brother’s house at four in the morning? What could be so critical and secretive that he‘d be willing to risk freezing off his talleywacker? Well … that’s what got him into trouble in the first place so he may as well just let that sucker freeze off. He was certain that at this point in time, that would make the wife very happy. Oh yeah, she was angry … very, very angry. He and his brother had to get their stories straight; after all, the newspaper didn’t fully explain. Explain what? Read on, you’ll understand.
Both men were good men, but still baaaad little boys. Somewhere deep within (probably below their waists) grew a few wild seeds that still begged to be sewn and they knew just where to plant the seeds – on an unnamed avenue in Altoona. Nobody would ever know … or would they?
“Hey, Bobby,” said his twin. “How would you like to go have some fun Friday night?”
“What do you have in mind, Abby?”
“Sammy told me about this house in Altoona where we can … well you know … sow a few oats. Whaddya think?”
“Sure, why not. Let’s get Sammy and check it out.”
So on that cold January night, Bob, Ab, and Sammy motored to Altoona in Bob’s 1938 Dodge coupe. These men were all well versed in romancing the ladies, but to pay a lady, now that was a different thing, not to mention being illegal as all get out. All three were very nervous.
The red light on the porch reflected off of their anxious faces as they knocked on the door. They were greeted by a huge woman who looked like Mike Tyson in drag.
“Yo, boys, you done come to de right place. Dat will be $8 each, please. Now, got to da top o’de stairs,” Miz Tyson told them. “Da ladies will take it from there.”
Awkwardly, they climbed each step. Their hearts thumped. Was it anticipation or fright? Had they known what was to happen … fright would have won! No sooner had each man closed the door with his lady, they heard the whistles. It felt as if the entire house had exploded! Shouting, stumbling, doors slamming, loud shrill whistles blowing … oh no … the Cops!
How cold do you think a holding cell is in January? Especially cold when they figured out that among the three of them they only had enough money left to bail one out. Sammy had a mother with money to burn so Sammy was the chosen one. His job was to go borrow enough money from his mother to bail out the twins. The two left behind could only pray for Sammy’s speedy return. Sammy held the future (and Bob’s car keys) in his hands.
The hands on the clock ticked past: one hour … no Sammy; two hours … no Sammy. Oh why did they depend on that rotten little snake of a Sammy? After all, it was that little snake that conned them into this fiasco. Three hours … Sammy’s here! That little Sammy was the best friend a fellow could have. Not to mention his very understanding mother with money to loan! Finally, they were all freed with bail paid and a long lecture from Altoona’s police chief; homeward bound and nobody would be the wiser.
Oh yeah? That following Monday, as Bob and his wife sat at the breakfast table each reading his and her section of the newspaper, she suddenly dropped the paper.
“Your name is in here … what the heck?” she frowned. “You were in a what? You rotten, little lying … “
“Now, now, honey,” Bob tried to soothe. “It wasn’t like that at all.”
“Oh, really? You’ve got some explaining to do, mister. In fact, I think when you get home from work tonight, we’re going to go ask your brother just what happened. He’ll set this story straight.”
And that brings us back to the snow bank on that icy January morning. One twin could tell a lie and the other would swear that it was the truth; all they had to do was coordinate their stories. Finally, through his misted breath, Bob saw Ab leaving for work. He leaped from the snow bank with his arms waving.
“Abby, we’re in trouble. Our names are in print. What can we do?”
“It was just a poker game that got raided,” Ab suggested. “Sound good?”
“Sounds good to me.”
Although, it’s been many, many years since they went to “play poker” in Altoona, I’d be willing to bet that one twin could tell a story and the other would cooperate it. Yep, they’ve been a team for nearly 84 years and when it comes time to stand before the Pearly Gates … well, I sure hope that God blesses them. After all, aren’t we taught forgiveness?

Bob White

The summer morning mist rises as you rock on your front porch, coffee cup steaming, and listen to the mourning doves softly cooing. Joining with the song of the doves is the distinct whistle of “bob-white, bob-white”. It makes you feel comfortable, safe, and it makes you smile, sort of like a peanut butter fudge ice cream sundae. That’s what I love about life in the country.
Listening to the bobwhite quail makes me think of a story from Walzie’s younger days – way younger, like when he was ten years old. What do the quail, ice cream, and gravity have in common? You are about to find out.
Walzie and his brother escaped from the school bus on that last day of school in 1959. They moseyed up the dirt lane toward the tiny shanty they called home. The lane was dusty and overhung with thick berry bushes and tall pines. The call of the bobwhites and the flutter of their wings told the boys that they were home free for the summer.
Within the brush were several nests and lying in those nests were tiny eggs: eggs that the boys watched with anticipation. Walzie was a sucker for baby animals. He had already raised groundhogs, foxes, squirrels, rabbits, deer, and pigeons. Why not a cute little bobwhite quail?
As the late spring days melted into summer, the boys played under the bushes, hollowing tunnels and crawling all around those nests. The bobwhite parents seemed to accept the boys as just a part of the scenery. When the babies hatched, they had already been accustomed to the boys playing around those nests so they were not afraid.
Mama called for the boys to come in for a mid-afternoon snack; Dad had brought home ice cream. Now, this was a rare occasion and they rushed home. As Walzie reached the front porch he heard a tiny “bob-white” whistle behind him. Following him was a tiny quail. He scooped it into his hands and set the little fellow on the table. (He knew it was a boy by the white feathers around its eyes. Girls have golden feathers.) Immediately, it began to peck at the ice cream. Wow, this was too good to be true – a new pet without the hassle of training, and it liked ice cream! How cool is that? Oh yeah, and what did he name his new buddy? What do you think? Of course, Bob.
Just like birds-of-a-feather, Bob and Walzie flocked together. Everywhere that Walzie went, Bob was on his shoulder. They slept in the same bed, ate at the same table, and traveled to the same outhouse. Although, Bob’s business usually got done on Walzie’s shoulder. So what? Not every kid had a pet quail; Walzie felt special.
For the first few years of Walzie’s childhood, the family kept their food in an icebox. (I swear he lived like it was the Depression instead of the fifties.) Finally, they joined the modern age and got one of those “new-fangled” refrigerators with a built in freezer so ice cream could be kept as a staple not just an occasional treat. Now when Walzie and Bob wanted a snack they could help themselves. Walzie knew when Bob wanted ice cream; that quail would go to the refrigerator and peck at the door. Honest! Then he and Walzie would share a dish of whatever was the flavor of the week.
But then one day dad threw in a surprise. The Acme had a two gallon bucket of cherry vanilla on sale. One would think that two gallons of ice cream would be a pleasant surprise, but I’m afraid it wasn’t. You see, the freezer was not frost free. The two gallon pail sat precariously atop an ice mound. Bob chirped happily at Walzie’s feet and looked upward, wanting his daily ration of ice cream. Walzie opened the door; the ice cream pail slid from the freezer. I suppose one could not expect a tiny bobwhite quail to catch a two gallon pail on his little head and still live to see tomorrow. I wonder what Bob’s thoughts were as that ice cream torpedoed toward him, “Hallelujah, here comes the mother load!”
Had gravity not come between friends, they’d still be enjoying ice cream to this very day. Well, except for the fact that poor Bob would be about 200 years old in bird years and I would be sharing my bed with a dad gum old bird. Come to think of it, I guess I do share my bed with an old bird. He still loves ice cream, and if necessary, he can duck a falling pail faster than a speeding bullet!

Bootlegger Bob

During the Prohibition era there were many famous bootleggers: Al Capone, Lucky Luciano, Bugsy Siegal, even Joseph Kennedy got his start by selling bootleg liquor. It is reported that all these men made $100 million dollars a year by running illegal moonshine. Even Dolittle (Mooney) Lynn supported the coal miner’s daughter by running a little bootleg alcohol before she put them on country music’s map. I once knew a bootlegger who made and sold his own moonshine, although he never became as famous as those previously mentioned or made anywhere near a million dollars. Let’s give him a hypothetical name: Bob – yeah, Bob the Bootlegger! (Actually, he’s my daddy.)
In our Grazierville back yard, we had a small barn. Sometimes it was filled with pigs, sometimes chickens, a few calves, or a pony. But in one corner, behind a mound of hay was dad’s special place. My sister and I never went back there, but we often peeked through the boards. Oh yeah, there were all kinds of tubes and kettles, piles of corn meal and yeast, and bottles galore. What for? Shucks we didn’t know. As long as I had food in my belly and cowboy boots on my scrawny little feet, I didn’t care what was behind that haymow. Besides it looked like someone killed and dismembered the Tin Man in there; too scary for us.
The clear liquid that dripped from that coiled tubing must have been good stuff because we had a steady stream of visitors, some well-dressed business types and a few unsavory characters. Okay, probably more of the unsavory characters than any. Whatever. They were always looking over their shoulders and so was Bob the Bootlegger. I remember the words G-men and Revenuers spoken more than once at my house. Whatever the heck that meant.
There was even a time that one angry woman showed up at our house and chewed on my dad for inebriating her husband. Yeah, like dad poured it down the guy’s throat. He was no longer allowed to sell to that man. Even so, I’d see that man slinking around the bushes and into the barn. Must have been something one hundred proof going on in there.
I clearly remember the day that it all ended; it was the summer of 1960. I was swinging on the swings at the Grazierville School playground. I think Gary DiDomenico was wailing apples at Sherry Myers and me, when we heard the explosion. It sounded as if WWII just broke out in Grazierville. The continuous popping sounds were like machine gun fire. Then I noticed the smoke. Huge billows were rising like thunder clouds above the hill near my house.
“Susie,” Sherry shouted. “I think your house is on fire!”
I leaped on my bicycle and sped to the top of the hill. (Yes, back then I could pedal UP hill. Don’t even suggest I do that now!) I could see down into the back yard. It was not the house, but Dad was frantically tossing buckets of water on the barn. I saw my mom sweating as she madly worked the handle on the well pump.
Suddenly, movement from the bushes behind the burning shed caught my eye. Two little blonde kids ran toward the path in the woods behind our place. They ran right up the pathway and into me. It was my little sister, who was about seven or eight years old at the time, and the neighbor boy.
“Pam,” I shouted. “Were you and Denny in the barn?”
“What barn?” she said innocently. (Like they didn’t know which barn!)
“The barn burning in Sinking Valley, you dumb-head!” I pointed to the twenty-foot high flames.
“Oh, you mean that barn. Nuh uh, not me, we weren’t playing in the hay.”
Denny stood there, nonchalantly scraping the dirt with his foot, “we didn’t have any matches either!”
Well, the fire got so hot that all mom and dad could do was watch it burn.
The next day, all that was left was a pile of smoldering ash. I helped dad comb through the ashes. We found bottles, many of them burst by the heat, boards that were now nothing but charcoal, a few melted scraps of metal tools, pick heads, the end of the pitch fork, and the remnants of the Tin Man. Sadly, that ended our extra income. Did dad ever dream up a new endeavor? What do you think? (tee, hee, hee)
Oh yeah, and leaning against the back of the barn was our iceboat which was now deduced to only the skate runners. Darn it!
And that’s another story!

Cherokee and the Golf Cart

What is it that farmers spread on their fields in the springtime? We all know it’s a necessary evil that smells up the neighborhood. After living in the country for nearly forty years, we’ve pretty much gotten used to it, except when one does a tuck’n’roll in it. Who, you ask, is idiot enough to go wallowing in that stuff, except maybe a dog? I’m afraid Walzie and I both are the idiots. Let me fill in the blanks.
It all started ten years ago when we agreed that our two-year-old grandson needed a pony. Now, think about it. What baby needs a pony? Only two idiots’ grandson. Oh yes, we bought the new saddle, saddle pad, and bridle to go along with this little black and white painted pony. He was and still is a beauty.
That little baby grandson is now twelve years old and interested in World of Warcraft and his Ipod. Pony? What pony? I’ll tell you what pony: that poor lonely, unridden hay burner that hasn’t had a kid on his back in at least six years. He prances around the back yard and whinnies, probably begging someone to hop on and ride like the wind. Walzie tried to get me on Cherokee, but he’s so spirited (the pony, not Walzie) that I know I’d end up eating dirt.
Recently, our phone rang early on a Sunday morning. “Are you the folks that have the black and white pony?” the voice asked. It was the fellow who rents the farmhouse behind us.
“Yes,” I said sleepily.
“Well, he’s standing in the field with the heifers. Would you please come and get him before he chases them through the fence?”
So I shook Walzie awake, he was not happy I might add. So I trudged to the barn and got a can of feed. That gets Cherokee every time. Now most folks have an ATV, a Gator, or a motorcycle for chasing critters. What do we have? Like the snowbird retirees in Florida, Walzie went for his vehicle of choice: the golf cart.
Do we golf? Shoot, no. We camouflaged it with sheets of sticky vinyl and use it as an all-purpose yard work vehicle. In fact, at this point in time, Walzie had a bucket filled with tools, a couple of crowbars, and a sledge hammer sitting on the back. And so we headed off for the freshly fertilized field, me on foot and Walzie on the golf cart. Oh yeah, riding on the seat beside Walzie were our two dogs.
I saw the pony way across the field standing by the heifers. Walzie whistled and I shook the can of horse feed. Cherokee looked up, tossed his tail, and galloped towards us.
“Stay boys,” I heard Walzie say; the dogs obeyed.
The pony got closer. He came to within ten feet of me, and then he skidded to a stop.
I shook some feed into my hand and held it toward the pony. “Come on boy, come and get it.”
Cherokee’s nostrils flared. He snorted, tossed his head, arched his neck, and wheeled around on his back feet. He took off on a dead run. The barking dogs leaped off the buggy, and the chase was on. I began to run after the dogs. Walzie put the pedal to the metal and passed me like I was standing still. Suddenly, the horse quickly turned and charged back toward me. I figured he would stop for the feed. Wrong! With the dogs close on his tail, he thundered right at me. Ever try to run in a plowed, mushy field? Splat! Do you know how natural fertilizer smells when it’s stuffed up your nose? T’ain’t roses, you know.
Then I looked up and saw the golf cart lying on its side. Walzie was up to his ears in poop, too. Suddenly, he jumped up and ran randomly around the field like a chicken with its head cut off. I thought, “What the heck is he doing?” Every now and then, he’d stoop and pick up something.
“What the heck are you doing?” I shouted. “Catch that darn horse!”
“My gosh-darned tools scattered. I gotta find them,” he yelled back. “You catch the horse!”
Meanwhile, Cherokee ran like a wild stallion with two coyotes on its tail. He circled around Walzie and me and then I watched as the dogs herded him straight back toward our fenced-in barnyard. The little bugger dropped to his knees and shimmied under the fence, right back to where he belonged.
As Walzie and I, doused in Ode de Poo-poo perfume, moseyed across the yard on our recently uprighted, poop-covered golf cart, we noticed the two dogs panting innocently on the back porch and the horse standing in his own paddock. He whinnied at us as if to say, “Hey, where were you two? Phew! You stink!”
Anybody want to buy a nice pony?

Mini Stallion

Black Beauty: Halley Berry, Vanessa Williams, or maybe even that “unstoppably” handsome, Denzel. Agreed, they are black beauties, but the black beauty I’m talking about is Corey Romano. Who the heck is Corey Romano, you ask? Corey was muscled up like an ultimate fighter and his long, thick black hair flowed like Polamalu on the fly. Oh, oh, I know … that new rookie linebacker for the Steelers. Wrong! My black beauty was a miniature horse.
My favorite movie as a kid was Black Beauty. I had the book, saw the movie over and over, and dreamed the dream many times. At five years old, dad bought me my first black beauty. Problem was that he bought him in the dead of night in the pouring rain. When daylight came, we realized that this poor pony was an old mine pony with no eyes, hooves curled like a Genie’s slippers, and a swayback so deep that his belly nearly dragged on the ground. I guarantee you that the following year some second grader used that poor pony to paste her crafts together.
Finally, when I was nine, I got Sugarfoot, a real black beauty. Thought I was going to be a trick rider and fell of that pony so many times that dad finally sold her. Who bought her? Walzie’s dad. Now my black beauty belonged to those stupid Walls boys. Back then, I didn’t like Walzie very much because in my mind, he stole my pony.
When I finally grew up (somewhat), I met a mature (somewhat) Walzie and guess what? He was still a horse lover, like me; a match made in cowboy heaven. So throughout our nearly forty year marriage, we’ve had horses. We’ve loved painted ones, black, bay, white, palomino, appaloosa; tall horses, middle sized horses, and ponies of all sizes. But our favorite was the mini.
We called our friends Deb and Mal Romano and they had the cutest mini for sale. Corey looked exactly like the black stallion, except shrunk down. He pranced and arched his neck like the king of the herd. It was love at first sight. Without dickering about the money, we happily dished it out, and Corey came home with us.
Corey was still a stallion, which means that all his man parts were intact; that makes for a very cocky, proud, thinks-he’s-bigger-than-he-is, little snot. And so, one day as Walzie was leading him into the barn, Corey nipped Walzie’s kiester. Without thinking, Walzie backhanded the little snot right in the nose. That horse flopped on his side, shook as if having a seizure, and blacked out. He lay perfectly still. Walzie panicked. He leaped on him and began CPR. (Believe me; he’s not trained in CPR.) Seeing from the window, I ran outside screaming.
“What did you do to my horse? Help him! Do mouth to mouth!”
“I’m not kissing any horse. You do it.”
I dropped to my knees, but thank goodness, suddenly, Corey leaped to his feet, shook himself, and trotted into the barn as if nothing had happened. Walzie vowed that he would never smack a horse in the nose again.
Corey behaved himself for about two weeks. Evidently, Walzie’s behind was too tempting and Corey bit him again. Without thinking, Walzie’s hand struck out, but he caught himself just as his fingertips brushed the horse’s nose. Corey stumbled and backed up, but didn’t fall this time. Whew! We decided that it was time to call the vet and get Corey neutered. That should fix his nasty biting habit.
The vet came, gave the mini a shot, proclaimed him a really big little fellow, snip-snip, and it was over. Corey changed from a rooster to a hen in fifteen minutes. Contentment and passivity filled the pasture, at least for the next few weeks.
The night before we got the call, Walzie and I sat in our spa and talked to the little horse. No, he wasn’t in the spa, the pasture is about twenty feet away from the deck and Corey always came over to the fence and we’d talk to him. But early that next morning, the phone rang.
“You’d better come over here and get your little horse. He’s in my yard,” said our neighbor.
We slipped our sneakers on and marched across the yard, figuring that the little stinker had gotten out during the night and naturally the grass was greener over there. But as we neared him, we knew that our Corey was gone. The neighbor told us that he was awakened about two in the morning by the screech of brakes, a loud thud, and then someone shouting, “Stupid deer!” (Yeah, a little black mini horse looks just like a deer! Right.)
So every time we see a miniature horse, we sigh and think about our little black beauty. Would we ever get another? I say, sure, if it can travel with us in that retirement RV I’ve been fussing about. But knowing Walzie, who hates to travel, I’ll just get the horse.

Doggie Doors Swing Both Ways

Do you have a doggie door or ever think about installing one? Be careful. I admit doggie doors can be handy. There is a lot less groaning to get up off the sofa every ten minutes to let Fido out and then back in two minutes later when he’s done with his business. The only problem is that those doors swing both ways. How do we know? Oh yeah, we got our doggie door education the hard way.
Angel. Isn’t that just the most heavenly name? One can imagine a toy poodle or a little Shih Tzu with such a dainty name. But our “little” Angel was a hundred pound Rottweiler. Strings of drool aside, she ruled the house. I never challenged her for couch position; she’d just wiggle her way across the cushions until I was on the floor and she was sprawled the entire length. She was a very mild tempered lady though; I never heard her growl.
You can imagine how big our doggie door had to be for a hundred-pound Rottie. Even I was able to squeeze through it … the key word here is WAS. You know how it is, what with middle age spread and all. The door worked perfectly for the dog though. Angel could come and go day and night at her leisure.
Living in the country, we never thought much about her leaving the house in the middle of the night. We didn’t really mind when she brought in a possum. He didn’t hurt a thing. I just picked him up by the tail in the morning and tossed his possum-playing little behind out the back door. But the night of the “smell” was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Ever been wakened by the pungent smell of skunk? If it just so happens that one of the little stinkers becomes roadkill, the result is tolerable. Actually, I think it smells rather good; it reminds me of home. Oh, but that’s another story. This awakening was so strong it was sickening. It was close … too close … like in our living room close. Walzie and I both woke with tears in our eyes.
“Ewww,” I cried. “What’s happening?”
“Betcha Angel is outside the bedroom window playing with a skunk,” Walzie surmised.
“Well, get up and shut the window. That smells nasty.”
Walzie peered outside. There was no Angel or skunk to be seen in the moonlight. Then I heard Walzie’s bare feet stomping down the hallway.
“Oh no … no,” he shouted.
I ran to the living room. Catching my breath, I saw perched on the back of the sofa, the biggest black and white fluff-tail I’ve ever seen, and she was cocked, locked, and ready to rock. Surprised by Walzie, the skunk let ‘er fly once again. Walzie dodged the bullet, but Angel got it square in the face. She howled and plowed the carpet, stinking to high heaven.
“Get that thing out of here,” I shouted at Walzie.
Now Walzie is an old critter-gitter from way back. Before any of us took the time to think (including the skunk), Walzie grabbed her by the tail and got that skunk off of her feet. You see, a skunk propels her perfume by hopping on her back feet to build up the momentum; get her feet in the air, and she’s helpless. He carried her out the back door and she disappeared into the night. We tossed Angel outside and locked the doggie door.
The entire house reeked. That $50 doggie door cost us carpeting, a sofa, fumigating, a new wardrobe (which I didn’t really mind), many, many doggie baths, and a new back door sans a doggie-hole.
Angel became an “outside” dog where she can roll in whatever stinky thing she desires.
I warned her, “Play with skunks; lay with skunks!”
Every now and then, when that odor wafts through our bedroom window, we grin and know that Angel is at it again. She’s one happy, stinky puppy … and she lives outside.

Oh, Canada, Eh?

I was shivering. Not just from the Canadian cold, but from the sounds that came from within the brush surrounding me. At first it was the ghostly sound of rustling branches. Was a bear coming? If it was a bear, did I have the courage to actually shoot it? After all, that’s why I was in this god-forsaken wilderness. But then the noise changed from my right to my left. Whatever it was, was circling me. Whatever made me think that I could keep up with the boys? Why would I even want to? I was such an idiot! And now, I was sitting on a bucket in the brush like a piece of cheese on a rattrap.
It all started a few months earlier when Walzie and his two brothers decided to go to Canada to hunt bear. That would have been fine with me, but since Walzie and I are like conjoined twins, he gave me those puppy-dog eyes and I ended up agreeing to be the only sow on this all-boar hunting trip. They found an ad in a hunting magazine for the best bear-hunting outfitter in Canada (hey, that’s what the ad said) and mailed in the deposit for four hunters.
After driving for twelve hours, we found ourselves in the wilds of Quebec. The overgrown roadway into the Bear-4-Sure camp seemed to be a path less traveled and I felt uneasy. What if these people were serial killers that used unsuspecting Americans as bear bait? Walzie said that I watched too many movies.
My guts tightened as we pulled up to our “modern lake-side luxury log lodge”. Yeah, right. It was a two-bedroom, plywood shanty beside a swamp-like pond thick with cat-o-nine tails and scum. Our guides, Hank and Tank, ignored the hordes of buzzing black flies as they came out to greet us. Tank grinned through missing front teeth and Hank said “eh” way too much. The flies nearly drove us crazy.
Between gulps of beer, Hank gave us the low-down on Canadian bear hunting. We had to leave camp at two o’clock in the afternoon and ride twenty miles through thick forestland. Each of us would be dropped off at bait piles five miles apart, which meant that each of us would be alone in the wilderness with only a gun and a bucket of fish guts provided by Hank and Tank. Oh yeah, I was thrilled to death.
So the guys dropped me off first. Walzie walked me down to a clearing where he dumped my bucket of bait and banged the bucket with a rock just like Tank had instructed. That was supposed to be the bear’s dinner bell. Then he seated me on the bucket behind a bush with his loaded 30.06 on my lap. As Walzie left, I felt as if “nervous redhead” was on the menu.
The sound of the pickup faded and silence dropped around me like a heavy blanket. It was so quiet that I could hear the blood rushing through my ears. There was no wind, no rustling of leaves, no crickets, no nothing - only my heavy breathing. Suddenly, an airplane-like shadow crossed the bait pile. I looked up. Buzzards circled overhead. Were they there for the bait or waiting for me? I didn’t think I should sit still for too long.
Several hours passed. I was drowsy, bored, and now the sound of my tummy growling pierced the silence. The loud crackle of the Hershey bar wrapper would surely keep any threatening critters at a distance. That done; now what? I wasn’t scheduled for pick up until 9 PM. A nap would be good.
I awoke with a start. Did I snore or was that a growl? My heart raced. I heard a twig snap. My eyes darted from side to side; suddenly, a dark form quickly passed to my right, then to my left. I heard it again. Yes, it was definitely growls. I pulled up the rifle. Whatever crossed that scope was getting it. Momentarily, the scope went dark. I jerked the trigger. The 30.06 knocked me off the bucket and onto my can. As the shot’s echo settled into silence again, the growls were gone.
I wasn’t waiting for the 9 PM signal horn from the pickup. I gathered my gun, left the dadgum bucket, and high-tailed it for the logging road. Whatever was in that brush would have to fight the buzzards for the stupid fish guts; I was outta there.
Shortly, a pickup appeared through the dusky twilight. I was still running like a moose in the headlights.
“Hey, little missy, shot a bear, eh?” slurred Tank as he hoisted me into the back of the pickup.
“Did you shoot?” asked Walzie.
“I don’t know what I did,” I labored breathlessly. “Just get me the heck out of here.”
As we were driving away, I looked back up the trail. A pack of wolves sprinted across the roadway.
“Did you see that,” I screamed.
“What?”
“Wolves!”
“Wolves, eh?” grinned Hank dubiously. “Those bad boys could make a meal of you little missy, eh?”
That was the end of my Canadian bear hunting. The rest of the trip, I stayed safe in our luxurious log cabin with the mice, roaches, and black flies. At least I’m farther up the food chain than they are. Eh?

Introduction

Hello,
I'm Suzi Walls. I’ve always looked at life through those proverbial rose-colored glasses (although, every now and then, they have become smudged). As the years flew by, I related each stage of my life to colors. If life were a box of crayons, this would describe mine: I started out as a rosy color, then went through a peachy-blush stage, developed into a brilliant fiery red, and have now warmed into a burnt cinnamon color. Being somewhat of a tomboy, pink was never in my crayon box. Thus, the name of my blog: Life's Coloring Book.
Have you ever been chased through the forest by wolves? Has a black bear looked through your window? Do you think the boardwalk at the ocean is a likely place to be accosted by a gorilla? Bet you’ve never had your throat slit – and survived to tell the tale. Do you know just how badly it hurts when bitten by the love monkey? This is just a smidgeon of the adventures shared by my family and me. Life’s Coloring Book will take you from your chair to unbelievable adventures. It’s true.
Life’s Coloring Book is a collection of 85 stories and poems most have which have been printed in the Tyrone, Pennsylvania Daily Herald. I have even included a few stories that are a little too risqué to be printed in a small town newspaper. All of the stories have been inspired by true-life experiences that I’d love to share with you. Some are personal and some involve friends and family. (Many of the names have been changed to protect the guilty.) Some tantalizing tidbits revolve around my husband, Walzie, and our grandkids. My ornery octogenarian father is another of the culprits that has exposed himself (not literally…please) for your entertainment. Many of the stories are humorous, some are heartwarming, and a few are very sad; but all are colorful.
All the cartoons scattered throughout were drawn by my friend from our Tyrone High School Class of’1966, Joe Ieraci.
I hope you’ll enjoy these stories and cartoons as much as I’ve enjoyed writing them.
Please come back to my blog each week for another tale from Life's Coloring Book.