Drive On


John was too lazy to work his farm.  His family would have starved if the neighbors hadn’t brought them something to eat.  Finally, a group of the neighboring farmers collected up and decided if John was too sorry to support his family, maybe they ought to just hang him.

They had him loaded up on a wagon to haul to the gallows when Charley felt guilty and spoke up. “We can’t just hang a man for being too sorry to work.  I’ll give him a wagon load of corn to get his family through the winter and he can make a fresh start next spring.  How about that John?”

“Is it shucked?” asked John.

“Well, no.”  said Charlie.

“Drive on.” said John.

Killer Tomatoes (Tales from the Toilet)

Reblog of an older post for a lazy Sunday


imageA well-worn path led down the hill to the toilet located far enough to cut the odor and avoid contamination of our well.  Mama was vigilant about sanitation and shoveled lime into the pit to aid decomposition and screened the open back to foil her chickens who considered the flies and maggots a tempting buffet.  Chickens are not known for their

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A joke for my sisters

Pingback on Joke for My Sisters

Surviving My Sisters

I got a great chuckle this morning when reading Nutsrok’s Joke of the Day. I love her blog posts, and especially when they make me laugh.

Laugh. Laughing. Giggle. Giggling. Full-out belly-jiggle laughing.

And that made me think of my sisters, Connie and Anita. And the times when one of us started laughing, it would catch on and pretty soon all three of us were laughing and it seemed like we’d laugh for ever.

We’d laugh till our eyes were watering, and our laughing so hard sometimes you wouldn’t hear us make a sound, but we were laughing . . . with our mouths wide opened and heads thrown back and our faces red.

And, of course, one of us would say what many girls say when they get to laughing so hard, “Stop, or I’m going to pee my pants!”

Yep, not only did Nutsrok’s recent post make…

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You Poor Baby (Part 2)

vintage baby

part 1

Furious at finding her washing machine packed to the rim with freshly laundered diapers mixed with freshly- laundered gobs of poop, Mother roused Carol from where she snored on the sofa, oblivious to her miserable, bawling baby. “Carol, come here. Let me show you how to use this washer! You can’t just throw filthy diapers in it without rinsing this stuff out.” Mother got a tub, made Carol scoop the poopy diapers out and clean the washer, then sent Carol out to rinse the dirty diapers under the faucet before bringing them back to the washer. “Be sure you dump that dirty water from the tub behind the chicken house, not in the back yard. You may as well get the rest of this mess soaking.” She pointed to the pile of poopy diapers that had not yet had a ride in her abused washer. Carol looked furiously at Phyllis and me as she stormed off to do this demeaning task, clearly much better delegated to underlings like us.

We did have to tend her poor, miserable baby while she slaved over the diaper rinsing, but that was better than rinsing out poopy diapers ranging from rock-hard lumps to runny diarrhea, depending on the vintage. The stench was horrendous, as evidenced by Carol’s retching. I have no doubt Carol was sick when she came back in. She took to her bed(our sofa) to recover. Clearly accustomed to help with her baby, she was reluctant to leave her repose to wash bottles and prepare formula, preferring to call out for one of of kids to “bring me a bottle!” when he cried. The first time, Mother let the hungry little guy have a bottle, despite the fact it was an expensive, hypoallergenic formula prescribed for her own tiny baby. She quickly pointed the case of milk she’d bought for Carol’s baby, the kind Carol requested. “Oh this will be fine,” Carol said. “He likes it!”

“Carol, you need to fix your own bottles! I bought you what you asked for. This stuff is forty cents a can!” Mother explained.

Carol was clearly offended. She dawdled a bit after he finished his bottle, put him down, and shut herself in the bathroom for a good crying session. Eventually, she came out and made a collect call to her mother, insisting she come, NOW! Mama couldn’t come, NOW! More crying on the phone. We were stuck together till the weekend. Carol had no problems leaving his bottles lying about to sour after baby was satisfied. Should he cry out when a sour bottle sat handy, she had no qualms about trying to get him to take it.

The next three days lasted an eternity. At my parent’s insistence, Carol did end up giving her baby good care while they waited for Mama, but she turned him over to Mama as soon as she arrived. His bottom had healed, he’d plumped up, and even played a bit with good care. Poor little guy didn’t get much of a pass. He was soon back home to be joined by a brother and sister in rapid succession.

Alas, Carol’s marriage fell apart, but before long she found another man and launched into her addiction to having babies she had no interest or ability to care for, eventually delivering eleven sad children. At a family reunion once, I heard someone ask how long she was going to keep having babies. She replied, “As long as God wants me to.” It was heartbreaking to see her children suffer from her neglect and ignorance.

Joke of the Day

John was sitting in the bar drinking a nunpint and generally feeling good about himself, when a nun suddenly appears at his table and starts decrying the evils of drink.

“You should be ashamed of yourself young man! Drinking is a Sin! Alcohol is the blood of the devil!”

Now John gets pretty annoyed about this, and goes on the offensive. Continue reading