A pre-election prediction

I took in the all candidates meeting out in Hooterville the other night and it was predictable to say the least. Obama and McCain were at their best…. Whoops, sorry… wrong election.

The candidates visiting the Drizzle Creek District were arrayed across the front like a bunch of convicted terrorists awaiting the firing squad.

The assassins were scattered throughout the audience trying to get their jabs in at the victims they didn’t support, while deflecting criticism from their own favourite. Bombast and hyperbole was rampant. Even the candidates were slinging a bit of mud.

All in all, we didn’t learn much and no one changed their minds. It seems to be the status quo. But someone must be changing their allegiance; otherwise what would be the point of having an election. Well, I’ve got it figured out. A sure fire poll, I reckon is accurate. Here is how I stumbled on it.

I started listening to women. My wife the Pearl of the Orient says it isn’t true. She claims I haven’t listened to her more than once or twice in nearly forty years of wedded bliss. I had to explain it was other women I was listening to- eavesdropping actually. Husbands and wives aren’t supposed to listen to each other.

I started picking up these tidbits while waiting at the checkout, picking up the mail, paying my Stupid Tax at the 649 counter, or offering refills to the ladies crowding the front table at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek. I started keeping track.

“Did you see that hunky John RiffRaff outside the post office this morning,” gushed one lady of maturing years.

“My yes! Those flowing locks of glistening silver. I’d sure like to run my fingers through his hair,” replied a companion letting out an audible sigh.

“Well I like that Kenny BiffBoff. He has that cute little wave of hair flipping down over his forehead and such a lovely smile,” said a third and with a giggle added, “He’s single, you know.”

“That Rusty Lusty seems like a very nice young man,” observed another thoughtfully.

“Too young. He’s just a baby. You’d have to spend all your efforts mothering him,” snorted a Red Hatter obviously fed up with raising kids and ready to wear purple.

“Well how about that Ricky Oldmann. He’s a mature military man. I always was a sucker for a man in a uniform” wondered another wag, dreamily running her tongue over her lips.

“Nope! He’s overweight and overbearing. Just like my second husband when he’d had a belly full of beer,” snapped an obviously bitter matron.

“And that leader of his Stephen Heartless with his school boy good looks. Reminds me of that boy that had his way with me back in school. (Gasps all round) Lied to me and dumped me. Broke my heart. How could you trust a man that perfect,” the tirade continued. ‘Hell hath no fury like a women scorned’ and all that.

I was receiving some hostile looks so I drifted out of earshot, but I’ve been keeping score and the prediction is, RiffRaff edging out BiffBoff by a hairdo. Oldmann will be a distant third- broken hearts are vindictive, and Rusty Lusty could make a surprisingly strong showing if the empty nest syndrome kicks in.

Statistically, this poll is considered accurate within 50 percentage points, ten times out of twenty- maybe.

Lessons Learned

With the chill winds of autumn reminding us the summer is over, reminiscing over the past season’s follies was in high gear down at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek the other morning as I pulled up a chair.

“When did you say you were heading south?” Pickle quizzed me as I extracted a pencil and began recording his latest escapade on a napkin. My short-term memory is just not what it used to be.

Pickle was silent for all of thirty seconds, trying desperately, but in vain from not exercising that profound ability of his- getting his foot in his mouth.

Turning to Dr. Goodwrench, he stated flatly, “Don’t bring that lawnmower back anymore. The warranty has expired. Fix it yourself.”

“You don’t understand, I only work on major pieces of equipment, that require substantial professional repairs. I leave that rinky-dink stuff to you backyard doctors,” retorted Dr. Goodwrench as he swept his hair back out of his eyes so he could find his coffee cup.

“No I don’t have time! I’m busy electrifying my wood splitter, and I have to finish a major tune-up on the missus’ lawnmower. All that rain and mild weather has really kept the lawn growing,” explained Pickle, as he checked his watch, then settled back in his chair. After all it was only 45 minutes into the coffee break.

“What do you mean electrifying your wood splitter? I thought you powered it off your truck,” remarked the Runt who to this point had been too deeply involved with his toast and peanut butter to comment on other matters.

“Gas is too expensive, so I mounted a couple of old electric motors on it. Just plug it in and it runs for nothing,” explained Pickle, ever on the lookout for any way to save a nickel.

“Why don’t you have to pay a Hydro None bill like the rest of us?” wondered Moose, who had been uncommonly quiet to this point.

“Oh no. I just run an extension cord under the hedge an plug it in that side outlet on Dot’s house,” bragged Pickle and then realizing he had spilled the beans, reddened and concentrated on his coffee.

A pool was immediately started on how long it would take Dot to detect the errant extension cord. My money’s on Dot.

Pickle will be out of town this week on the mighty moose hunt, so he’s safe for a few days. But he has to tune up that lawnmower first. It must be humming, not so he can cut the lawn. Oh no, he planned carefully the first time he did that a few decades back and made such a mess of it, his good wife hasn’t let him touch it since. Insists on doing it all herself.

Hmmm, is there a lesson to be learned here?

The Magic of Mushrooms

Continuing education was on the agenda around the debating table at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek the other morning. Maury from the hill country north of Hooterville broached the subject.
“Have you seen the crop of mushrooms out in the wild the last week? It’s simply amazing,” he stated with wonder as he sucked in his first mouthful of high test.
“You’d better be careful what you go stickin’ in your mouth,” lectured Moose, an authourity on all things wild.
“I’m pretty careful when I’m out pickin’ mushrooms, but I think someone in the last group snuck in one of them poisonous or magic specimens,” he added pausing only to reflect and refresh his cup.
“Well whatever happened? You’re still with us,” needled Pickle, delighted to dig up some dirt on Moose.
“I fried up a big pan of ‘em fer my supper with lots of onions and butter, and I must say, they were delicious. I’m quite a cook when I turn my hand to it,” bragged Moose as he pointedly ignored Pickle and tied into his toast.
“But somethin’ was amiss ‘because I woke up in the middle of the night with the curse upon me. Couldn’t hardly move and I’m sure my heart wasn’t beating more’n a few rpms a minute. Just sat there on the edge of the bed a sweatin’ and a moanin’,” he remembered as he washed down a bite of toast with half a cup of scalding coffee.
“Then the worst part started. Spiders, snakes, and monsters started comin’ out of the walls. It must have been a couple of hours till I sort a’ came back to my normal self,” stated Moose, the terror of the experience obviously still vivid.
“Sounds pretty scary. What did the missus think of it?” I asked, wanting all the juicy details, but wondering at the same time just what was Moose’s ‘normal self’.
“Oh she was absolutely beside herself. Spent the rest of the night and most of the next day pouring over the life insurance policies to make sure mushroom poisoning was covered. Didn’t really settle down until she discovered not only was it covered, but would probably qualify for double indemnity benefits,” said Moose as a puzzled look crossed his brow.
“Anyways, the long and the short of it is, you don’t want to be pickin’ mushrooms unless you know which are the safe ones,” he concluded, blessing the table with his insight.
“Oh I figure on taking that course Honey Bee is holding next week out in the high country, on identifying wild mushrooms,” assured Maury, chastened by Moose’s close encounter.
“Say, I’d kinda like to take that seminar in too. I kinda fancy a feed of wild mushrooms,” mused the Runt, as he licked the last of the peanut butter off his knife.
Pickle looked up quickly with some alarm.
“Runt, before you start picking, would you mind stopping by the lawyer’s office? Make sure your will is updated to specify cremation. No one at this table has a back strong enough to be your pallbearer,” he observed.
All round it seemed like a sensible precaution.

Liars’ Convention

This past weekend was the Annual Gathering of Liars down in Drizzle Creek. No I don’t mean the participants in the Walleye Tournament, although I must admit those folks are no slouches when it comes to spinning tall tales. They’ll be here this coming weekend and they’ll certainly have to stretch things a mile or two if they expect to regain championship status.
Nor am I referring to the hopefuls in the upcoming election, although they should have been on hand to take a few pointers. After all whoever is successful in that race will have to spend the next four years- or portion thereof, depending on the whims of the PM obeying laws he has passed.
No, I’m, of course, referring to the crème de le crème of the lying fraternity- Giant Pumpkin Growers or Lords of the Gourds. Their leader in Drizzle Creek, Sir Eltjo ‘Hard Luck’ Whimpering has been setting the stage all year how everything was conspiring against him and his efforts to produce a prize winning Giant Pumpkin. By ‘prize winning’, I mean the largest. Not the ugliest, not the most misshapen, not the smallest, not the scabbiest, but the biggest.
Over the past 14 years past there have been, frosts, droughts, and plagues of insects, marauding Great Beavers, mice, weed infestations, humming bird attacks, groundhogs, and accidental shootings.
This year the range of excuses pretty much ran the gambit.
“I’m so disappointed. Not one of those expensive seeds I imported sprouted,” whimpered Hard Luck over coffee early one morning last spring.
“There, there, young fellow. Don’t cry! Don’t cry! I’ll supply you with one of mine… supply you with one of mine,” soothed Archie Archie, patting Hard Luck on the back.
“I’ve got plenty of extras… plenty of extras,” he added reassuring the hapless Hard Luck.
A month and a half later, it was another crisis.
“I finally got a couple pollinated, and wouldn’t you know, it rotted right off during that last wet spell,” Hard Luck explained, shaking his head sadly.
“Look’s like I’ll be shut out of the winner’s circle again,” he concluded.
“But what about the other one. Surely it’ll make it,” I encouraged, trying to lift his spirits.
“Nope. It met with a small misfortune when I was trying to thin out those pesky groundhogs. Direct hit with a 30-06. She’s toast,” he explained.
Two weeks later, it was the hail and the wind that tore up the punkin’ patch. Then it was the algae bloom on the river plugging up all the holes in his irrigation system. An early frost touched his vines, stunting any further growth.
Saturday morning of the weigh in Hard Luck sat with the other growers picking at his pancakes.
“You know I’ve been sitting up nights to make sure the deer stayed out of the patch, but last night I figured I needed a really good rest in preparation for today, and wouldn’t you know it the terrorists slipped in and ate a hole right through my biggest punkin. Ruined it!” Hard Luck stated, as a tear rolled down his cheek and he set the final stage for another year of defeat.
Around him all the other Lords of the Gourds echoed tales of woe covering everything from bears, to plagues of frogs, to crop circles, and alien spacecraft beaming up their prize orbs.
You never heard such a professional, pre-race’ parade of excuses and position jockeying, all entitled, “I didn’t win because…”
When the smoke had cleared after the weigh-ins, Hard Luck took first, his wife second, and his daughter and grandkids, the next three spots.
My entry was disqualified due to squirrel damage. Maybe there’s something fishy about the judges and the scales?
At least, that’s my excuse… for this year.

In the sauce

One of the wondrous things about this season is the bountiful harvest and all the good things you can make to eat. In case you didn’t know, eating is about my most favourite thing- right next to lying. My wife, the Pearl of the Orient, has been trying to discourage this habit, the eating that is- she’s reluctantly accepted the lying. But things came to a head when I showed up with the latest haul, 30 plus gallons of crab apples.

“Just what do you expect me to do with all those apples? I’m not making pie. Your cholesterol is still way too high and I can’t let out the waistband on your pants any further,” the Pearl snorted with a level of disgust generally reserved for door-to-door peddlers.

“You aren’t bringing them into MY house. It’ll be totally infested with fruit flies before you have to haul them out to the garbage,” she emphasized totally ignoring my protest that it was MY house as well.

“But they were free! And they’ll make great applesauce. You know how healthy that is supposed to be,” I informed her as I began to drool over the prospect of brown toast with lots of butter slathered with applesauce.

“Well have at it. You can make it out here on the deck. Stay out of MY kitchen and put all MY utensils back when you’re finished,” was the final response I got as the door closed in my face.

Undaunted, I set to washing- sort of, quartering and potting the apples. I had every pot full before I had finished the first bucket. Only six more buckets to go. Then I loaded up the cook top as well as the barbecue and set the containers to cook. It was exhausting work, so I took a little break on the sofa while things came to a boil.

I guess I had the lid on that one pot on a little tight, but when it blew, ricocheting off the cupboard, the attendant ‘Boom, Clatter, Clatter!’ brought me fully awake. Fortunately, at the time, the Pearl was off to an extended swim and exercise class, so there were no personal injury or marital abuse issues to deal with. A mop and a bucket quickly cleaned up the mess and the stain on the ceiling is hardly noticeable.

With the apples all nicely boiled, I did a bit of mashing, and it was onto the straining. A couple of windows screens pressed into service speeded up that operation. Besides we don’t open those windows very often and the bug season is pretty much over.

When the Pearl arrived home, I proudly had my production displayed on the counter. The Pearl was impressed and not too put out by the slap dash job I had done of cleaning up. I cleared out to let her bring that area up to her standards. After all, what’s that about discretion being the better part of valour.

Since we were off to Emily and Norm’s for brunch the next day, I insisted on taking a quart of the ambrosia along as a token gift. Emily is a very gracious hostess.

“Isn’t this wonderful. I just love fresh applesauce,” she gushed as she spooned up a servings all round.

“You know you just can’t beat it mixed up with yogurt like this,” she added as we all dipped in with gusto.

“I wanted Norm to make some from our apples, but he said they were too wormy. How did you manage to find crab apples without worms?” Emily continued with unabated enthusiasm.

“Who said my apples didn’t have worms?” I replied.

“Well how did you get them out? It must have involved a lot of cutting,” wondered Emily.

“Who said I got them out?” I replied.

Emily’s spoon stopped someplace between her bowl and her sweet mouth.

Emily’s spoon returned to her bowl.

And it’s amazing how that woman can suppress a gag reflex.

But that’s what being a perfect hostess is all about.

Norm just kept eating.

An electrifying morning

I headed for the Bakery in Drizzle Creek early this morning as Hydro None had notified us of a scheduled three hour outage from 9 till noon, and I wanted to make sure I got my morning fix of caffeine and calories. The debating table was already pretty well occupied as the early risers had yet departed for work and some of the regular crew also noting the scheduled outage had wandered in early as well.

These scheduled outage notifications from Hydro None are greatly appreciated so we can arrange our important schedules. My only request is could the please give us advance notice of the unscheduled ones also.

Moose sauntered in, followed shortly by the Runt, who was sporting a heavy limp.

“You got foot rot?” I observed using good agricultural terms a farm boy like the Runt could understand.

“No, he’s got the gout,” snorted Moose downing his first half-cup of coffee, and chortling at his early morning wit.

The conversation halted briefly as orders of toast and peanut butter were placed in a rush to avoid the impending outage, with the last stragglers just barely making it in under the wire, including Pickle who was also limping. With all the orders filled and the table now fully occupied conversation resumed.

“So Pickle, the Runt has the gout, what’s your excuse for being up limping around so early in the morning?” I asked taking up a pen and paper to keep the facts fresh and straight.

“My physical later this morning. Had to get my blood work in first thing, and the foot’s pretty good. Thanks for asking,” quipped Pickle.

“How’s the Doc gonna do a rectal exam in the dark? Use a flashlight?” I shot back. Pickle’s approaching that age when the golden digit gets applied annually.

Pickle’s paused, his toast halfway to his mouth. The question seemed to have taken the starch out of his shorts.

“You’ll make a fine looking pair, barely able to stagger up on the stage for the Walleye Tournament,” I observed reflecting on the sore feet and the upcoming event.

“Thore feete won’t haf a thin t’doo wit t’em thaggerin,” observed Moose, trying mightily, but unsuccessfully to keep his bridge in place as the overload of peanut butter sucked things loose.

The Runt gave Moose a withering glance and brought things into perspective.

“It’s not the gout. I’m a prime physical specimen,” he bragged as he trowelled on the peanut butter.

“The problem is crickets,” he added, holding out his cup for a refill, before the Hydro None limited supply ran out.

“Crickets? How so?” I asked, priming the pump. It didn’t need much priming.

“I’ve got one in the basement that’s driving me nuts. I can’t find it and it’s making so much noise I can’t get a decent night’s sleep,” explained the Runt, exhibiting the dog weary look of the truly put upon.

“Thum boyth thill need their mommies,” quipped the Moose, the peanut butter, finally losing most of its grip.

“Anyways, I just stubbed my toe, looking for the little beast in the dark,” explained the Runt ignoring Moose’s comment.

“Why the dark? Hydro None have an outage at your place too?” I inquired once again wanting to get all the facts straight.

“No! Because when you turn the lights on it stops chirping and I can’t find it! And I told the missus not to move any of the furniture. It was a domestic trap,” emphasized the Runt, clearly peeved by the lack of sympathy his case was eliciting.

“Why not leave the lights on all the time?” I asked. What good is a reporter if you don’t dig for all the facts?

“You simply have no environmental sensitivity! Think of our grandchildren. Save the planet! Leave the lights on? Really!” the Runt’s response was withering.

Properly chastised, I put my tail between and left. At home I discover power at our house was not out after all, so that hour and a half coffee break wasn’t really all that necessary.

The phone rang. It was a recording. “This is Hydro None. There will be a scheduled power outage from….”

Gracie’s got a ghost

      Every once in a while I roll my carcass out of bed early. Recently it hasn’t been to accompany, my wife, the Pearl of the Orient to the swimming pool, but to wheel my bike around Drizzle Creek in the cool of the early morning… and of course to stop by the Bakery to see what’s new with the early risers.

      The early risers are generally made up of an entirely different crew than the regular 9 to 11 coffee break crowd, except for Moose who’s liable to be there most any time.  So there’s a whole new pool of debating skills and information to stimulate one’s cranial functions.

      This week as I ambled in to the usual chorus of jibes about having ‘overnight accidents’, Grace and Sheila were deep in discussion on the general uselessness of the male of the species, both resenting their spouses who were still asleep while they themselves were out after the almighty dollar.

      Grace looked particularly forlorn, and kept rolling her tongue up into one cheek and grumbling.

      “You look beat Grace. Grumpier than a bear with a sore tooth,” I observed as Grace rubbed her jaw tenderly.

      “Exactly! I’ve got a tooth that’s raising Cain and my appointment isn’t till October. I wish he’d pull ‘em all out!” she harrumphed, taking another slug of coffee and wincing as the hot liquid hit the tender tooth.

      “Pull ‘em all out! Why on earth wouldn’t you just get ‘em fixed up and visit the dentist more regularly,” I wondered aloud looking for, and expecting a unique female perspective.

      Grace didn’t disappoint.

      “Because I hate going to the dentist and if I got them all out, I wouldn’t ever have to go back,” snapped Grace, the sore tooth not improving her demeanor at all.

      “Sorry,” she apologized, “But I haven’t been getting a lot of sound sleep lately, what with this tooth and that pesky ghost.”

      “Ghost? Tell me more?” I asked as I poured refills and turned on my mental tape recorder. After all it’s important to keep the facts straight.

      “ Oh, the ceiling fan kept coming on the other night with no one touching the switch. I was afraid there was a problem with the wiring so Dave crawled around in the attic for an hour and pronounced everything was normal. He didn’t even step through the ceiling drywall, which is surprising as I expected him to double clutch when he ran his head into the shingling nails sticking down through the roof,” snorted Grace, obviously tickled by Dave’s discomfort or imagining him sitting astride a rafter with both his legs hanging through the ceiling.

      “Anyways, we always have these strange little things happen and we figure it’s just the ghost of either the long departed Harold or old Frank rattling around the house they occupied in lives passed,” explained Grace as she drained her cup and held it out for a refill after an examination of the clock showed another five minutes before the opening bell.

      “I told my house guest about it and she freaked. Let a wail out of her every time the house creaked or a bug hit the screen. Haven’t been able to get a decent night’s sleep for the past week,” moaned Grace before finally rising and heading off to start the sort.

      So the next summer night you are cruising through Pinewood in the wee hours and the moon is shining brightly, keep and eye on Grace’s house for something white and ethereal drifting around the vicinity of the swimming pool. It might be a ghost… or maybe just Dave and Grace out taking a late night skinny dip.