Smorgasbord Posts from Your Archives -2020- Pot Luck – Angela’s Journey #Fundraiser#ServiceDog by Patty Fletcher

Please help Angela if you can.

Smorgasbord Blog Magazine

Welcome to the current series of Posts from Your Archives… and I will be picking two posts from the blogs of those participating from the first six months of 2020. If you don’t mind me rifling through your archives… just let me know in the comments or you can find out the full scope: Posts from Your Archives – Pot Luck – 2020

This is the second post from author Patty Fletcher and is a post from Patty’s WordPress Wednesday Feature and is an interview with an inspiring lady and her journey.

Angela’s Journey #Fundraiser#ServiceDog

Hello campbellsworld visitors. Today, I’d like to bring to your attention a problem that most are probably not aware of, and that is, the need for ‘service dogs’ which are trained to do multiple tasks.

My friend Angela is disabled in a way that causes her to need such a dog.

Now, you’re probably…

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It’s Yucky

My baby was due in three weeks.  I felt like I was going to die if I didn’t get a nap.  At three, John had given up naps.  I locked all the doors and found King Kong on TV.  I fixed him a tray of snacks and a drink.  “You are a big boy.  I’m going to take a nap while you watch King Kong. You can wake me up if you really need me but I’m so tired. Stay right here with me and try not to wake me up just talk about King Kong.”

“Okay, Mommy.  I can watch King Kong by myself.”  He answered.  I stretched out on the sofa, hoping he’d be occupied for a while.

John patted my face.  “Mommy, King Kong is scary.”

”Then turn it to cartoons.”

“But I want to see King Kong.”

”You can turn it off for a minute till the scary is over, then turn it back on.”

He turned King Kong off and on a few times.  “Mommy, I have to potty.”

”You’re a big boy.  Go by yourself..”

He was back from the bathroom in just a minute.  I

I heard King Kong go off a few more times.

He asked me several questions.  Finally, I sat up.  I saw John’s bare butt in front of the television.and a half a dozen poops smushed into the carpet.  “John!  Where are you pants?  Why didn’t you wipe your hiney?  Look at this mess!”

”I couldn’t wipe my hiney.  It had poop.  It was yucky!”

That it was.

 

Were You Born in a Barn?

I grew up in the fifties  and didn’t expect much.  I didn’t feel deprived, just understood the situation.  All the family toys fit in a medium-sized box and were shared. We had mean cousins who regularly tore them up, so storage wasn’t a problem.   If we realized they were coming and had time, we locked them in my parent’s  bedroom, but nothing was foolproof.  Those hellions could ferret out a steel marble locked in a safe and tear it up. No kid I knew laid no claim to a television, radio, or record player.  We were free to watch or listen along with our parents.

Most of mine and my brother’s time was spent outdoors.  We had the run of our property, including a large two-story barn, so we never had to stay indoors, even in rain or rare icy weather.  “Get your jacket and shoes and socks on before you go to the barn.”  I was more concerned about getting out than I was about bad weather, so I’d gladly have gone barefoot and jacketless, given the chance.  Mother, a pessimist, foolishly believed in hookworms, stray nails, and broken glass.  I knew better, but she stayed on me.  It was a real downer.  If I got wet, I certainly didn’t come in to dry off and change shoes..  Most likely, I was wearing my only shoes.  Should Mother notice wet feet or muddy clothes, we might be stuck indoors for the day or till our jackets and shoes dried  I learned early that if you stay out in your wet things, pretty soon they lose that discolored, wet look.  Besides if you play hard enough, you generate some heat.

Our barn was two stories with a gigantic open door centering the second where Daddy backed up his truck up to load or unload hay.  It was a thrill to get a running start and fly to the ground eight or ten feet below.  Dry weather provided the softest landings since thick, shredded hay and powdery manure make a decent cushion.   Even the most determined jumper soon learned the folly of jumping on a rainy day.  It was too easy to slide into something horrible.  Regular wet clothes aren’t too bad, but malodorous puddles and cow pies should be avoided at all costs.  No one ever broke an arm or neck.

Playing on the square hay bales without damaging them is an art worth learning.  Tearing up baled hay quickly got us expelled from the barn as well as plenty of trouble.  It didn’t take long to discover which friend could be trusted to do right.  Billy and I policed them  and put a stop to tearing up bales.  Daddy had a stacking method we knew not to mess up. The cats loved the barn, busying themselves with the rats who also made themselves at home.  Knowing rats hid in our playhouse made them no less scream-worthy, though we weren’t afraid of them, often hurling corncobs at them.  I don’t think I was ever fast enough to do any damage.  Sometimes we were a little mor effective with slingshots or a BB gun.

A covered area below the loft was intended for equipment storage.  Interestingly, only the broken equipment was under the shed.  Presumably, repairs were started and abandoned there.  The good stuff sat out in the open.  Very little Space was taken up feed.   Mostly, it served as a repository for junk items. One of the most interesting  was a rough wooden box with filled with letters and personal items both parents brought to the marriage.  We were forbidden to open that box on pain of death, so were sneaky as we prowled through it, enjoying  the pictures and letters from old sweethearts, navy  memorabilia including a gigantic pin used to close Daddy’s navy gear bag, six two-inch chalkware dolls in their original box, and  two enormous carved ebony spoons featuring a naked man and a woman with pendulous bosoms.   I can only assume Mother was too much of a coward to hang those shocking spoons on her kitchen wall.  Her sister, Anne, in the WACS had brought them home as a gift to Mother, a woman who wouldn’t  say butt or titty, euphemizing with “your sitting down place “or “chest” if absolutely necessary. What a waste.  If fondling ebony wood breasts makes a pervert, I signed on early. The man was not anatomically correct or the guilt would have undone me..  The pity of it was, I couldn’t ask questions about any of those treasures since  the  boxes were strictly off limits.  Sadly, the rats devoured the letters long before I learned to read, though Phyllis bragged she got to read some.  I prefer to think she was lying.

Lean-to sheds with stalls flanked the left side and back of the barn.  We frequently snitched oats and  one lured the horse near the rail partitions dividing the stalls while the other slid on for a brief ride, then switch around for the other to ride.  We badgered Daddy Incessantly to saddle the horse for us, until one fine day when I was about ten, he told us we could ride any time we wanted if we could saddle the horse ourselves.  We’ never expected that.  Billy and I did the old oat trick and had the horse saddled in minutes.  We rode any time we wanted after that.  I know the horse hated what was coming, but could never resist the oats.

 

 

Joke!

The guide dog led his blind master directly through a green light out into the traffic of a busy intersection.  Horns honked.  Cars crashed into each other all around him.  A good Samaritan ran out into traffic and snatched him to safety.  The blind gentleman reached into his pocket for a treat.  “Good boy.  Good boy.  Here’s a treat!”  He patted the air, feeling for his dog’s head.

“Are you crazy?  He nearly got you killed?  Why in the world are you giving him a reward?” asked the good Samaritan.

“I’m not.” said the blind man.  “When I find out which end his head is on, I’m going to kick his butt!”