I figure it is time to learn a new language. So far, I have mastered English (thankyouverymuch), American slang, Blasphemous, Pig Latin, Sarcasm and Mom. I think it is time to focus on a real language. So, why not start with Hawaiian?
Hawaiian is the coolest language merely because they pronounce every vowel even if it is three "a's" in a row. I usually do that when trying remember what I was talking about or when my train of thought has derailed (that's ok, most of the cars were empty anyway). But I am so willing to learn a new and exciting (and somewhat irrelevant) language that I am not likely to use on the mainland.
I remember attempting to take Spanish in high school as well as a semester of French. I, as I have discovered, I do NOT have an ear for languages. I can pick up on some things thanks to food commercials and some steamy historical romance novels, but I have yet to use the word 'Manja' (sp) in everyday language. Although, when I make spaghetti, I generally shout it just so I can sound somewhat Italian.
I HAVE, however, learned to swear pretty well in several languages, some I have made up myself so as to keep the kids from hearing the actual words, although I know they can pretty much get the jist of what I am hollering by my tone.
I even picked up some phrases in Spanish thanks to working for a Spanish speaking couple in my early years of college. I will say this, not once did I ever ask them for a banana, an egg or where the bathroom was. According to my high school Spanish teacher these were important, if not dire, words to learn if ever I set foot in a Spanish speaking country. To me, it would have been far more important to learn phrases such as "What hotel am I staying at?", "Are these ice cubes from your tap?" and the most important, "Will this 'silver' turn my finger green?"
I did learn some key phrases that may possibly help in a some way, "Donde esta casa de Pepe?" that is if I ever meet a man named Pepe. "Donde esta bibliotech?" If I need to go to the library. "El pussygato es loco en la cabesa." Thank you Speedy Gonzales. "La leche es en la cocina." The milk is in the kitchen. And my personal favourite, "Bebe la leche." Something about baby and milk. There is always something lost in translation.
Now, if and when, these phrases ever come in handy, I will be the first to let you know. And I will make darn certain that I give my former high school Spanish teacher a call and let him know that I did use at least one of his phrases in my lifetime. I am quite sure he would give me a "D" for effort.
But I digress...
Learning Hawaiian would be an awesome way to "blend in" to Polynesian culture. That and wearing a coconut bra and a hula skirt. Trust me, nobody wants to see that. Some overweight 40-something pasty white mom in such a get up will get you arrested faster than you can say "Bob's your uncle!"
Which brings me to another fantastic language. English! I don't mean American English, I mean English English. Straight from The British Isles themselves! It is utterly fantastic the words we use in America that have a completely different meaning across the pond. For example, "faggot" means cigarette in Britain and has an entirely different meaning in the States (and meant in a derogatory way). "Knock you up" means to knock on your door in Britain and well, here it means well...get a lady pregnant (or someone of the female gender not necessarily a "lady").
It never ceases to amaze me that when people say "I tell you what..." and then never really follow it up with anything. What are you trying to tell me? What exactly is 'what'? Is there something stuck in my teeth? Is my zipper down? Do you know the secret of the lost treasure of the Sierra Madre (another fantastic Spanish phrase, Thank You Senor JotaJota)? What are you trying to tell me, man?!?
It is a useless question that people have a tendency to use with no real purpose other than to annoy the person they are talking to. Much like "you know?" No, I don't know. Or "ya think?" think of what?
Occasionally I like to use words that puzzle people. for example, "puzzle". Or, to use in a sentence, "I am quite puzzled at today's society and their hedonistic ways." Wow, there was a couple of ten dollar words in a five cent sentence! Why not say "people are stupid." That is more straight to the point and most people would understand that much better anyway.
Or perhaps even more annoying is when people end a sentence with a preposition, such as, "Where is your party at?"...uh...what? I prefer to add a nice tag at the end of such a question, "Where is your party at, bitch?"
But where was I? Oh yes! Hawaii!
Why not start learning Hawaiian just for the mere experience? It can be fun and a valuable tool if you should ever visit the Islands! Not that your pasty white Mainland skin and tourist "Honolulu" t-shirt won't make you stick out like a sore thumb, but you can still act like you belong in the isalnds!
Aloha!
Monday, October 17, 2011
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Snowpants!
ZIP ZOP ZIP ZOP ZIP ZOP
Ah, the lovely nylon-y sound of snowsuits. Mom brought them home for Big Sister and I. They were navy blue with red reflector material sewn on the arms and an awesome belt around the waist. The material was so shiny and slick that at first, we were afraid to put them on for fear of ruining them. However, greed won out and we put them on to see if they fit.
They fit perfectly. Mom was thinking, she bought them each a size bigger so we could hopefully wear them the following year. (We were always being threatened with putting a brick on our heads so we would cease growing.)
I pulled the zipper up under my chin and buckled the belt at my waist. I pulled the hood up and Mom tied the hood under my chin. I felt all toasty warm in my new snowsuit. In fact, I was so warm, I was ready to go outside right then and there and sled down the front yard.
One problem...no snow.
"Well, they fit pretty good," Mom said, untying my hood, "So, let's get these off and wait for the first sledding snow."
Wait a minute...I wasn't ready for that. I wanted to wear my snowsuit around the house, sleep in it! I wanted to stay this nice and toasty all night long. How can you bring these into the house and not expect us to want to wear them around?
Big Sister took hers off and hung it on the peg by the door. I could almost see her halo glow brighter.
Well, Mom is not getting this off me without a fight. My devil horns started to grow.
"No! I wanna wear it around!" I held the zipper under my chin defiantly.
"Jenny," Mom warned, "you can't wear it in the house, you will get too hot."
"NO!"
"Jenny, take off that snowsuit right now." She was getting that look. You know the one, lips pursed until they turn white, eyes flashing, cheeks flushing...
"No." I said less emphatically.
"Jennifer Ellen, you take that off right now or you are going to be real sorry!"
whoops...I got both names. Maybe I should rethink my strategy.
"After my bath, can I try it on again?" I was trying to sound more childlike than my advanced age of 3.
"We will see. In the meantime, take it off and hang it by your sister's."
Slowly, I unzipped the snowsuit and undid the belt, I stepped out of it with my head hanging like a whipped dog. I glanced up to see Big Sister smirking at me as if to say, "See if you were perfect like me, you wouldn't always get into trouble."
I stuck my tongue out at her. Big mistake, I forgot Mom was standing right there. "Jennifer!"
Man, I hated it when she called me by my full name. I was always in trouble whenever she used it. (And frankly, she had used it a lot when I was a kid and well into my teenage years and occasionally into my 20's and 30's.)
That was the nail in the coffin. I didn't get to try on my snowsuit after my bath.
Ah, the lovely nylon-y sound of snowsuits. Mom brought them home for Big Sister and I. They were navy blue with red reflector material sewn on the arms and an awesome belt around the waist. The material was so shiny and slick that at first, we were afraid to put them on for fear of ruining them. However, greed won out and we put them on to see if they fit.
They fit perfectly. Mom was thinking, she bought them each a size bigger so we could hopefully wear them the following year. (We were always being threatened with putting a brick on our heads so we would cease growing.)
I pulled the zipper up under my chin and buckled the belt at my waist. I pulled the hood up and Mom tied the hood under my chin. I felt all toasty warm in my new snowsuit. In fact, I was so warm, I was ready to go outside right then and there and sled down the front yard.
One problem...no snow.
"Well, they fit pretty good," Mom said, untying my hood, "So, let's get these off and wait for the first sledding snow."
Wait a minute...I wasn't ready for that. I wanted to wear my snowsuit around the house, sleep in it! I wanted to stay this nice and toasty all night long. How can you bring these into the house and not expect us to want to wear them around?
Big Sister took hers off and hung it on the peg by the door. I could almost see her halo glow brighter.
Well, Mom is not getting this off me without a fight. My devil horns started to grow.
"No! I wanna wear it around!" I held the zipper under my chin defiantly.
"Jenny," Mom warned, "you can't wear it in the house, you will get too hot."
"NO!"
"Jenny, take off that snowsuit right now." She was getting that look. You know the one, lips pursed until they turn white, eyes flashing, cheeks flushing...
"No." I said less emphatically.
"Jennifer Ellen, you take that off right now or you are going to be real sorry!"
whoops...I got both names. Maybe I should rethink my strategy.
"After my bath, can I try it on again?" I was trying to sound more childlike than my advanced age of 3.
"We will see. In the meantime, take it off and hang it by your sister's."
Slowly, I unzipped the snowsuit and undid the belt, I stepped out of it with my head hanging like a whipped dog. I glanced up to see Big Sister smirking at me as if to say, "See if you were perfect like me, you wouldn't always get into trouble."
I stuck my tongue out at her. Big mistake, I forgot Mom was standing right there. "Jennifer!"
Man, I hated it when she called me by my full name. I was always in trouble whenever she used it. (And frankly, she had used it a lot when I was a kid and well into my teenage years and occasionally into my 20's and 30's.)
That was the nail in the coffin. I didn't get to try on my snowsuit after my bath.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
7 Layer Jello
Ah Thanksgiving. The first of the holiday dinners at Gramma's house. Well, not so much a dinner as a feast. There was more food and fellowship than the VFW on a Friday night.
When Gramma and Grampa still were on the farm, the kitchen was the gathering place. I remember walking in with Mom, Daddy and Big Sister and the women were all in the kitchen running around like a bunch of raped apes getting the dinner ready. The men were in the living room watching football. The kids were...everywhere. We pretty much ran around like a bunch of crazed lunatics, darting in between tall people legs, crawling under tables, upsetting kool aid glasses and trying to hug Gramma.
Gramma was awesome. She could mash potatoes, baste the turkey, cut a pie and hug 5 grandchildren all at once. She had more love in that one little hug and by God, you felt it!
I, of course, was in the heart of it all with the older cousins trying to snitch a taste here and there of the delights that were being put out on the table. I mean, who wouldn't? Pumpkin pie, lefse (sugared and non-sugared), cookies, salads and of course, the famous 7 Layer Jello made by Aunt Jean.
7 Layer Jello was an unbelievable confection of jiggle goodness. It was quite literally 7 full layers of jello. One with the clear coloured jello followed by a layer of whipped cream induced jello followed by clear coloured jello and so on and so on and so forth until it was 7 layers. She made it for Thanksgiving and Christmas every year. It was the epitome of the holiday season when 7 layer jello was involved.
You ate this jello layer by layer. Peeling each one off as carefully as possible to try and make it a full piece. It became a competition between cousins on whom could pull the first layer off successfully. The kudos went to the one who could successfully separate all 7 layers in full pieces.
I am not certain any of the adults paid close enough attention to our little competition but my cousin, Steve, got pretty good at it over the years. my cousin, Chad, would always open his mouth and stick out his tongue with his pumpkin pie. Yeah, that would send the other girls into gales of "gross! disgusting!" I would laugh and copy him. (My admiration for him would change after the whole ghosts in the graveyard incident.)
Thanksgiving was the entrance to the holiday season for my family. After a robust dinner and clean up, Gramma, Mom and the Aunts would chat in the kitchen over coffee and pie, the men would fall asleep watching the football game and the kids would just be...everywhere.
When Gramma and Grampa still were on the farm, the kitchen was the gathering place. I remember walking in with Mom, Daddy and Big Sister and the women were all in the kitchen running around like a bunch of raped apes getting the dinner ready. The men were in the living room watching football. The kids were...everywhere. We pretty much ran around like a bunch of crazed lunatics, darting in between tall people legs, crawling under tables, upsetting kool aid glasses and trying to hug Gramma.
Gramma was awesome. She could mash potatoes, baste the turkey, cut a pie and hug 5 grandchildren all at once. She had more love in that one little hug and by God, you felt it!
I, of course, was in the heart of it all with the older cousins trying to snitch a taste here and there of the delights that were being put out on the table. I mean, who wouldn't? Pumpkin pie, lefse (sugared and non-sugared), cookies, salads and of course, the famous 7 Layer Jello made by Aunt Jean.
7 Layer Jello was an unbelievable confection of jiggle goodness. It was quite literally 7 full layers of jello. One with the clear coloured jello followed by a layer of whipped cream induced jello followed by clear coloured jello and so on and so on and so forth until it was 7 layers. She made it for Thanksgiving and Christmas every year. It was the epitome of the holiday season when 7 layer jello was involved.
You ate this jello layer by layer. Peeling each one off as carefully as possible to try and make it a full piece. It became a competition between cousins on whom could pull the first layer off successfully. The kudos went to the one who could successfully separate all 7 layers in full pieces.
I am not certain any of the adults paid close enough attention to our little competition but my cousin, Steve, got pretty good at it over the years. my cousin, Chad, would always open his mouth and stick out his tongue with his pumpkin pie. Yeah, that would send the other girls into gales of "gross! disgusting!" I would laugh and copy him. (My admiration for him would change after the whole ghosts in the graveyard incident.)
Thanksgiving was the entrance to the holiday season for my family. After a robust dinner and clean up, Gramma, Mom and the Aunts would chat in the kitchen over coffee and pie, the men would fall asleep watching the football game and the kids would just be...everywhere.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Excuse me?
I have the funniest kids on the earth. They have great senses of humour and are very quick on their feet.
The first time I recognized this was with my daughter at the age of 2. We were driving along, me in the driver's seat and she in the car seat in the back. We were driving along singing Barney songs, like you do, when some obviously blind person decided to pull out in front of me. Not being around children on a daily basis for 30 years of my life, I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind. "Jackass!" Oops. Quickly I tried to cover my bad choice of words, "I mean, JERK!"
Too late. From the back seat in a tiny little voice came the Mimic. "Jackass." Obviously trying out the word on her two year old tongue and deciding she liked the taste of it. Ok. Bad parenting 101. There was your first lesson, moron. Solution? Ok, watch your mouth because little pitchers DO have big ears.
A few days go by and I am once again driving with said child. Once again, I am cut off in traffic by someone without a license. I didn't even get a breath in when from the back seat I hear, "Jackass." Not only do they have big ears, they obviously have the memory of an elephant.
Well, at least she used it in context.
Three years later, along comes baby brother. Chynna was positive she was having a baby sister and was somewhat disappointed when she learned she was getting a baby brother. When asked what she was going to name him I feared for the reproachful look I would get from the doctor. Luckily, she did not reply Jackass, she replied "Harry." Whew. Obviously, she moved on to Harry Potter. The reason I suspect this? She walked around the house and would say Bloody hell in an English accent.
Fast forward 5 years. Lucas has become the newest comic relief in our family. He was forever asking questions. sometimes a little more than we preferred.
One day while driving them to school, he blurted out "Hey Mom! Did they have cars when you were little?"
How OLD does this kid think I am?! So, thinking I could get one over on him I replied, "No, Luc, we ride dinosaurs."
"Huh...that's cool. Did you tie their mouths shut so they didn't eat you?"
Kids-1 Mom-0.
The first time I recognized this was with my daughter at the age of 2. We were driving along, me in the driver's seat and she in the car seat in the back. We were driving along singing Barney songs, like you do, when some obviously blind person decided to pull out in front of me. Not being around children on a daily basis for 30 years of my life, I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind. "Jackass!" Oops. Quickly I tried to cover my bad choice of words, "I mean, JERK!"
Too late. From the back seat in a tiny little voice came the Mimic. "Jackass." Obviously trying out the word on her two year old tongue and deciding she liked the taste of it. Ok. Bad parenting 101. There was your first lesson, moron. Solution? Ok, watch your mouth because little pitchers DO have big ears.
A few days go by and I am once again driving with said child. Once again, I am cut off in traffic by someone without a license. I didn't even get a breath in when from the back seat I hear, "Jackass." Not only do they have big ears, they obviously have the memory of an elephant.
Well, at least she used it in context.
Three years later, along comes baby brother. Chynna was positive she was having a baby sister and was somewhat disappointed when she learned she was getting a baby brother. When asked what she was going to name him I feared for the reproachful look I would get from the doctor. Luckily, she did not reply Jackass, she replied "Harry." Whew. Obviously, she moved on to Harry Potter. The reason I suspect this? She walked around the house and would say Bloody hell in an English accent.
Fast forward 5 years. Lucas has become the newest comic relief in our family. He was forever asking questions. sometimes a little more than we preferred.
One day while driving them to school, he blurted out "Hey Mom! Did they have cars when you were little?"
How OLD does this kid think I am?! So, thinking I could get one over on him I replied, "No, Luc, we ride dinosaurs."
"Huh...that's cool. Did you tie their mouths shut so they didn't eat you?"
Kids-1 Mom-0.
The Best Playmate Ever
My Dad. Hands down. He wasn't much more than a kid himself when Big Sister was born and then I came along a mere 11 months later. My dad was all of 20 going on 21 when I entered this illustrious world. I think that is why I have the bizarre sense of humor that I have.
My parents were 21 years old with 2 girls under 2. I, personally, would have been an alcoholic. My kids are 5 years apart and I wonder how people have 2 kids in diapers at once. Hats off to you people. I could never do it.
But, back to my Dad. Yes, Dad was the best playmate my sisters and I could ever have had.
Before baby sister came along, Big Sister and I used to make up games to play with Daddy. One of our favourites was "Mountain Lion". Daddy would get down on all fours and start growling at us. We would scream and run to the couch or chair and climb up on it. Obviously, a Naugahyde sofa was like kryptonite to deranged bloodthirsty felines. We would wait til his back was turned and then scramble down off the couch and try to run across the living room to the chair without getting caught. If you were caught, you had to suffer the mountain lion's wrath. You were usually tickled til you squealed- or wet your pants, whichever came first.
A lot of times we would get loud and Mom would yell from the kitchen, "Mark! Keep it down! You are worse than the girls!"
Well, duh...that is what made the yelling and screaming ok. Daddy was doing it, so could we!
Dad would make up words to songs. He was the original Weird Al Yankovik. Constantly making up songs and singing them in bizarre voices to get us kids to laugh. And we generally did. Heck, even at 41 I still will sing them and he will join in then we will laugh like a couple of loons.
I have one that still runs thru my head about Star Wars. It was sung to the "Empire theme" (google it and then listen to the words) it went a little something like this..."My name's Ralph and I hail Tattooine..My name's Ralph and I hail Tattooine...My name is Yoda...I hail from Dagobah...."
Yeah, it was a real had to be there moment. But it was funnier than heck when you were 8 years old.
My parents were 21 years old with 2 girls under 2. I, personally, would have been an alcoholic. My kids are 5 years apart and I wonder how people have 2 kids in diapers at once. Hats off to you people. I could never do it.
But, back to my Dad. Yes, Dad was the best playmate my sisters and I could ever have had.
Before baby sister came along, Big Sister and I used to make up games to play with Daddy. One of our favourites was "Mountain Lion". Daddy would get down on all fours and start growling at us. We would scream and run to the couch or chair and climb up on it. Obviously, a Naugahyde sofa was like kryptonite to deranged bloodthirsty felines. We would wait til his back was turned and then scramble down off the couch and try to run across the living room to the chair without getting caught. If you were caught, you had to suffer the mountain lion's wrath. You were usually tickled til you squealed- or wet your pants, whichever came first.
A lot of times we would get loud and Mom would yell from the kitchen, "Mark! Keep it down! You are worse than the girls!"
Well, duh...that is what made the yelling and screaming ok. Daddy was doing it, so could we!
Dad would make up words to songs. He was the original Weird Al Yankovik. Constantly making up songs and singing them in bizarre voices to get us kids to laugh. And we generally did. Heck, even at 41 I still will sing them and he will join in then we will laugh like a couple of loons.
I have one that still runs thru my head about Star Wars. It was sung to the "Empire theme" (google it and then listen to the words) it went a little something like this..."My name's Ralph and I hail Tattooine..My name's Ralph and I hail Tattooine...My name is Yoda...I hail from Dagobah...."
Yeah, it was a real had to be there moment. But it was funnier than heck when you were 8 years old.
Friday, November 12, 2010
'Tis the Season
Lately I have been listening to Christmas music in the car... and at work...and at home. I recently came across a tape (yes, I said tape as in cassette) that Dad made me 20+ years ago of the Christmas albums we used to listen to when we were growing up.
Since my car is one of the rare few that a cassette player comes standard in this day and age of cd changers, I popped it in and gave it a listen. As the strains of Andy Williams "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year" filled my car with Christmas cheer, I was whisked back in time to the excitement of Christmas that I felt as a kid.
Amazing how music can evoke so many different emotions at the same time; joy, humor, sadness, humility all roared through my 40 year old self. I remembered dancing in the living room of the parsonage where we lived when I was a newborn until the age of 4. I remembered jumping from couch to chair at the farmhouse from age 4 to 6.
As kids, my parents blasted the Christmas music while we decorated the tree for Christmas. It was always a special treat when Dad put the angel on the top of the tree while Big Sister and I ate milk and cookies and watched in 3-4 year old awe. It was at that time that we were on especially good behaviour because Santa WAS REALLY watching then. (Of Course, Mom will tell you that we weren't perfect angels, but we sure tried hard and only fought twice a day.)
Dad was always goofing around during the holidays and making up his own words to Christmas songs. Many of which, I can still sing much to his chagrin. It is true that little pitchers have big ears. I heard even the nasty versions, but I won't tell if you don't.
The first Christmas in the new house was in 1976. I was 7, Big Sister was 8 and Baby Sister was 1. True to form, when it was time to put up the tree (back in the day we had a real tree), Mom would put the Christmas records on the stackable turntable and the music filled the house.
Listening to the songs in my car made me realize, I missed my turn and have to drive the long way to get the kids.
*Note to self~ Pay attention to the road, Doofen Claus...
Since my car is one of the rare few that a cassette player comes standard in this day and age of cd changers, I popped it in and gave it a listen. As the strains of Andy Williams "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year" filled my car with Christmas cheer, I was whisked back in time to the excitement of Christmas that I felt as a kid.
Amazing how music can evoke so many different emotions at the same time; joy, humor, sadness, humility all roared through my 40 year old self. I remembered dancing in the living room of the parsonage where we lived when I was a newborn until the age of 4. I remembered jumping from couch to chair at the farmhouse from age 4 to 6.
As kids, my parents blasted the Christmas music while we decorated the tree for Christmas. It was always a special treat when Dad put the angel on the top of the tree while Big Sister and I ate milk and cookies and watched in 3-4 year old awe. It was at that time that we were on especially good behaviour because Santa WAS REALLY watching then. (Of Course, Mom will tell you that we weren't perfect angels, but we sure tried hard and only fought twice a day.)
Dad was always goofing around during the holidays and making up his own words to Christmas songs. Many of which, I can still sing much to his chagrin. It is true that little pitchers have big ears. I heard even the nasty versions, but I won't tell if you don't.
The first Christmas in the new house was in 1976. I was 7, Big Sister was 8 and Baby Sister was 1. True to form, when it was time to put up the tree (back in the day we had a real tree), Mom would put the Christmas records on the stackable turntable and the music filled the house.
Listening to the songs in my car made me realize, I missed my turn and have to drive the long way to get the kids.
*Note to self~ Pay attention to the road, Doofen Claus...
Monday, November 1, 2010
Ghosts in the Graveyard
Thinking back, playing Ghost in the Graveyard in an ACTUAL graveyard may not have been the wisest thing to do at the ages of 11 and 8. Why? Well, you asked...
So, Halloween that year fell on a Saturday I think. I was fortunate enough to be allowed to go into town with my City Cousins. Score!
After three rounds of trick-or-treating in three different costumes and about 39 lbs of candy in my pillowcase, my cousin and his buddies coerced Tanya and I to go play in the graveyard. Now, "go play in the graveyard" could have been the equivalent of my father's "go play in the traffic", but not in this case. We really went and played in the graveyard.
My cousin, Chad, and his neighborhood hooligans gathered together and decided to play Ghost in the Graveyard. We were all about the same age 11 and 12-ish, except for Tanya who was 8. But HEY! Who cared? We were the only girls in a group of about 9 boys and we felt singled out and special.
Yeah, that warm and fuzzy feeling did NOT last very long. Little did we realize that we were the stool pigeons for their sick and twisted games.
So, grabbing our flashlights, we rode our bikes up the hill and over to the cemetery. Making sure we were nearly invisible in our dark clothes that would cause many an accident if we darted out in front of cars like an errant deer.
Pulling into the cemetery we just dumped bikes and took off running into the darkened and eerie graveyard we switched off our flashlights so the "hunter" wouldn't find us. Making our way into the middle of the cemetery and scrunched down behind a particularly large headstone, Tanya and I held our breath and tried to calm our pounding hearts. We could hear the boys running, tripping and smacking into headstones followed by a lot of 11 year old curse words. "Ouch! Crap!" "ooof" "Dang!" I think I even heard a "damn" but since we weren't allowed to swear I didn't want to snitch.
I could see the hunter's flashlight creeping in our direction so I grabbed Tanya's hand and hauled her over to one of the few mausoleums in the cemetery. My intent was to hide behind it. Her's was to hide INSIDE it.
Now, normally these tombs of the dead were locked by a padlock or something, this particular one...was not. Quickly Tanya ducked into the tomb pulling the grated door shut. I could hear the metal scrape against the granite as she pulled it shut. What a creepy sound.
All was quiet. For about 5 seconds. Then Tanya obviously looked around and realized that she had shut herself inside a tomb with a couple of sarcophagus (or, plural? sarcophagi?) containing none other than (DA DA DAAAAAHHH creepy music) 2 dead bodies.
She tried pushing on the door only to realize that it was stuck against the granite. She tried pulling it only to find that it would not go any further inside. She pushed and pushed and I heard the panic start to rise in her voice.
"Jenny! JennY! HELP! I'M STUCK!!! HEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLP!"
I didn't really want to lose my hiding place but decided that Tanya was more important than my winning the game. What game? This wasn't really a game anymore, it was a nightmare come to life.
I ran around the side of the mausoleum and could see Tanya's eyes as huge as pie plates in her tiny white face. She was clutching the bars of the grate like a prisoner on death row. "GET ME OUTTA HERE!! CHAD! I'M GONNA TELL MOM!"
I tugged on the door and it didn't budge. In fact, it only seemed to grind further into the granite. This was going to be WAY more difficult than I thought.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I realized that we could no longer hear the boys and their taunting laughter or the noises they were making trying to scare us. This was WAY scarier than those dumb ole boys.
I kept pulling and pulling on the grate and Tanya kept pushing and pushing. We were getting know where fast.
Finally, one of the boys, Gary, by name, came running and tried to help me get her out. He kept talking reassuringly to her to try and get her to calm down. She reached thru the bars and grabbed his arms and had him in a death grip.
He turned to me "Office Chicker lives right over there in the yellow house with the porch light and the big light up pumpkin in the front yard. Go and get him. His lights are still on."
From the tomb, "NO! Don't leave me here!"
Gary held her hands and nodded me to Officer Chicker's house. I nodded to him and took off like the hounds of hell were after me. I ran up to the door and rang the doorbell. I seriously thought I was going to wet my pants I was so nervous.
Officer Chicker opened the door. "What are doing out so late? Does your mother know-"
"OfficerChickeryougottacomequickTanyaislockedinthemausoleumacrossthestreetandcan'tgetout!!!!"
Amazingly, enough, he understood every word I said. He grabbed his hat and car keys. "How did she get in there? How any times have I told you kids that the graveyard is NOT a playground?!"
Looking back, I think it was a rhetorical question because I answered' "I think 9 times."
Nine times.
He grabbed his tool box out of the back of his truck and ran across the street with me leading the way.
When we got there, Tanya was crying hysterically while squeezing bruises into Gary's arms.
"Well," Chicker said, assessing the situation, "I guess we won't be playing in the graveyard ever again, now will we, Tanya?"
Blubber blubber sob sob gasp "N-n-no s-s-sir!"
Officer Chicker grabbed the metal grate and lifted up while pulling out. The door swung open with a loud "SCRRREEEEEE" and Tanya ran out straight into his arms. She cried and cried while Gary and I stood there looking and feeling very foolish. If we would have just looked we would have noticed that the grate had a broken hinge and if would have just lifted up on it, the door would have swung open and Tanya would have gotten out without incident.
After Tanya calmed down and my heart stopped racing, we got the lecture, "Now, I think we have learned a little lesson here, didn't we?"
"Yes, sir."
"Just think that one of you could have fallen and split your head wide open, or broken a leg or worse."
"Yes, sir."
"How many more times am I going to tell you NOT to play in the graveyard."
"None, sir."
He stood and looked down his nose at us with a menacing look on his face for a few seconds. "Alright, now, I want you to go straight home and I don't ever want to catch you playing in the graveyard again."
"Yes, sir!"
That was the last time we were ever conned into playing Ghost in the Graveyard with Cousin Chad and his ruffian friends. They got a good laugh at that when we walked in the door and they saw Tanya's tear stained face.
Needless to say, they weren't laughing later when they got into a bed and sleeping bags filled with shaving cream.
That reminds me...I owe my Aunt Vickie some shaving cream...
So, Halloween that year fell on a Saturday I think. I was fortunate enough to be allowed to go into town with my City Cousins. Score!
After three rounds of trick-or-treating in three different costumes and about 39 lbs of candy in my pillowcase, my cousin and his buddies coerced Tanya and I to go play in the graveyard. Now, "go play in the graveyard" could have been the equivalent of my father's "go play in the traffic", but not in this case. We really went and played in the graveyard.
My cousin, Chad, and his neighborhood hooligans gathered together and decided to play Ghost in the Graveyard. We were all about the same age 11 and 12-ish, except for Tanya who was 8. But HEY! Who cared? We were the only girls in a group of about 9 boys and we felt singled out and special.
Yeah, that warm and fuzzy feeling did NOT last very long. Little did we realize that we were the stool pigeons for their sick and twisted games.
So, grabbing our flashlights, we rode our bikes up the hill and over to the cemetery. Making sure we were nearly invisible in our dark clothes that would cause many an accident if we darted out in front of cars like an errant deer.
Pulling into the cemetery we just dumped bikes and took off running into the darkened and eerie graveyard we switched off our flashlights so the "hunter" wouldn't find us. Making our way into the middle of the cemetery and scrunched down behind a particularly large headstone, Tanya and I held our breath and tried to calm our pounding hearts. We could hear the boys running, tripping and smacking into headstones followed by a lot of 11 year old curse words. "Ouch! Crap!" "ooof" "Dang!" I think I even heard a "damn" but since we weren't allowed to swear I didn't want to snitch.
I could see the hunter's flashlight creeping in our direction so I grabbed Tanya's hand and hauled her over to one of the few mausoleums in the cemetery. My intent was to hide behind it. Her's was to hide INSIDE it.
Now, normally these tombs of the dead were locked by a padlock or something, this particular one...was not. Quickly Tanya ducked into the tomb pulling the grated door shut. I could hear the metal scrape against the granite as she pulled it shut. What a creepy sound.
All was quiet. For about 5 seconds. Then Tanya obviously looked around and realized that she had shut herself inside a tomb with a couple of sarcophagus (or, plural? sarcophagi?) containing none other than (DA DA DAAAAAHHH creepy music) 2 dead bodies.
She tried pushing on the door only to realize that it was stuck against the granite. She tried pulling it only to find that it would not go any further inside. She pushed and pushed and I heard the panic start to rise in her voice.
"Jenny! JennY! HELP! I'M STUCK!!! HEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLP!"
I didn't really want to lose my hiding place but decided that Tanya was more important than my winning the game. What game? This wasn't really a game anymore, it was a nightmare come to life.
I ran around the side of the mausoleum and could see Tanya's eyes as huge as pie plates in her tiny white face. She was clutching the bars of the grate like a prisoner on death row. "GET ME OUTTA HERE!! CHAD! I'M GONNA TELL MOM!"
I tugged on the door and it didn't budge. In fact, it only seemed to grind further into the granite. This was going to be WAY more difficult than I thought.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I realized that we could no longer hear the boys and their taunting laughter or the noises they were making trying to scare us. This was WAY scarier than those dumb ole boys.
I kept pulling and pulling on the grate and Tanya kept pushing and pushing. We were getting know where fast.
Finally, one of the boys, Gary, by name, came running and tried to help me get her out. He kept talking reassuringly to her to try and get her to calm down. She reached thru the bars and grabbed his arms and had him in a death grip.
He turned to me "Office Chicker lives right over there in the yellow house with the porch light and the big light up pumpkin in the front yard. Go and get him. His lights are still on."
From the tomb, "NO! Don't leave me here!"
Gary held her hands and nodded me to Officer Chicker's house. I nodded to him and took off like the hounds of hell were after me. I ran up to the door and rang the doorbell. I seriously thought I was going to wet my pants I was so nervous.
Officer Chicker opened the door. "What are doing out so late? Does your mother know-"
"OfficerChickeryougottacomequickTanyaislockedinthemausoleumacrossthestreetandcan'tgetout!!!!"
Amazingly, enough, he understood every word I said. He grabbed his hat and car keys. "How did she get in there? How any times have I told you kids that the graveyard is NOT a playground?!"
Looking back, I think it was a rhetorical question because I answered' "I think 9 times."
Nine times.
He grabbed his tool box out of the back of his truck and ran across the street with me leading the way.
When we got there, Tanya was crying hysterically while squeezing bruises into Gary's arms.
"Well," Chicker said, assessing the situation, "I guess we won't be playing in the graveyard ever again, now will we, Tanya?"
Blubber blubber sob sob gasp "N-n-no s-s-sir!"
Officer Chicker grabbed the metal grate and lifted up while pulling out. The door swung open with a loud "SCRRREEEEEE" and Tanya ran out straight into his arms. She cried and cried while Gary and I stood there looking and feeling very foolish. If we would have just looked we would have noticed that the grate had a broken hinge and if would have just lifted up on it, the door would have swung open and Tanya would have gotten out without incident.
After Tanya calmed down and my heart stopped racing, we got the lecture, "Now, I think we have learned a little lesson here, didn't we?"
"Yes, sir."
"Just think that one of you could have fallen and split your head wide open, or broken a leg or worse."
"Yes, sir."
"How many more times am I going to tell you NOT to play in the graveyard."
"None, sir."
He stood and looked down his nose at us with a menacing look on his face for a few seconds. "Alright, now, I want you to go straight home and I don't ever want to catch you playing in the graveyard again."
"Yes, sir!"
That was the last time we were ever conned into playing Ghost in the Graveyard with Cousin Chad and his ruffian friends. They got a good laugh at that when we walked in the door and they saw Tanya's tear stained face.
Needless to say, they weren't laughing later when they got into a bed and sleeping bags filled with shaving cream.
That reminds me...I owe my Aunt Vickie some shaving cream...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)