Tornado Boy

Back in 1956 we didn't have tornado warnings like they do now. In August of that year, I was six years old and watching my brother and his friends play baseball in the park. While sitting there I noticed a strange cloud formation that stretched from high in the sky all the way down to the ground. I was fascinated by the way it moved and the way all kinds of junk seemed to fly up where ever it went. It was a tornado, and it was ripping through our town  just three blocks from where I was sitting. After a few moments of quietly watching it I finally said to my brother, "What is that?"  All I remember from that point on is flying through the air. Not because the tornado had picked me up, but because my older brother had grabbed me and was running full speed towards our house a full two blocks away. My brother apparently understood the danger of what was happening, because he didn't take the long way home. He cut straight through yards and over fences with me firmly in his grasp. Honestly I don't think my feet touched the ground once until we arrived at our house and we were all safely in the basement.

I don't think anyone was killed in that tornado, but I do know from that point on I learned to respect the power of nature. These days there are people who go on tornado hunting vacations, where a guide takes them across the Great Plains of the U.S.A. hoping to see a tornado. All I have to say about that is, what the hell is wrong with those people? Don't they know, all they have to do is buy a mobile home, park it near a corn field in Oklahoma, and wait. They'll see a tornado sooner or later.

RIP Marcus Mouse (Yes, I named him)

At approximately four, forty five in the afternoon yesterday, Marcus Mouse lost the battle of the kitchen and possibly the war. Since late last year when I first spotted the blur along the baseboards, I have been trying to catch the mouse. I didn't tell Mark or my friend Dennis about it until Mark screamed out one evening. "Rat, rat... a rat just ran across the kitchen floor!" He yelled that while standing on top of a kitchen stool. Later Dennis, who lives in the upstairs apartment, let me know that he had seen a single mouse skitter across his living room floor. I have been assuming it is the same mouse, upstairs and in our kitchen. Especially because while Dennis has been away on vacation for the last sixteen days, there has been more mouse activity in our kitchen. I'm assuming that's because the mouse's food has been cut off upstairs. So after months of trying, using every possible trap and lure available at the hardware store, I caught it. Let's just say Marcus Mouse did not suffer, well didn't suffer for long. No need to see photographic proof of his demise, just take my word for it. He's dead, gone to rodent heaven where hot dog buns and crumbs are plentiful and everybody thinks that a mouse is cute. Hopefully he does not have a family that will mourn him. Seriously, I hope he does not have a family. Otherwise the war is still on.

Poison Gas Warfare

Last night, in the middle of the night, I was sure I had heard a poot from Mark's side of the bed. I laid there for a minute and contemplated working one up and letting loose in retaliation. I am capable of such a thing considering the things I eat. As I thought about this, a memory came flooding back from more than sixty years ago. 

It was second or third grade at Saint George School. We were in the middle of religion class, learning about how you could buy indulgences from The Church to get into heaven more easily. I remember the nun telling us that you no longer could buy them with real money, but had to pray and do good deeds to earn them. Which was a good thing for seven year old kids, because I had no money. Anyway, suddenly the nun stopped writing on the blackboard and turned around.

"Who pooped in their pants? Right now I want to know who pooped in their pants. I can smell it."

We all looked around, figuring we would be able to spot the culprit.

"We are not going on until the person who pooped in their pants acknowledges it."

No takers. I'm not sure if Sister Mary I forget her name had been teaching for long, but in a classroom of seven year old kids you're going to get the occasional whiff of a fart. Sorry, but kids smell bad.

"Alright then, everybody line up out in the hallway. The boys in front of the boys bathroom and the girls in front of the girls bathroom. Bruce, I want each boy to pull down their pants and let you see if they pooped."

Bruce was the teacher's pet and was the one who took names if Sister had to leave the room. Teacher's pet has it's advantages, although I'm not sure this was a perk Bruce had wanted.

"Girls, I want you to come into the girls bathroom one at a time and show me you didn't poop." Said Sister Mary I forget her name.

So it went, each boy going in, then coming out relieved that their underpants were skid mark free. I remember my turn, quickly pulling my pants down and then up. Very disturbing. It turned out that nobody had pooped in their pants, unless it was Bruce. What probably happened was that somebody passed gas after eating a big bowl of shredded wheat for breakfast. Shredded Wheat will do that to you. That's why I eat it, roughage.

So no, I did not retaliate against Mark. I did not fart back at him, I did not make fun of his fart. I went back to sleep. But before I drifted off to sleep a thought passed through my mind. Did that nun stage the whole thing so she could look in all the girls panties?

Memorial Day 2019

When those who are entrusted with power fail, and the insane are allowed to flourish.

Mouse Update

I've tried everything I can think of to catch this little rodent, outside of employing a cat. I wish I could get a cat, but allergies and a crazy terrier put that out of the mix. And speaking of a crazy terrier, I actually saw Scout laying on the floor near the kitchen doorway, watching the mouse walk around in the kitchen. She's given up barking at it, and now it seems to fascinate her.

So after I put the security camera on the kitchen floor and caught the mouse in action overnight, I decided to not kill it. The darn thing is so cute that I spent twenty dollars on a live trap and put that on the kitchen floor. Inside that trap I put a bit of hot dog bun, and pieces of a donut that I would have rather put in my mouth. Surely that little guy couldn't resist such bait. I have put that trap out for three nights in a row without success. Once again I put the security camera down to see what was happening. It seems the mouse wants nothing to do with the bait I put in the trap, wandering by it as if it didn't even exist. So I don't know what I'm going to do now. It has made its way up onto the counters and has eaten through a number of products that Mark left out. Tonight when Mark picked up a bag of rice and it started dribbling out of a hole that had been chewed into it, he went nuts.

"Catch that damn rat!" Mark screamed.

"Mouse, it's not a rat. It's a mouse."

"I don't care what the hell it is, kill it!"

So I have another plan that I will execute tonight, and it does not involve a 'live' trap. Sorry little mouse, you had your chance.

The Angel of Jewel-Osco

"Sir, you don't have to slap your hand down on the counter like that if you want me to help you."

"Well maybe if you people would do your jobs I wouldn't have to slap my hand down on the counter."

Son of a bitch, here we go again. Jewel has gone and got Mark pissed off.

"This chocolate cake is supposed to be five dollars. I was charged ten. See here..."

And again, Mark slaps his hand down on the counter where he has thrown the Jewel store circular.

"I'll slap my hand down as much as I want until you people learn to price things correctly."

I can see the lady behind the counter steaming with rage as she grabs the circular and looks it over, then looks at the cake.

"Sir, the cake on sale is the hazel nut cake, this is a chocolate cake."

Counter lady wins round one. I knew it would be something like that. You have to read every word, look at every tag at that store. It's like they're trying to trick you into buying the wrong thing. I've been stuck like that a few times. So it seemed the lady behind the counter had got Mark on that one. But Mark had another thing to slap his hand on the counter about, which he did.

"Your cashier charged me for two Bounty paper towels. I only bought one. You people are incompetent rubes."

I have to give the lady at the Jewel service desk credit. As much as she wanted to reach over and drag Mark across the counter and choke him, she didn't. I on the other hand, was not happy with Mark's behavior. So I quietly apologized to the lady as Mark stormed off towards the exit.

"Don't you apologize for me!" Mark called back to me.

One more thing about the Jewel on Saturdays. Every Saturday they have a bar set up for tasting alcoholic beverages, presided over by a very friendly lady who has become my shopping savior. In fact, because I joke with her and she sees me every week, I get more than the tiny little shot that most folks get. A nice pour of vodka usually, and then I feign interest in another beverage. Bam, another nice shot of alcohol. It makes shopping with Mark slightly more tolerable.

1941 Packard OneSixty

In 1949 my father had a 1937 Ford sedan. It was the car that took baby Alan home to Tinley Park from the hospital in Chicago. My mom loves to tell the story of that trip out to Tinley Park. She always points out that she could see the street going by though the hole in the floor boards. Anyway, the ride home. It seems that the roads were a mess, it was January, and at some point Dad lost control of the aging Ford sending it into a ditch. As the car ground to a halt in that ditch, Mom dropped me on the floor. No, I didn't go through that hole in the floor, but I hit my head and Mom says I cried for a very long time. That clears up a lot of things and might explain my addiction to Excedrin.

Dad replaced that old Ford with a gorgeous, 1941 Packard OneSixty. My favorite memory of that car was going to the Dairy Palace for frozen custard cones. We were not allowed to eat them in the car, but had to sit out on the running boards until we finished them off. That took about two minutes. Oh, and if you're wondering, the car was not moving while we sat out there. I also remember being around three years old and sitting in the front seat with my mom and dad. It was great. There was the big radio in the dashboard, glowing like magic while we listened to Jack Benny. And when I got tired of that, Mom would let me stand in front of her and look out through the windshield. These days kids have to be strapped into a giant pod seat, facing backwards, in the back seat, until they're sixteen years old. Anyway, I loved that car and if by some bit of fate or clairvoyance on my dad's part, he had kept that car, it would be worth around forty thousand dollars now. But of course, he did not. It got run over by a semi-truck in the parking lot of the trucking company Dad worked for. No, Dad was not driving the semi.

I've been looking for this photo for the last year and a half. Dad's sad Packard, crushed.