Death by Shovel

Spring has sprung, and with it has come "outside chores". The outside chores I don't mind are mowing the lawn and washing the cars. Both allow me to listen to my music entirely too loud, transporting my soul to my happy place, where I am forever 17 years old.

The Wifey is in charge though, and along with wonderful weather comes Wifey with good ideas… and it’s only a matter of time that one can dodge the bullet.

Why is it that my Wifeys good ideas always involve me and a shovel?


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I am not alone. We have some friends who upon each Saturday it is declared "A and E day"(the "E" means elbows)--which the husband and son are relegated to labor camp until such time as the work is done. I have listened in awe as my friend explained to me a typical A and E, and wondered how he had energy to make it in to work on Monday. I admit Wifey has allowed me most of the winter off while I languished in my mancave with John Wayne and others.

( It is important to note that the cowboys work six guns and not shovels).


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Ok, so anyhow we are "A and E" (the "E" means elbows) at La Casa de Pescador and my little truck has made 35 trips to Lowes in the last 3 weekends. She also knows that Waffle House and Nu-Way are both across the street so she has plied me with peanut butter waffles and chili dogs to keep me aligned as a consenting adult.


Today’s outside chore was the removal of a basketball goal. The plan was to dig around the goal with yon shovel, down and around the concrete, at which time some shaking and shimmying of the goal post would thereby loosen up the remains, of which I would haul off.

If only it were that easy.

Using my D handled implement of death I dug, and promptly ran into plastic pipe that I believe runs power to the house... "Call before you dig" entered my mind but there wasn't anyone to call and Wifey already had her hands on her hips watching. I maneuvered around and down, exposing the concrete enough that I thought I could shake it loose.

Har, Har, It was to laugh.


I tried getting a grip on the post and maybe pulling it loose. That would have been laughable had I not been on the verge of losing a testicle in the process.

My neighbor Mike heard me grunting, and offered his assistance. A few minutes later he showed up with a chain, truck, and trailer hitch-- we hooked up the chain to the post and then the trailer hitch and only managed to bend the post and goal over, although it was still securely in the ground—

How deep does a goal post need to go into the ground? Well, I didn’t know before and I don’t know now.

Normally in this part of the story I would have lost my temper and let a few adjectives fly--but I saw Wifey in my peripheral and bit down on my lower lip, deciding instead to hum "zip a dee do dah" instead.

Not to give in, Mike went back to his shop and got his Sawz-all, a manly testosterone drenched saw if there ever was such, and cut that everlasting infernal no good sonofayouknowwhat down at the root, thereby leaving me and my shovel to fill in the hole.

The thrill of victory. The agony of deshovel.


Back in olden times men only lived until they were in their 40s or 50s, (save perhaps for Ben Franklin, who was smart enough to trade in his shovel for writing letters to the editor and flying kites, and who was like 86 when he checked out)--at any rate the men died early in their lives not because of disease, famine, toothaches or even the common cold, but they expired from being worked to death. The foundation of all their back breaking labor was the shovel.

That holds true today.

Other tools of death are post hole diggers, axes, and sledge hammers--all equate to back breaking labor and by my calculations early death. Verily, these are the tools of chain gangs and hardened criminals who deserve such a fate.

But don’t take my word for it, folks, just do the math:

D=(A+E) x 52 {S2} (remember E is elbows)

L= -(L-F) no leisure no food

S = D+L

Thus S=D (shovel=death)

My math may be sketchy, but you’re just going to have to trust me.

TUNA ON WHITE

Preface:

Winnie, the blonde headed daughter I never see, informs me she is enroute to her place of work but has made tuna fish and there’s “plenty”.



When Life hands you tuna fish you add some mustard and mayo and a few sweet pickles and make, well, what I call tuna fish. You know, the kind for crackers and or sammiches. My expectation was a sammich.



Maybe it wasn’t my expectation as much as it was what I had envisioned. I envisioned white bread cut in diagonal. It goes without saying that the Lord himself eats sammiches cut diagonal. In this instance, what I envisioned shattered my expectations. It cut them to pieces, and not diagonally.



No bread.



By that I mean, again, if you will digress with me, the bread the Lord himself eats. White bread. Sammich bread. Alas, the Lords bread. And I ain’t got none. Correction. Its ‘ain’t got any’. Pardon the grammar, I’m a bit stressed.



At this point in my diatribe I must make mention that Wifey has been on a “fiscal cleansing” jihad. “We ain't buying no more groceries until we thin out what we have in the cabinets!” says she.



I look again, as my blood pressure begins to rise. Nothing. Then I saw it.



Bread. Well, the wrapper said bread, but it also said “WHEAT”.



You can tune a piano, but you can’t tuna fish on wheat.



In my mind I heard a voice. It was the voice of every Mother since the beginning of time saying "Wheat bread is better for you..."



Mom law 101, section 2, paragraph 3 a (1) states: “Mothers will utilize white bread to convince their children to eat until such time that the implementation of whole wheat is achieved. This deception will further be enhanced by the repetitive chant of “its better for you”. Normal Whole wheat transition may vary from child to child, but should be complete by the 16th year, at which time no recollection of ever having served white bread will be acknowledged. For further guidance in this see section 17, appendix A; Spouse Reinforcement Training.

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I am a victim of the damn fiscal cleansing. There’s nothing in this house to eat save for a can of chick peas......chick peas aren’t eligible for fiscal cleansing. In fact, they wouldn’t even make good fish bait. Chick peas are called that because only girls eat them.





I work hard, am in the car for nearly four hours a day, and don't give or take any crap ---at the very least my expectation should be some white bread sammiches—yet here I am with whole wheat…..







Hold your nose

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Wheat bread is to sammiches what methiolate and mercurochrome was to cuts and scrapes. “Blow it”, Mom would say as she would apply it into my wound. But the end result was the same. Intense stinging. The problem is that nowadays wheat bread still exists.



Want another example? Ok. To compare wheat to white is to compare castor oil to chocolate milk. Yes, you are exactly right. There's no common denominator. But by using this same logic—this comes from George 101 so bear with me--- and compare castor oil to wheat bread. Now you can clearly find the common denominator. Got it? Correct! A hyperactive gag reflex.



Friends, there’s no room for discussion or debate here. Wheat bread is medicine!



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For a nanosecond I opted to make a PBJ, but then thought why waste good Peanut butter and jelly on wheat bread?



WWJWD. What Would John Wayne do?

He would have done what any real man would do—beat his wife senseless with the can of chick peas and tell her to pack her bags. Well, no not really, that’s just me being emotional. The Duke would have darn well went to Kroger and bought a buggy full of Colonial Old Fashioned White. He would have also stopped on aisle 3 for cereal and aisle 5 for Ovaltine, but again I digress.



As it turned out, I reached down where my man parts are supposed to be, made me a tuna fish sammich on whole wheat, pinched my nose, and like most medicine, swallowed it whole.

To get the taste of tuna fish and wheat bread out of my mouth, I found some Tony Tiger Flakes and ate them. After all, wheat bread is better for you.

Adventures in grocery shopping, episode 18- “The Essentials”

Lord have mercy, it is Friday and a Holiday weekend. The kids are all coming home so that means a trip to the all important KROGER for provisions. I called Wifey and asked her what I needed to pick up—“just the essentials”, said she. “Text me thy list, oh wise one” said I.


Somewhere on Aisle 2, which is the aisle before the greatest aisle ever (the CEREAL aisle)—I received my text message.

Milk
Bread
Italian/French bread for French toast
Blueberries (French toast)
Grapes for Pootie
Eggs
Cereal
Dog TREATS!!

Even though I am a novice grocery shopper (I normally push the buggy), I immediately thought of a few items that qualified as “essential” so I amended my list accordingly.

Besides the items listed above, here are the items I brought home. To me it is a “no-brainer” and I am puzzled as to why Wifey wouldn’t have thought of these as quickly as I did. Bless her heart, I know she is busy at work today. Please note for all you civilians that it is written in proper US Government format.

Donuts, Powdered, bag, Entenmanns (Pottamus can’t steal these, they are paid for

Wafers, Vanilla (did I mention JoeFish loves these?)

Sammiches, Ice Cream, Chocolate Chip ( precisely-how could you NOT?)

Drink, Chocolate, Yoo Hoo, box, 10 each (for any child that may be here this weekend under the age of 5—just in case)

Drink Mix, Powdered, Ovaltine, (fat free/vitamin fortified) Chocolate, family size (we are a Family--duh! hello?)

*Cereal, Swetened Corn w/ Crunch Berries, Cap’n Crunch, 1 each

*Cereal, Swetened Peanut Butter flavor, Cap’n Crunch, 1 each

* (with Proofs of Purchase for the Retro T-shirt as I know Wifey will steal mine)

Pistol, Revolver, Western Style, Die cast metal, 1 each (to accompany Western movies on TV in the man cave)

Caps, Bang, 250 count per box, 3 boxes (remember, without ammo, its just an argument)

Sauce, Spaghetti, RAGU, traditional 1 each 48 oz. (I do realize that this was a complete emotional and impulse purchase- Wifey, please forgive me this once…)



So there you have it. I think my natural talent as a “quick responder” is obvious. Certainly my Wifey will appreciate this, as will the rest of my crew. I can’t wait until she gets home to also see that I even put all the groceries away!

But that’s me--Always thinking about someone else.

Speaking of someone else, looks like its time to go slop the hog!

Happy Labor Day, Y’all….

Wee, Wee, Wee, Woe is Me.....(The conclusion and beginning)

I had stated my case. I had fought the good fight early on and had been supported by good folks who sided with me in my plight.


Namely, my buddy Major James "Jaydawg" McNair.

He said that in order for me to secure victory in this debate that I ”should bring home charcoal, lighter fluid, and some (insert favorite brand name here) bbq sauce and have it on the kitchen counter when she gets there..... And while you are at it, cut her off this weekend. After all YOU have half the money and.........."ALL pigs, regardless of size or color were place here by the very Jesus she tried to guilt you with for ONE reason.....consumption. Mans only got one BFF-- AKA D O G. Besides, pig poop stinks. You stand tall, warrior."

Words to live by. I lived by them until I got home......

And so it came to pass, that while we awaited word about the possible acquisition of Wilbur the pig, one of my Facebook friends posted a notice (and a photo) of a teeny tiny baby pot bellied pig that a farmer in Milledgeville had for sale (amongst an entire litter of baby pigs).

"What say ye", Sayeth Sue? "When Pigs fly", says I.

I had mentioned to Wifey that perhaps if she considered two other animals in the equation ( brownchickenbrowncow) I might be easier to persuade.

What she said can't be restated.

The family had already gone crazy about the pig--any pig--Amanda sent word "I want the pig", Lyndsay said "Has Mom picked the pig up yet?" and Joe weighing in from College telling his Mom "Don't mess the pig thing up, Mom".....not to mention 80% of Howard High Schools Sophomore class, of which Lyndsay is a member...(see the first installment for where I rate in all of this).

Sunday morning. We drive to the farm over in Milledgeville and purchase a baby pot bellied piglet of a pig. We stopped back at Wal-Mart and bought a baby blanket and baby bottle so we can feed the new pig milk until she is able to eat regular pig food.

Her name is ....."Begonia".

Good grief. One more female in my house.

Spanky, my male dog, and I are presently in the Man cave.

His look says it all.

Wee, Wee, Wee, all the way HOME?

SHE: We shall call him ---- WILBUR


ME:I got news for you..We shall call him SUPPER if you think we are getting a dang pig..


SHE: Him needs a home.

We have lots o land.

He is adorable. I want him

I always get what I want.


ME: NO! (as if...)

And I mean it like I ain't ever meant NO before.



SHE: NO means yes... isn't that what you always say?



ME: That only applies to Sex.

Not for pigs.

knucklehead---I'm mad with you--you have lost your mind- have you changed your tobacco habit for cannabis?


SHE: Why would you be mad at me?

How would a little miniature pig be a detriment to your life?



ME: Not less than 2 weeks ago both you and the Booger (Amanda) were about to have a s**t hemorrhage about Pottamus keeping the turtle, yet you turn around and somehow between bong tokes you have had your compassionate heart melted by a pig that needs adopting?

Do you not know what pigs would do to your yard?

Do you not understand we aren't ABOUT to have livestock or anything else that requires a "pen" out at our house?

Do you not understand that you have three worthless dogs already, 2 of whom aren't housebroken?

Do you NOT understand that pork is the OTHER white meat?


No, ma'am, a little pig, in and of itself, would not be a detriment to my life. However, a wife, evidently one who has started smoking crack, would be. She would also have hell to pay if she brought a young piglet to Beaver Oaks. Step away from the crack pipe, Ma'am.

SHE:

1. I didn't say anything about the turtle other than keeping a 9" turtle in an aquarium 1 foot by 3 foot was borderline abuse.

2. It’s not pigs it is WILBUR. And what it would do to what yard? I ain't putting him in the front yard. He will have a pen. He can tear up everything he wants in his pen. (JUST THINK... THAT MUCH LESS YOU HAVE TO CUT.)

3. It’s not LIVESTOCK. It’s Fisherstock and his name is WILBUR. Would you turn away Jesus if he came to you looking for a place to stay?

4. A pen, that YOU will build with your own hands from your heart.

5. The other white meat?? Did you not see the picture? he is of multi-ethnicity. Black and White. Ebony and Ivory. Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson. It’s what America is founded on.


You are delusional. I am not smoking crack. I want to spread love. You know like Sarah McLachlan sings about.


ME: Go get one of your urinalysis kits and test yourself for being positive for whatever the h--- it is you are smoking.You are delusional, impractical, fanatical, maniacal, and at this point, must have peed your pants; because if you think for one solitary nanosecond that we are adopting a swine pork pig, aka " Sus scrofa domesticus" then you are mistaken, aka "fullimus excrementus"...............


SHE: Whatever. Again, I didn't ask permission.

There is nothing wrong with having a pet pig.

And Pootie would LOVE it!


ME: There you go invoking the "P" word...

Pigs have been known to attack people. (this fact from being attacked myself Memorial day weekend, 2000)


SHE: They attack people who look at them like barbecue.

WILBUR is sweet. He just hangs out. Eats dog food.

I don't need your permission.



ME: No, and there's a lot of other things you don't need… (in one final act of defiance)

Bring that d--- pig home and you're going to find out what those are too.


WHAT WILL HAPPEN…….WILL LA CASA de PESCADOR become CASA de VIVR CERDOS, or WORSE? Will George stock up on Charcoal  and barbeque sauce on the way home from work?

Stay tuned for tomorrows exciting installment….

As it happens, we were in the Man cave watching the movie Batman and Robin when I heard Wifey sniffing. She was crying.

“Is the movie that bad? I inquired.

“Joe”, was her only reply.

Joe, aka Man’s Best Friend, our Son, loved Batman and Robin. For every Halloween I can remember he was either Batman or Robin. Every towel in our house had a Safety pin in it for his cape…

Joe heads off for College tomorrow. It’s hard enough on me as it is but now that my “tough as nails” Wifey has turned into a basket case I have no option but to “Man up” about the whole thing. She has certainly earned the privilege to be a basket case just by being married to me, but especially at this particular junction.

This is, after all, her Joe.

“Joey”, as she calls him. She is the only one on the planet that calls him Joey. Her Joey.

Of course he has been my source of male companionship for quite some time. As a bonus, he’s the only other male member of our house that is housebroken.

Yes, here we are, like so many of our kind, about to kick another one from the nest.

For Joe—well, it was just the other day he was waiting for me in the yard (with glove, bat and ball) to arrive from work so we could play ball. And, too, he just got the tubes in his ears from all those ear infections he has had—he has been coughing and had the “snots” since Thanksgiving, for crying out loud. No doubt having picked it up from some other kid at Kindergarten…..wait---was that really that long ago? Tempis fugit, as they say in Latin. That means “time flies”. We have the same saying here in Georgia-“just damn”---roughly translated it means “Lordhavemercywhereinheavensnamedidthetimego?”

Lets see, now….there is Joe the infant, his Mom the only soul who could soothe his lactose intolerant self. Then Joe the infant, part 2, who liked to throw up on his Dads shirts. There’s Joe the infant, part 3, whose first words were “Ball”. There’s Joe the medical patient, taking his Tony the Tiger baseball into the operating room to get those ear tubes. Joe the kid whose Christmas was made perfect from the cowboy boots. Joe the Batman, Joe the Robin, Joe the regular Joe. But always Joey to his Mom. Joe the worldly old man, sitting in the barber chair getting his first haircut and acting like he had done it his entire life. Joe the Hunter, who first came running thru the door with two freshly assassinated squirrels and a few years later a deer. “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll provide”, he said. Joe the Fisherman, who spent most of his fishing time with Dad fixing the “birds nest” from those infernal bass reels. And forever Joe the ball player, my personal favorite since 1996.

Joe the middle schooler, Joe the Guitar player, and Dapper Joe in his Prom Tux.

The one I recall the most is “GI Joe”, the little boy who ran back down the escalator to tell his Soldier Dad bye one last time before he left for war. I waited at the escalator, only to grab him up and put him back in the arms of his Momma. I promised I would never make my boy or myself cry like that again.

It’s August, 2011. There’s another Joe about to bloom. Joe the College kid. Good luck, buddy.

I will be waiting for you at the escalator.

Love,

Dad

A SENIOR MOMENT

There’s no crying in baseball.




Tom Hanks said it in that movie, and every Dad has told his ball playing son that a million times.



Play hard. Play Hurt. Play your guts out. Most of all, Play ball. Play ball until you can’t play it anymore.



Base Ball, people will most definitely come, point to the fence, don’t step on the chalk , bring it, take two, lets play two, infield fly rule, pickle, resin bag, pine tar, and even the most feared piece of gear known to sportdom, the jockstrap.



For three years solid the Howard Huskies ball team has occupied a high priority in these young men and their parents. For some of us, the ties that bind take us back to when our boys were 7-8 years old, playing recreational ball. We have seen each others boys grow into fine young men and they have become our other surrogate children in the process—OUR boys.





For three years us Parents had quite the time of it, cheering, jeering, using our “bad words” from time to time, loving “blue”, hating “blue”, wanting to burn “blue” in effigy, driving all over the state, dining on concession stand fare, even second, third and fourth guessing the Coach—but ever supporting our boys. We rocked with Mr. Finklesteins’ between inning and walk out music, and heard Kerrell Goolsbys’ colorful play by play commentary….





Our Boys… Stewart “Stewie” Bowers, Brandon “B-leigh” Leigh, Matthew “Fitzy” Fitzgibbons, Kyle “KK” Kelley, Mike “Big Mike” Atkinson, and my one and only Joe “Joefish” Fisher.



And so it came to pass on that wonderful spring night at the Huskies “home field” (one day maybe), our boys--- the six seniors of the original Howard Huskies—played their last baseball game together.





We lost two out of three. And it still sucks to lose.



It matters not. They had played their guts out and that’s what matters. They were a unified group of kids that had a common goal, and that’s what matters. They backed each other up, cheered each other on, and took it like men when the end came.



But there’s no crying in baseball.



And we never saw it coming.



Perhaps it was the Coaches post game huddle. Perhaps it was Fitzy who started it all. Then Stewart. Then Joe. Followed quickly by Mike and B-Leigh-- Kyle would be next. However or whoever, it doesn’t matter. It snuck up on everyone. It was the bottom of the ninth for High school Baseball for the Original Huskies.



Our boys.



They remained on the field. The field where they spent the last three years playing together. Now they hugged and cried together.



They were having their senior moment. The entire team huddled on the field. The Seniors gave their parting guidance to the underclassmen, had some more laughs, tears, and hugs, all the while remaining on the field. Coach came out and said “The Seniors are having a moment with the rest of the team; they’ll be through in a few minutes.” That was ok by me—if they wanted to stay all night I was fine with it. At that moment I would have taken every one of em for a beer.



On the other side of the fence, the Parents saw this and spoke in whispers in much the same manner as when we go to funerals to mourn the death of someone.



Reverence.



Some of us Dads went to the dugout gate to receive our boys. One by one they came out and the same thing that happened on the field happened in the arms of Dads and Moms.



Then we had our Senior moment. I broke the rules. I cried in Baseball. That makes me a hypocrite. I’m not the only one, thank goodness.





It was the end of an era. A turning point for all of us. A bittersweet night as these fine young men realize the end of what has been a part of their life for a decade and a half.



For us Dads, we were losing our youth for the second time. We had been reliving it thru our boys all these years. Not only were our sons baseball days were coming to an end but the sobering realization that there wasn’t a damn thing we could do about it. It hurt. It hurt a lot. It still hurts. It hurts too much to cuss and I’m too old to cry.



But then again, there’s no crying in baseball.