Mitchell Way
Ricky Dandelion walked through knee-high field grass next to his back field property line. It was mid-July, and the grass stalks were getting close to the electric fence wire.
Normally, Ricky and his lovely wife, Venice, would consider it a Saturday date by going out together into the cow field with their matching Stihl-FS131 weed-eaters and cutting the grass away from the fence line, but things were different this year.
Poof! A chalk eraser ricocheted off the top of my head. Chalk dust settled in a cloud around my desk.
“I told you, Mitchell! I told the class that if I caught anyone looking at their keyboard, I would wing an eraser at them. There you were staring at your fingers.”
The rest of the class, afraid to look up from the test cards in front of them, nevertheless, giggled. It was after all, a timed typing test so every word counted.
It was a time in life that every boy either looked forward to or shuddered to think he must be a part of. It was a freshman class in high school that every boy had to participate in to graduate. It was a required class, and girls were not allowed. They called it Boys’ Health and, Sex Ed.
“Just another ripple on my lake of irritation,” I can almost hear custodian Luke muttering this as he hiked up the stairs to the third floor at Bellingham High School. For some reason the drinking fountain was plugged.
Ho, Ho, No! You ain’t getting me into that thing! And with that, Santa left his sleigh and drove off in his car.
Dad and I stared at each other. “Huh,” he said. “I guess we go with plan B.”
It was the yearly tradition of The Santa flights.
My best friend, Chuck, was sitting across from me in a booth at Bunks Drive-in. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was setting. A blonde woman’s wig lay in the center of the table between our two Cokes.
As I lay on my back under the stars I wonder, “Is that the Aurora Borealis or is my headache causing my vision to shift?”
As I lay on my back under the stars I wonder, “Is that the space station or a really, really, really high jet and if I had a flashlight could it see my twinkling light shining up at it?”
You’d have to be in a certain age range to notice: 50 years and older. Any younger and you would never have heard of the man, but it is not uncommon for me to get the same question asked from the 50+ crowd: “Have you ever heard of the humorist, Patrick McManus? You have the same writing style.”
Right off the bat I know that many of you will scoff at the notion that there may be a spirit world. The idea that there are good spirits as well as a slew of very unsavory ones is to some, a laughable idea. Yet the movie industry makes millions of dollars each year on movies based on the occult and the living dead.
I have long suspected that we have ghosts in our house. The original structure was built in 1890 so it has a lot of history. One night during the time we were giving it a complete renovation, I was upstairs pulling ship lap boards off the walls and tossing them through a hole to a pile outside. It was 10:00 pm and there was no light except my one bulb shop light, although I was there by myself I could hear children’s voices and I stopped several times to shine the light around the empty house to see if I could find the source. Later one of my young step-sons told me he was afraid of the lamp beside his bed because a face would appear in the lampshade.
Say guys, are you tired of sweltering hot days where the perspiration running off your head ruins that freshly permed $56.00 haircut? Tired of having sweat stains in your Grecian Formula leaving you looking like a leopard? Do what I did. I got the Extended Face Kit which includes extensions all the way to the back of my shoulders.
I was standing in line at the movie theater waiting to buy a ticket when I heard two twenty-somethings making comments about a slowpoke elderly man. They couldn’t mean me. There has got to be someone else in this line who is older than me. I will just casually turn around and see who they are talking about.
Nuts! It was me.
First of all, excuse me for whistling. If I don’t let the music out, my head will explode.
I am a chronic whistler, more so when I am stressed. I also constantly have a melody looping in my mind. That same tune can loop for hours until I nearly go crazy listening to it.
A peanut sat on a railroad track; its heart was all aflutter. Along came a choo-choo train, choo-choo, peanut butter.
Number one: Candied Beets. (I told you). Why at Thanksgiving would you serve a dish that looks like cranberry sauce? Why would this dish not be clearly labeled “Beets”? What are you supposed to do with a large mouthful of beets while red juice leaks out of the corners of your mouth, and you are sitting around the dinner table with 15 relatives? Unforgivable!
Number two: Commercial super roll toilet paper. You know the type: two 12” diameter rolls with a mile of paper each, housed in a dark plastic wall mounted container. The paper is not the issue. The custodian leaving the roll taped up is the issue. I have literally spent a half hour spinning the roll trying to find the loose end. Somewhere a custodian is giggling. Unforgivable!
Number three: Technology. Why do they have to keep upgrading my operating system? Why do I have to invite my granddaughters over to show me how to work my phone, my TV remotes, the microwave? Why can’t Pong still be played on my computer? I really need technology to stop for about six months just so I can catch up. It’s all very unforgivable. Which brings me to my wife’s friend Becky and her Pekingese dog Ginger.