Stanley the Horse—Redux

Note: I have company visiting from Australia this week. The airline rescheduled their return flight extending their stay. Instead of a new episode, here is “Stanley the Horse Clips Again”, the extended version.

*  *  *

“Fannie, your mom’s on the phone for you,” Richard said, handing me the phone.

“Hi Mom,” I said, hearing her arguing with my aunt in the background.

“. . .Verla, I’m talking to Fannie, you’ll have to wait your turn,” my mother said, sounding muffled.

“Velverlorn, it’s my house, my phone and my idea,” Aunt Verla said, “I should be the one to tell her.”

“Mom,” I shouted into the phone, “go into the den and have Uncle Carl put me on speaker phone.”

“What did she say?” Aunt Verla asked.

“Go to the den and put me on speaker phone,” I shouted again.

“Carl, put Fannie on the speaker phone in the den so we can all tell her,” my mother said.

“Fannie are you there?” Aunt Verla asked, over the crackle of the speaker.

“I’m still here,” I said, laughing, “now what is it you’re trying to tell me?”

“Stanley the Horse,” my mother and aunt said, in unison.

“Okay, Stanley the Horse,” I said, “I don’t get it.”

“We’re going to settle this once and for all,” Uncle Carl’s voice boomed.

I pulled the phone away from my ear. “I still don’t get it.”

“We’re having a competition for the title of Stanley the Horse,” Aunt Verla said, in her clipped tone.

“And we want you and Richard to host and referee,” my father said. “Since you’re the third generation of our family to live in that house you have enough brush in your front yard to make this a fair competition.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said, “you want to have a contest between Dad and Uncle Carl to clear the brush in our front yard so you can answer the question of who’s the real Stanley the Horse?”

“Yes,” my mother and aunt said, in unison over the telephone.

“And no photographs either. We’ve seen the news and know what happens with that Facebook-You-Tubey thingy,” my mother said.

“You guys are nuts.” I said, laughing. “Let me talk to Richard and see what he says. I’ll call you right back.”

Richard stared at me.

“Did I hear you right?” Richard asked. He ran his fingers through his short brown hair. “Your family, who hates yard work, wants to come over and clear out the brush in the front yard.”

“Yep,” I said, smiling.

“For free?”

“Yep.”

“Who’s Stanley the Horse?” Richard asked, resting his right arm on top of our classic white refrigerator.

“I’ve never actually seen it, but Stanley the Horse was a comic book my mom and aunt loved as kids,” I said, crossing my arms. Leaning against the yellow linoleum of the kitchen counter, I said, “Stanley was a horse who used clipping shears. The entire comic was about all the things he clipped.”

Richard looked at me like I’d come unhinged.

“If you don’t believe me, ask my sisters. We’ve been hearing about Stanley all our lives,” I said, laughing. “Whenever my dad or Uncle Carl would trim anything in the yard they earned the title of Stanley the Horse. I had no idea it had risen to competition level.”

Flashing me his devilish grin, Richard said, “Well, I’m not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth. Find out what they’re proposing for rules. I’ve been wanting to clear the brush for a while anyway.”

Groaning, I said, “Gift horse was the best you could do, really?”

“It was short notice,” Richard said, winking his blue eyes at me.

I dialed my aunt’s number.

Half a ring later four expectant voices asked, in unison, “What’d you decide?”

Laughing, I said, “What rules are you proposing and when were you thinking about doing this?”

“Your father brought his 100-yard measuring tape,” my mother said, “we thought we’d stop by to measure out two equal areas this afternoon.”

“Since we’re not spring chickens any more we thought we’d be timed over the course of a week,” Uncle Carl said.

“The man who clears the most by the end of the week wins,” my father said.

“And you and Richard’ll do the timing, make sure nobody cheats,” said Aunt Verla, “and call 9-1-1 if anything bad happens.”

Shaking my head, I asked, “When do you want to start the competition?”

“We wanted to give you enough notice, how does Monday work for you?” my mother asked.

Laughing, I said, “Mom, that’s tomorrow. Next weekend is Labor Day. We could swing it then if you can last that long.”

I could hear whispering.

“Done,” the uni-voice said.

Two hours later we watched the sky blue Mobile Land Yacht pull into the driveway of our brown and gray ranch house. My parents dressed in matching blue Polo shirts and khaki pants, and my aunt and uncle, wearing matching brown Polos shirts and khaki pants, poured out of the car. My father opened the trunk. Handing the tape measure to my mother, stakes to my aunt, and caution tape to my uncle, he kept the hammer for himself.

Pound, pound, pound.

Richard and I moved from the sofa to the living room window. My father stepped back from the stake. Aunt Verla held one end of the measuring tape up to the stake balancing on the three-inch heels of her matching brown fashion sandals. My mother, in blue three-inch pumps, walked the length of the yard.

“Forty-four feet,” she said, stopping at my grandmother’s prized rhododendrons.

“Anyone who touches the Rhodies will be immediately disqualified and will spend the next month sleeping on the couch,” Aunt Verla said. My mother agreed. Both women wearing matching Suzanne Pleshette wigs.

My father and Uncle Carl shared a look we could not quite interpret.

“Do you think that means they’d risk cutting the rhodies?” Richard asked.

“Let’s not take the chance,” I said, walking to the front door, “we’ll set some guidelines of our own.”

“Hi Everyone,” I said, joining my family, “We want to make clear that the rhododendrons are off limits to the contest as well as the trees. You’re limited to brush only.”

“Fannie, we discussed that before you came out,” Aunt Verla said, waving a stake at the men for emphasis.

“Glad to hear it,” I said, nodding. “I also want to remind you this is a family neighborhood with school aged children so you may not start before 8 a.m. and you must finish by 4:30 p.m. each day. We will supply food, water and the bathroom. This means no peeing in the yard,” I said, looking at my father.

“Fannie, we wouldn’t dream of doing that to you,” my father said, flashing his Cheshire Cat smile, which almost disappeared into his brown eyes. His head crowned by his white horseshoe hair.

Richard snorted.

“Uh huh,” I said, rolling my green eyes. “I don’t care how hot it gets, there will be no repeat of the Speedo Tool Belt,” I said, looking at my father. My mother nodding with vigor. The scars of seeing my potbellied, wrinkled father in a red Speedo bikini, which supported his garden tools and held on only by sweat, are burned into my retinas.  “We will also designate a portion of the driveway for the debris pile, which you’ll help us chip when the contest is over. Any questions?”

They shook their heads.

“We also reserve the right to amend the rules based on unforeseen circumstances. Our decisions are final, you may not argue your way to victory,” I said, looking at Uncle Carl.

“Kill joy,” Uncle Carl said, shrugging. Both hands in his pockets with the caution tape tucked under one arm accenting a small pot belly.

“I assume since this is a Stanley the Horse competition, you’ll be using hand tools only and no power tools. Is that correct?” I asked.

“Yes,” my father said, “we’ll be sharpening all our hand tools this week.”

“You guys are gonna be hurting units after this is over,” Richard said, shaking his head. His shadow shading the group.

Fifteen minutes later five more stakes dotted the yard. Uncle Carl tied the caution tape to the first stake. Attaching the tape to each stake, he created the perimeter.

“Richard, Fannie, we’ll be back bright and early next Monday morning,” my father said, escorting his entourage back to the Mobile Land Yacht. “Be ready.”

Richard put his arm around my shoulders, I stood just below with his chest. We waved as they backed out of the driveway.

“Do you think we should sell tickets?” Richard asked.

I punched him in the arm.

Rubbing his arm, he said, “You realize this’ll draw a crowd. We could at least pass out popcorn.”

“And while we’re at it, why don’t we get referee jerseys,” I said, laughing.

“We could.”

“We’re not getting jerseys.”

“How about a whistle?” Richard asked, flashing his devilish grin.

Smiling, I said, “That would be fun wouldn’t it.”

*  *  *

Monday morning, the sun rose at 6:32 a.m. The doorbell rang at 6:33. I groaned. I peered at the clock through swollen slits.

“Didn’t I say they couldn’t start until 8 a.m.?”

“Yes, but your dad said to expect them early,” Richard said, pulling the covers off me. I pulled them back over my head.

“Sorry. Your family, your get,” Richard said, pulling the covers off me.

The doorbell rang again. Jumping down from our pedestal sleigh bed I stumbled down the hall to the front door in sweats and t-shirt. Smoothing over my spiky, brown morning hair as I arrived at the door.

“Fannie, the day’s half over. You’re not even dressed yet,” my father said, wearing blue jeans and a long sleeved white t-shirt. Leading the way into the house he carried a large tan leather tool bag. “Get a move on young lady.”

“We brought breakfast for everyone,” my mother said, looking at my hair and shaking her head. She held grocery bags in one hand and gave me a quick one-armed hug. She matched my father’s outfit except for the added accessory of a blue scarf in place of her wig. “We’ll fix breakfast while you and Richard get cleaned up.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, closing the door behind them. Looking down, I asked, “Are you really wearing tennis shoes?”

“I needed something I could get dirty.”

I walked two step down the hall when the doorbell rang again. On the porch stood Uncle Carl and Aunt Verla also wearing long sleeve t-shirts and blue jeans. A brown leather tool bag slung over Uncle Carl’s left shoulder.

“Fannie, how come you’re not dressed yet?” Aunt Verla asked, sporting a brown scarf and no wig.

“I’m working on it,” I said, “Mom’s in the kitchen getting breakfast ready. We’ll join you in a few minutes.”

As I walked back into the bedroom, Richard handed me a black and white rugby shirt.

“You said no referee jerseys, but you didn’t say anything about matching rugby shirts,” he said, smiling.

I laughed. I walked into the bathroom. In the mirror, the image of an over-sized cotton ball stuck in an electrical outlet stared back at me. I’m allergic to mornings.

As we emerged from the bedroom wearing our first matching outfit in the ten years of our marriage, the aroma of eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast with melting butter, and coffee filled the house. It smells so much better when someone else makes it.

My mother handed Richard and I each a cup of coffee.

“Thank you,” I said. Smelling the steaming mug of caffeine from my perch on the bar stool on the far side of the kitchen counter. I asked, “So what’s the plan for this morning since you’re here so early?”

Seated next to me, Uncle Carl pointed to a spot on a scale, hand-drawn map of our yard. He said, “Once we get breakfast cleaned up, we’ll each set up our tool staging area here outside the work zone.”

“I forgot to ask, in what way are Mom and Aunt Verla allowed to help?” I asked, sipping my coffee.

“They hand us tools as we need them,” my father said, leaning against the kitchen counter, “and they’ll remove the brush.”

“You’re sure we can’t take pictures?” I asked, smiling. The thought of immortalizing this moment more than made up for rising at the crack of dawn.

“No,” they said, in parental uni-voice.

After breakfast we moved out to the yard. A warm sun rose above the tree tops. A single cloud drifted across the sky over Gig Harbor, Washington. Moving to their respective staging areas, the two teams set out their tools with precision. My father moved behind my mother to sneak a peak at Uncle Carl’s tools. Sitting in the middle of his tools, a brand new pair of three-inch loppers.

“Velverlorn, do you see that?” my father asked, nodding toward to tools, “we’ll have to get one of those tonight.”

Uncle Carl caught my parents looking at his new tool. “I’ll bet you’re wishing you’d have thought of it Conrad.”

“Okay everyone, take your positions, we start in 30 seconds,” I said, cutting off a potential argument. “Richard, will you do the honors?”

Richard pulled the silver whistle from his jeans pocket. He put it between his lips. We counted down the seconds.

“Three, two, one. . .”

Richard blew the whistle. My father grabbed his old loppers, Uncle Carl grabbed his new ones. They stormed the brush.

The whistle drew George and Bunny out of their home across the street. They watched from their front porch.

The sound of maniacal snipping competed with the neighborhood birds. The men threw salal branches behind them. The women caught the branches and raced to the yard waste area.

“Fannie, how long do you think they can keep this up?” Richard asked, watching two seventy-something women race around like twenty-five-year-olds.

“Maybe ten more minutes,” I said, looking at my watch. “Then they might remember the wheelbarrows sitting behind them.”

My mother heard me. Moving the wheelbarrow into position behind my father, half of the branches landed in the bed. A small smile formed on her lips. Following her lead, my aunt wheeled her’s into position behind my uncle.

Thirty minutes later, identical three foot wide holes formed in the bushes. A green pile grew on the driveway.

As the sun traveled across the sky, the green pile expanded. Several of the neighbors gathered in George and Bunny’s front lawn. Seated in garden chairs under umbrellas, the crowd shouted encouragements, drank iced tea, and shared popcorn.

“Richard look,” I said, pointing across the street, “they’re doing the wave.”

“I told you we should’ve sold tickets,” Richard said, laughing.

At four-thirty Richard blew the whistle. The men put down their tools, groaned, and stretched. They walked like un-oiled tin men to the black wrought iron and wooden bench on the front porch. They sat next to Aunt Verla and my mother.

“When you’re done in Richard and Fannie’s yard, feel free to come do mine,” my childhood best friend, Clarissa, shouted across the street. Her short red curls bounced as she laughed.

My father grimaced and waved. Uncle Carl massaged his low back before sitting down. They slumped against each other. Their heads lolled forward followed by soft snores.

“That went well, don’t you think?” I asked, watching my aunt and mother leaning against each other napping on the other end of the bench.

“Should we wake them?” Richard asked.

“No let them sleep while I get dinner ready.”

*  *  *

The sun rose at 6:33 a.m. The birds sang as the sun climbed above the trees. Richard and I rose at 6:45. The coffee finished brewing at 7:40. The doorbell rang at 7:52.

Four hunched adults with swollen eyes, stiff joints, and gray hair, which escaped their baseball caps, stood on the porch.

“Good morning everyone, we have coffee ready and waiting,” I said, holding open the door.
Shuffling into the house they sat around the maple dining room table and drank the offered coffee. Richard cooked breakfast while I prepared more Joe.

“How are we feeling today?” I asked, looking at their pale faces.

“I feel like I got run over by a truck,” my mother said, staring into her coffee cup.

“We may have to rethink our competition,” Aunt Verla said, rubbing the back of her neck.

Both men hunched over their coffee, their elbows keeping their faces from landing in their cups.

“Do you still want to go out and clear brush today?” I asked, looking from my father to Uncle Carl.

They looked at each other. Whether the competition or finding misplaced testosterone, both men stiffened their backs.

“Yes,” they said.

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll be watching you closely. If either of you looks like you’re in trouble, we’ll be calling the competition.”

Their shoulders soften a bit.

By 9:45 a.m. we ventured into the front yard. Dumping the tools in their respective staging areas, they moved around rubbing their arms and backs, stretching their legs. The women shuffled the wheelbarrows up to the starting line. They groaned all the way.

“Are you ready,” I asked.

Holding onto the wheelbarrow, my father slowly bent over to pick up his loppers. Uncle Carl followed suit. Straightening up, my father and uncle waved at us.

“Richard if you’ll do the honors?” I asked.

Richard blew the whistle. Walking into the brush like they’d ridden horseback for ten hours they clipped.

Two hours later, yesterday’s ten foot long pile in the driveway grew an additional eight inches. With slow, jerky movements as though operated by an inexperienced puppeteer, my father lifted his loppers to a branch. Using both hands, he squeezed the handle together. He stifled a groan and dropped one handle cursing under his breath.

Uncle Carl lowered his loppers. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. His hand stopped halfway to his forehead. He bent forward to meet it. A moan escaped his lips. They looked at each other, neither willing to quit.

My mother leaned against her younger sister for a moment before reaching down for three more branches and dropping them into the wheelbarrow. She and my aunt meandered behind their wheelbarrows aiming toward the debris pile. Emptying her wheelbarrow first, my mother limped towards my father.

I looked from my parents to my aunt and uncle.

Running my fingers through my hair, I asked “Richard, what do you think?”

“I think we should call it and declare a tie.”

“I agree,” I said, relief spreading over me like a wave.

Richard blew the whistle.

“Thank god,” my mother said, dropping her last branches into the wheelbarrow, “My nails are ruined and I don’t know how much more I could take.”

“Me either,” Aunt Verla said, setting down the wheelbarrow and stretching her back. She and my mother hobbled toward the front porch.

My father and uncle stood in place looking from Richard to me. I nudged Richard.

Clearing his throat, Richard said, “Gentlemen, it looks like we have a tie.”

Both men smiled. They pried their fingers from the handles and dropped the tools. They shuffled toward each other. Raising their arms as high as they could, they gently shook hands.

“Well done, Conrad,” Uncle Carl said, patting him on the arm with his other hand.

“Same to you, Carl,” my father said, flexing the fingers of his free hand.

“So Dad, Uncle Carl, since we have a tie, how about same time next year?” I asked, winking.

Both men summoned enough energy to marshal the family sign.

I’m just sorry I didn’t have the camera.

Celebrating Lucky Number 100

With that in mind, I would like to thank all of you for following along with me through the first 100 posts. I would also like to welcome all of the newcomers to Fannie’s world.

Fannie, Richard, and crew also celebrated their two year Blog-iversary in April. This slipped my mind because of a book deadline. As a result of professional editing, the book instead, will become a series of scripts. Fannie, Richard, and crew will be back for their regularly scheduled programming next week.

The first time I posted, I said, “Birthing this blog without an epidural was much easier than learning how to post to it.”   Since then I have been not so secretly stalking taking blogging lessons from Amb. What better time to put what I’ve learned to use.

Let me introduce you to some of the wonderful people I’ve met along the way these last two years.  The top five commenters in alphabetical order at Fannie Cranium’s Guide to Irreverent Wisdom:

Amb, Aplscruf, Dave, Lexy and Liz

With a special shout out to Aplscruf, my first follower. She has commented more than all of the other aforementioned bloggers combined.

Thanks to all of you who have commented.

Thank you to the wonderful bloggers at the Blog of Funny Names and especially to Dave for inviting me to contribute. You have broadened my appreciation for great people with greater names. And if you didn’t know, you hooked me with Dick Clark, but you landed me with Nipsey Russell.

Some fun facts since this blog started:

My first re-blogged post landed on the UK Trucker Blogs.

I used the word trucker in a post. It wasn’t even a tag. I wonder if this one will be re-blogged there as well? Just in case, “Hello UK Truckers!” And if you’re reading this from the southern hemisphere, “Hello Truckees!”

The post with the most views: “Have you seen my Pocket Trout?”

This one caught me off guard.  I assumed a porn site referred a lot of disappointed viewers—not the case. Fans of the famous Eveready Pocket Trout Flashlight from the 1990‘s keep the numbers for this post ticking up every week.

Thank you for helping me with my dream of becoming a story teller. In the next hundred posts, I might figure out where to put all that darned punctuation. Until then, I’ll leave you with this thought:

foodforfun's guide to irreverent cookie wisdom

Reblogged from food for fun:

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Mentioned here before is my delight at meeting like-minded folk in the blogging community. Often, these bloggers write about food, but just as often I've enjoyed learning about nonfood topics from experts in other fields. Movies and TV, humor and travel. I've even (unwittingly) picked up a bit of sports trivia. (Still looking for a music blog--please recommend!)

Read more… 665 more words

Thank you Liz of Food for Fun for the great post. Anyone interested in Mint Chocolate Chip cookies might enjoy this. . .

ChapStick and Duct Tape Will Fix Anything

Laughter filled the dining room of George and Bunny Gutierrez’s home. The late afternoon sun flowed across the back wall with Bunny’s grandmother’s pinewood china hutch making the crystal glow.

George held his sides as his body shook. “Darlin’ you can’t be serious?” he asked. His soft spoken Texas accent a contrast to the bass voice emanating from his lineman’s frame. A pencil thin black mustache and goatee framing his mouth.

“George, didn’t you know that ChapStick and duct tape will fix anything?” I asked, laughing.

Richard, turning a light pink, said, “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“Richard, honey,” Bunny said, with her refined Texas accent, her long blond hair swept back into a pony tail behind her head crowning her statuesque figure. Taking a deep breath, she asked “Exactly what is not as bad as it sounds?” Her blue eyes dancing after dangling the bait.

“Bunny,” I said, wiping the tear off my cheek, “it would never have happened if we hadn’t been saving for our house at the time.”

A weak sun fought through the clouds as it set over the Olympic Mountains. The evening commute backing up the westbound traffic on the West Seattle Bridge. “What’re you gonna do this evening to celebrate Hump Night Seattle? We’re expecting localized showers this evening. Traffic is backing up on northbound I-5. . .”

Richard changed stations, “. . .as a result, John Wayne Bobbitt is sentenced to 120 days of house arrest in Las Vegas. We’ll be reviewing Hillary Rodham Clinton’s new book, ‘It Takes a Village’ in the next hour. . .”

“Fannie, we can’t afford the storage unit any more if we’re gonna save for our house,” Richard said, “we could be putting that money into savings and have our down payment that much sooner.”

“Richard, we have a 15 by 20 storage unit filled to the rafters. Where’re we gonna put all that stuff?” I asked, running my fingers through my long brown hair. “Our apartment isn’t that large.”

“I’ve got it figured out,” he said, his blue eyes shining, “we merge the office into the bedroom, we turn the old office into a temporary storage area and all the overflow boxes line the rest of the apartment.” Waving one hand in the air for emphasis, he said, “Then we’ll go through all the boxes, get rid of everything we’re not using, which should be most of it,” he said, staring at me for emphasis, “ then we’ll repack the rest.”

“Richard Cranium, you’re a neat freak, how long are you gonna last with a Dorian Gray room?” I asked, rubbing my hands together, “and even if we rent a truck it will take more than a weekend for us to move all of that stuff out of the storage unit. We only have one day of vacation left between us and it’s not mine.”

“You’re gonna call and get rates for movers,” he said nodding his head, “we’ll save our backs and get the whole shootin’ match done in one day.”

The next day I called the movers.

“We’re busiest on the weekends. Our weekend rates to move a 15 by 20 storage unit would be $1,000,” the woman said, “however, if you move on a weekday, it will only cost you $450. Our next available date is Tuesday, April 30th.”

“I’ll take it,” I said, smiling.

Richard walked into the kitchen. “So what did they say?”

“I booked us for Tuesday, the 30th,” I said, smiling like the Cheshire Cat, “they said for a weekday they’d give it to us for $450. Otherwise it’ll be a grand.”

A wave of expressions played across Richard’s face like the reader board of Times Square. It ended when he crossed his eyes at me.

“Hey, it was your idea,” I said, laughing, “we’re trying to save money for the house. Remember?”

Tuesday evening I passed the Starving Student moving van as I pulled into the driveway. Richard sat on the bottom step of the stairwell leaning against the white quartz chip wall.

“You just finished?” I asked, walking up to him.

“It took five hours, Fannie,” he said, dark circles under his eyes. “We still have to unload the Explorer,” he said, using the handrail to pull himself up.

The clock struck seven by the time we finished unloading. We needed food. I tripped over boxes, two orange tabbies, and a back pack on the way to the kitchen. Two boxes buried the phone on the kitchen counter. I found the Domino’s menu in the junk draw.

I lifted the hand set. Visions of thick crust, mozzarella, tomato sauce, garlic, onions, black olives and steaming sausage flashed before my eyes.

I pressed the first number on the keypad. Hmmm, garlic.

Thud. Crack. Boom. Followed by the sound of rushing water.

“Fannie, help. Quick, I need as many towels as you can find, pronto,” Richard yelled, from the office.

Grabbing all the kitchen towels out of the drawer, I rushed to the office.

Steaming water boiled from the closet like the mighty Columbia River, cascading across the linoleum floor onto the carpeting pooling near the outside wall.

Richard ripped open boxes searching for something.

“Oh my god,” I said, staring at the flood, “what happened?”

“The drain valve got sheared off,” he said, ripping open another box, “help me find something to plug the hole.”

Before I could begin searching Richard said, “Perfect. I’ve got it.” He pulled a half burned black tapered candle from the box. “It’s even the exact size I need.”

Grabbing one of the dish towels from my hand he shoved the butt of the candle into the rushing water. The water stopped.

“Richard,” I said, shaking my head, “that’s not gonna last very long, we have to find something else before the wax melts.”

“Do we have any corks left?” Richard asked, looking hopeful.

“No,” I said, licking my lips. Reaching into my pocket I pulled out my tube of cherry flavored ChapStick. “So how did the drain valve get sheared off exactly?”

“I wanted to get that speaker in the closet,” he said, pointing to his vintage two foot tall wood panel speaker, which now sported a dent on one side. “I guess I didn’t have enough room to store it on the top shelf.”

Richard reached over the top of the tank and turned off the hot water valve. He took the dish towels and spread them over Lake Cranium. Stepping onto the towels he used his feet to wipe the floor. He resembled a duck in a shooting gallery shuffling back and forth over the linoleum.

The sight was too much for the hot water tank. It spit the candle at him with what sounded like a burbling snort. The projectile nailed him on the thigh. It rebounded onto the floor and continued to melt in the hot water pooled in front of the tank.

Richard jumped up and down clutching his leg.

I grabbed all the towels out of the bathroom and threw them in front of the tank. Richard glared at the tank. The color rose in his cheeks.

“Do you still have that tube of ChapStick,” he asked, his voice deepening.

I nodded.

“Give it to me,” he said, holding out his hand.

He picked up one of the wet towels, wrapped it around his hand and shoved the ChapStick into the hole. He took the ten pounds of wet towels and pushed them up against the tank. He dried his hands on his jeans.

Leaning back, he said, “That should hold it.”

“I’ll call Building Maintenance and see how soon they can be here to help us,” I said, leaving the room. Nature’s call detoured me to the bathroom. A quick flush. I washed my hands.

A muffled popping noise followed by a splat and a dull thud. Richard let loose a primal scream. I rushed back into the office.

“What happened?” I asked.

“You’ve never heard of back pressure have you?” Richard asked, gasping for breath, bent over, and drenched from the waist down. The color drained from his face.

“Richard, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know,” I said.

“Help me find the ChapStick tube, we need to get this water stopped.”

We found the tube buried six inches deep in the wad of wet towels. He shoved the tube back into the hole.

“I know how to fix this,” he said, “I’ll be right back.”

One minute later he returned with duct tape and a hammer. Exacting his revenge on the hot water tank, he pounded the ChapStick tube so far into the tank only the white knurl on the end stuck out. Taking the two inch wide roll of duct tape, he ripped off a six inch section and taped it over the tube. He put three more successively longer pieces of tape over the ChapStick.

He kicked the tank. “Let’s see you get out of that one.”

George snorted wine out his nose.

“So what happened?” Bunny asked, handing George a napkin.

“The maintenance guy refused to come until morning and told me to attach a hose to the tank and drain it into the bathtub. He didn’t want to believe me the drain valve was gone.

“I spent the entire night doing laundry while Richard mopped. The maintenance guy showed up at 11 after our downstairs neighbor called about the waterfall pouring through her bathroom light. The carpet extraction crew showed up at 1:00 a.m.. So our little party lasted until almost 4 a.m..

“But get this, the best part is I realized one of my life long decorating dreams, to have an indoor water fall. Only it wasn’t exactly how I planned it,” I said, wiping the tears from my eyes.

“Fannie, honey, that’s because the moral of the story is be careful what you with for,” Bunny said, laughing.

Savage Pompouses

Savage (sav´ij) noun, a member of a people regarded as primitive and uncivilized.

Pompous (pam´pǝs) adj., pretentious; affectedly and irritatingly grand, solemn, or self-important.

“Fannie, did you read The Vidette this week?” Clarissa asked over the telephone.

“Not yet. Why?” I asked playing with the phone cord.

“Yuppie Gardens is having a rose care class next weekend, and while I’m not a big fan of roses or even gardening for that matter, I thought you, Bunny and I could take the class after our coffee klatch,” Clarissa said.

“Wow, Clarissa, are you really sure you want to put yourself through that?” I asked scratching my head. “Bunny and I are probably gonna go berserk over the roses, how long’s the class?”

“It’s only a two hour class, I’ll think of it as a bonding experience,” she said laughing.

“All right,” I said, “are you calling Bunny or am I?”

“I’ll take care of it,” she said.

“I’ll bring you an extra treat, you’ll need it,” I said shaking my head.

Saturday morning the sun filled a rare cloudless February sky over Gig Harbor, Washington. The mercury rested at a crisp 36° F. White wisps of dew suspended between the cedars filter the sunlight on the deer ferns. Water droplets dripped from the moss on the maple trees.

I walked across the street to George and Bunny Gutierrez’ home. A white ranch house with blue trim. A monument to the Dallas Cowboys, George emblazoned the blue star on the garage door a few days before. Bunny opened the front door as I approached.

“So what do you think?” she asked with her refined Texas accent, her long blond hair swept back into a pony tail behind her head crowning her statuesque figure.

“Bunny, I can’t imagine anyone will ever doubt you bleed blue and white,” I said smiling, “I think it’s perfect.”

Bunny’s smile spread like a flower opening to the sun. “Thank you Fannie,” she said, “now what did you bring?”

“Well in addition to my homemade shortbread cookies, I packed a little something extra for Clarissa while we take the class,” I said fishing around in my canvas tote. “Here it is,” I said pulling out a bar of Ghirardelli’s Midnight Reverie, “there should be enough here to last the two hours of the class. She can walk it off while we shop.”

“Did you bring a note pad and pen? If not, I’ve already packed spares,” Bunny said walking into the kitchen.

“I’m good, but bring the spares just in case,” I said running my hands through my short brown hair. “We can compare notes after class.”

Clarissa arrived a few minutes later. She carried a bag of Seattle’s Best Coffee’s, Level Two.

“I thought we might try something a little lighter today,” she said her short red curls framing her round face. Her bright blue eyes shining. “It smells a little bit like cocoa,” she said, “it should prop me up for our class.”

After our coffee klatch we piled into The Love Wagon, a red Ford F150. Richard and I removed the queen futon and disco ball for the occasion.

I parked The Love Wagon on the Wollochet Drive side of the parking lot about fifteen minutes before the class. Bunny lead us into the entrance with the home and yard decor.

Twenty-four thousand square feet of gardening nirvana spread out before us like an oasis. Elegantly displayed yard furniture and decor. Lush indoor plants, small fountains, arbors, trellises and the walls graced with metal sculptures and paintings. Lavender and gardenia scented the warm air. The sun streamed through skylights highlighting displays throughout the showroom.

We meandered through a sliding door into the main green house. The cold air a shock. Large rocks displayed plant and floral arrangements. A teak potting bench with wheels and portable sink sat between two water fountains. Primroses, cyclamen, pansies and heather staged on the bench.

When we crossed to the far side through another sliding door we reached the class area. Rows of tables covered in plants filled an area to our right. To our left shelves filled with high end fertilizers, natural insecticides, bagged potting soil and mulches. Directly ahead of us, rows of folding chairs sat on the cement floor under the skylight facing a wipe board with a long brown folding table set in front.

Bunny lead us up to the front row. Clarissa tapped her on the arm and whispered into her ear.  We moved to the second row. The room filled with women and a single man with short gray hair accompanying his wife.

The instructor walked to the front of the room and introduced herself. She passed a stack of handouts to the class.

Clarissa legs bounced. I fished the chocolate bar out of my tote. Her eyes lit up like Charlie  entering the Chocolate Factory. She ran her finger under the edge of the wrapper. A quiet tearing sound accompanying the operation. The smell of rich dark chocolate wafted into the air.

As our instructor explained the difference between floribundas, grandifloras, and teas, a soft snap followed by another whiff of chocolate. Clarissa took a deep breath and smiled.

Bunny and I wrote notes like monks transcribing a sacred text, trying to catch all of the new terms and planting techniques. Such as if you are going to plant a rose in a pot, what sized pot to use.

Our instructor said, “Let’s talk about shovel pruning. When a rose is diseased or bug infested, you take a shovel to it, dig it out of the ground, throw it away and replace it with a hardier, more disease resistant plant.”

The most of the class said, “Ooooh.”

Clarissa giggled and ate another chocolate square.

The sound of pens scratching on paper filled the room. The sounds of fingers tapping on keyboards strangely absent.

As predicted, Clarissa stretched the bar out over the full two hours and the question and answer period.  Our instructor handed out sheets listing the roses they carried in stock this season, divided by type.

I scanned the two page list. On the back of the last page under the category of climbing rose was listed Cecile Brunner. My heart stopped. I grabbed Clarissa by the arm.

“Oh my god,” I gasped freaking out, “they have a Cecile Brunner. Do you know what this means?”

“It means you’re gonna chant Cecile Brunner all the way home?” Clarissa asked laughing.

Bunny looked up from her list. “Fannie are you all right, you look like you might hyperventilate.” She fanned me with her notepad.

“Bunny, I’m okay, but I have to get a Cecile Brunner,” I said shaking slightly.

Our instructor walked over. “Did I hear you mention the Cecile Brunner?” she asked smiling. “It is one of my favorite roses. It’s nicknamed the Sweetheart Rose and considered an heirloom rose. It was developed by Jean Pernet of France in 1881, he’s a big name in the rose world. It has a little pink bud that gives a light rose fragrance but won’t overwhelm your garden.”

Clarissa’s eyes rolled back into her head.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” I said standing up, “where are they?”

“Follow me,” she said leading us into ten acres of plant paradise. Half an acre devoted to the roses.

Signs at the end of each row signified the varieties we were passing. Hybrid Teas, Grandifloras, trees, shrubs, rugosa and finally climbing roses.

The rose instructor said, “Keep in mind, this rose love sunshine and can climb upwards of forty feet.”

Eight green pots each labeled Cecile Brunner sat on a pallet. I ran my fingers over the thornless cane of the plant closest to me.

Bunny couldn’t take it anymore. “All right Fannie honey, spill. I’ve never seen you behave this way before. There has to be a story.”

Clarissa snorted. She said, “There always is. I think this one involves Fannie’s uncle and a lawn mower if I remember correctly.”

The rose instructor stared at us. “A lawn mower?” she asked her hand rushed to cover her gaping mouth.

“I guess I should put this in context,” I said smiling, “my dad was in the army before he met my mother. She didn’t want to move a lot when we were young, so they decided to get a house halfway between the base and her parents.”

A thin strip of grass coiffed the manicured yard which surrounded a small white house with blue trim. Blue decorative shutters hung on either side of the front windows. A neat aggregate walkway lead from the driveway to the front door.

A sculpted round circle cut in the center of the lawn exposed rich brown dirt. In the exact center of the circle two small green canes peaked three inches above the lawn. Each cane sprouted three leaves.

My father stood up to admire his work. His dark brown hair beginning to thin on top. He wore green fatigues with the name Chambliss embroidered on the chest.

“Velverlorn,” he said addressing my mother who was wearing her favorite Suzanne Pleshette wig, a sky blue sleeveless top with matching pedal pushers and white sandals with three inch heels, “this is a cutting from the original rose my family brought over with us from France. Every member of the Chambliss family has been given a cutting when they purchased a home. This is ours.” Putting his hand on my head he said, “when this grows up, we’ll give each of you girls a cutting of your own to take with you.”

Two weeks later my father’s unit was deployed for duty in Germany for a year. Lenora Jane and I divided the chore of mowing the lawn as Eleanor was still to small to reach the handle of the lawn mower.

In late August, Lenora Jane tried to start the lawn mower. It would not start. My mother came out and tried it. It chugged a few times and died.

My mother called my aunt. “Verla, our lawn mower died, can Carl stop by and take a look at it on his way home from work.”

My mother listened for a few moments. “That’s great, we’ll see him then,” she said smiling.

Uncle Carl arrived at 5:30. The top down on his Cadillac convertible. The temperature soared to 97 degrees. His face and hands tanned to a dark brown. His wide black neck tie loosened at the collar of his white button down collar shirt. He wore pressed black trousers with creased seams running down the front. His black shoes reflected the Cadillac.

We circled the lawn mower. Standing in the shade beads of sweat formed on our foreheads.

“Well let’s take a look at this shall we,” Uncle Carl said smiling. He adjusted the choke, moved the gear into start mode and gave the cord a pull. The mower roared to life.

My mother smiled. “Carl you’re a genius.”

“Velverlorn, it was probably just flooded,” he said reaching over to turn it off.

My mother held out her hand stopping him. “Since you’re here, you wouldn’t mind mowing the lawn. I need to get the girls fed.” Without waiting for a reply, she turn around and herded us into the house.

We could hear the mover rev into high gear. Ten minutes later silence descended over the house. The garage door closed and the squeal of tires tore out of the driveway.

After dinner, we walked out to see the lawn job. The grass looked like a green at Augusta National. One inch tall green velvet lawn stretched in front of the house.

Eleanor rolled on the lawn. “Mommy look at me.” She stopped at the circle next to the family rose. The smile left her face. Her bottom lip fluttered. Her round checks turned bright red. Tears poured from her eyes. “He killed Daddy’s rose,” she screamed rolling into a ball.

We rushed to Eleanor’s side. In the center of the circle stood a two inch long green stub cut on the bias with the white of the inner cane exposed. The cane pulled partially out of the ground. Most of the tender new roots left behind in the soil.

Clarissa walked away laughing. The instructor and Bunny’s mouths hung open.

The instructor’s mouth worked up and down as the color returned to her face. “What a savage.”

“I can’t believe your uncle did that,” Bunny said shaking her head, her blond pony tail swinging behind her head in emphasis. “What a pompous thing to do.”

Franz Anton Mesmer, The Father of Animal Magnetism

Reblogged from The Blog of Funny Names:

Franz Anton Mesmer born May 23, 1734 in the village of Iznang, now part of Moos, Baden-Wurttemberg, Germany. The father of hypnosis, Mesmer led a life plagued by intrigue and scandal.

He attended the University of Vienna in 1759. In 1766 he published his doctoral dissertation called “On the Influence of the Planets on the Human Body”.

By 1768 he married Anna Maria von Posch, a wealthy widow not a Spice Girl, and secured his place as a physician in Vienna.

Read more… 442 more words

This month's contribution to the Blog of Funny Names. Franz Mesmer will mesmerize you. :) Enjoy.

The $18 Smudge

The doorbell rang.

“Are you expecting anybody?” I asked moving toward the door.

“No,” Richard said following me. He stood behind me as I opened the door, I came up to the bottom of his chest.

My older sister, Lenora Jane, and her husband, Steve, stood on the front porch. Lenora Jane, five feet tall with heels, shoulder length brown hair, hazel eyes and the same thin nose as me, held a thin, long package covered in plain brown wrapping paper. All five feet eight inches of Steve, shifted back and forth between his feet, running one hand over his graying temples and through his short brown hair while wiping his other hand on his khaki Dockers.

“Did El call you yet?” Lenora Jane asked tapping on the package.

“No,” I said shaking my head, “we usually call each other in the evening, but you already know that.”

“Are you going to invite us in,” she asked smiling, “I come bearing a gift.”

I stepped back from the door and swung my arm wide. Steve pulled at his collar of his Polo shirt and followed Lenora Jane into the house.

“I’m sure mom already told you, we’re moving into a new place,” she said sitting on the sofa in the living room. Steve sat next to her.

“Yes,” I said nodding, “she said you got a condo down on the Tacoma waterfront, but that it was smaller than your old place.”

“We’re so excited,” she said her eyes beaming. Steve shifted in his seat. Leaning forward she said, “which is why I couldn’t wait to tell you the news in person.”

“You couldn’t wait until our regular call tomorrow morning?” I asked scratching my head. Richard nudged my elbow.

“No this couldn’t wait until tomorrow,” she said fanning herself with the package, her feet bouncing on the floor. Steve cleared his throat.

“Which brings me to why we’re here,” she said her smile glowing. “We want to present you with this,” she said handing me the package.

Running my fingers under the tape, I separated the paper.

“Don’t rip it, I can reuse it,” she said leaning forward reaching her hand out.

“This isn’t my first rodeo,” I said laughing.

The paper fell away from an artist’s canvas. The back of the canvas faced me. I turned it over. Richard stiffened. I laughed.

The canvas covered in red and yellow oil paint smeared together by my two-year-old self creating a color somewhat near newborn baby poop and proudly given to my sister for her fifth birthday.

“I knew you’d love it,” Lenora Jane said squeezing Steve’s arm. “I told you she’d love it, I don’t know what you were so worried about.”

Steve shot Richard a look of sympathy across the room.

“Now that’s funny,” I said laughing. “Let me guess, you gave El back the picture she painted for you when she was five with the cats walking in the garden dreaming of tuna,” I said laughing so hard tears streamed down my checks. “Now I get why you wanted to know if she called.”

“I thought you might like to frame it and hang it in the hall outside your bedroom,” she said laughing, “you could call it your ‘wall of fame’. Oh and I claim visitation rights.”

I looked at Richard who looked stricken. Clearly, our taste in modern art differed in this area.

Smiling like a cat with a spider in my mouth I said, “Richard, I think this would look great in the office.”

The whites of his eyes showed but no sound escaped his lips.

“We could get a frame for it this afternoon,” I said winking. “If you don’t want to go,” I said bumping him with my elbow, “I’m sure Bunny or Clarissa will go with me.”

The plastic smile of a newborn politician spread across his lips. “I’m sure they’d love to go with you.”

After Lenora Jane and Steve left Richard cornered me. He turned pale and his stomach made a few sounds of protest. He said his eyes looking pinched, “Fannie I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but that smudge you call art looks like baby poop and makes me want to puke.”

“Good news, bad news,” I said, “bad news first, when Lenora Jane claimed visitation rights, that meant there’s no where in this house we can hide it without her finding it and she’ll know if we get rid of it. Good news is, I’ll find a frame appropriate to this grand piece of artwork and we’ll hang it in the office, at my eye level when sitting, in the open space next to the door. Then we’ll realize we need a second file cabinet and the only place left to store it is next to the door in front of it. Will that work for you?”

“Just so long as I don’t have to look at it, it really does make me ill.”

“Since we’re meeting for our coffee klatch this afternoon over at Bunny’s, I’ll just take the picture with me and explain the mission.”

I walked across the street with homemade Snickerdoodles and the Smudge. Bunny opened the door. I handed her the plate of cookies. She stared at the painting tucked under my arm.

“Do I even want to know?” she asked with her refined Texas accent, her long blond hair swept back into a pony tail behind her head crowning her statuesque figure. She wore a light blue blouse which matched her eyes. Her shoulders appeared tense.

“This is not a gift for you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I said laughing. “It was a gift for me that I need to get framed. When Clarissa gets here, I’ll explain the mission.”

Clarissa pulled into the driveway. She carried a bag of Valhalla Coffee’s Ethiopian Harrar. “I have something new for us to try,” she said waving the bag, her short red curls framing her round face. She met us on the porch.  Laughing she said, “Oh my god, I haven’t see that since we were in junior high.”

“You know what that is?” Bunny asked her eyebrows knit together.

“Fannie painted it for Lenora Jane when she was knee-high to a tadpole,” Clarissa said laughing, “for years it hung in Lenora Jane’s bedroom. The burning questions is why do you have it?”

“Lenora Jane and Steve bought a condo on Thea Foss waterway, it’s smaller than their rental house and they need to downsize. So to downsize, she’s now re-gifting back to the original givers,” I said laughing. “I need to get a frame for it so I can hang it in the office.”

“How did Richard take it?” Clarissa asked laughing.

“You know how he is about baby poop, I’m glad he didn’t vomit on the spot,” I said. Laughter shook my body, tears spilled over my eyelashes, “you should have seen Steve, he wanted to be anywhere but our place. After they left, Richard called it the Smudge and wanted to get rid of it.”

“The Smudge,” Clarissa asked, “that name is too perfect, it should be illegal. Did she claim visitation rights?”

“You know my family, when don’t they?”

“You can’t get rid of it now,” Clarissa said taking a Snickerdoodle from the plate. “Lenora Jane’s radar will light up like Las Vegas at night.”

Bunny stared at us like we’d lost our minds.

Two hours later Bunny drove the Classic 54, Bunny’s husband George’s restored 1954 Mercedes-Benz 300, with Clarissa and I stretched out in the back seat like it was a vintage Chesterfield sofa. We pulled into a space at Artco’s front door.

Bunny and Clarissa standing head and shoulders above me flanked me as we walked to the back of the store for the frame. People stared at us like we were two of Charlie’s Angels and a child in training.

“What size frame do you need?” Bunny asked as we stood in the aisle staring at the numbers.

I turned the canvas over. “Sixteen by twenty,” I said.

“Over here,” Clarissa said walking down the aisle to our left. Frames of every description wrapped in plastic sat stacked in neat rows on the shelf.

“How much do you want to spend?” Bunny asked looking dubiously at the Smudge.

“Oh, I think Richard would have a fit if I spent more than twenty-five dollars on this,” I said running my fingers through my short brown hair. “So whatever it is,” I said my green eyes twinkling while making air quotes, “it just has to blend with the green.”

Clarissa laughed.

She started digging through the bins on the far end of the aisle, Bunny took the near end and I started in the middle. On the bottom shelf in the very back a dark brown pressed wood frame with a faux beryl grain sporting a yellow sticker proclaiming $18.00 fell onto my arm.

“Ladies, I think we have a winner,” I said sliding it out over the other frames.

“Fannie, that frame almost makes it look like real artwork,” Clarissa said nodding her head, her lips hinting at a smile.

Bunny shook her head, her blond pony tail in agreement. “Well, you certainly can’t beat the price.”

“Then it’s official,” I said holding the Smudge up to the frame, “I dub thee the eighteen dollar Smudge. Laughing and wiping away a mock tear I said, “Lenora Jane would be so proud.”