I’m one that loves a practical joke…NOT the kind that embarrasses or hurts anyone. Just pure fun jokes that bring a laugh to even the most stoic person. There was a guy named Bill that worked with me whose practical jokes were not only unpredictable, but sometimes dangerous. He had a reputation for his antics.
I orchestrated my favorite of all time in the late 1970’s in the Forecast Office. First a little background.
We belong to a HMO for our health care. Regardless what you may hear about HMO’s, ours is one of the best. I visited the doctor one day for one thing or other, and went to the pharmacy to fill a prescription. The pharmacist informed me that “This is Family Planning Month” and they were giving out a box of 36 condoms to each family.
My wife had a hysterectomy and we really didn’t need to worry about birth control, but like a good little consumer, I took the condoms home. After all, in a rainstorm you could use them over the end of your gun barrel to water out. There would probably be a use for them in my shop. Who knows?
Well, those things sat around my shop for some time, and I finally thought it time to get rid of them. The problem was how to dispose of them appropriately.
I was lucky because I was one of those people who thought there’s was the best job in the whole world, and it really was. I worked a week of day shifts, a week of evening shifts and a week of mid-night shifts, the schedule would then repeat itself. The Forecast Office was in the Lake Union Building which was on the shore of Lake Union, in downtown Seattle. The Weather Service leased the entire top floor and the view was spectacular. The lease also included beautiful indoor plants through-out the office and some contracted people to maintained them.
My boss (called the Meteorologist in Charge, or MIC) was extra proud of th gorgeous plants in his office. One night while working the midnight shift, I took the box of condoms to work with me. During some slack time, I opened the box and taped 36 condoms (unopened or course) to his favorite plant and left a note on his desk saying “Congratulations!! Your Rubber Tree Plant is in Bloom!!”
When my shift was over, I gathered up my empty lunch dishes, jacket and whatever, and headed for the door. I passed the MIC’s office and it was easy to overhear him talking to Bill, telling him in rather strong language “This is not funny. There’s women who work here and if even one of them complained we’d both be in trouble.”
As the door closed behind me, I could hear Bill saying “But I didn’t do it!.”
The next day I told the boss that I was the culprit, but he just would believe me. He retired a few years later, and even then he still blamed Bill for the blooms on his precious plant.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Build a Better Lawn Mower
I was going to college and we didn’t have any money to spare. So when our gas lawn mower burned up, (another story) we found a replacement at Good Will, only that one was a push mower.
You have to understand at time we had three kids, I went to school full time, worked for the University (Work-Study) during the day, worked at night, and drove truck on weekends, so such mundane tasks as lawn mowing were at the bottom of my list. Besides, I was (still am) allergic to fresh cut grass and the thought of using a push mower didn’t add to my enthusiasm. So now you can understand why the grass was somewhere near 8 or 10 inches high.
We lived in a trailer park and had a narrow, long lawn. I finally worked up the courage to try the hand-pushed mower. It didn’t take long to realize that this was more than a simple job. I had to back up the mower, then shove it forward as fast as I could, only to cut a few inches before the momentum was lost, then the process would have to be repeated. This was real WORK, and it was a HOT day! It took a little while to mow the first 6 feet or so, along the edge – right by my bike.
Now my bike was a 100cc Yamaha dirt bike that I built out of three other trashed bikes, for almost no money. It was a real mover. I could do a “wheelie” through the first two gears – not bad for a 100cc. I was very proud of that bike.
So here I was pushing a stupid mower and that bike was just sat there doing nothing. That’s when I got one of my brilliant ideas. I wired a wooden box to the lawn mower and filled it with bricks. That would give it the traction it would need. Then all that was necessary was to tie the mower to the bike. So far, so good. The mower had to be guided when pulled so I called my wife out to do the honors. She is good natured and will try almost anything once, and she agreed.
I started off slow and the mower actually worked – well sort of. It left some tufts of grass but they could be cut later with much less effort. If you have ever ridden a bike, you know it needs a little speed to have better control. So I gave it more gas. The bike didn’t even grunt, I think it probably could have pulled a cement truck. So we sped down the length of the lawn.
My wife was running behind the mower, guiding it as grass flew up, covering her from the waist down. She understood (sort of) and we turned around and made another run at it.
After two or three runs, it all came to a stop when she looked up and saw our neighbor out by the fence with his movie camera, laughing and filming the whole procedure. She threw down the mower handle and went into the house. No amount of coaxing would get her to come back out, and for some reason the neighbor with the camera wouldn’t lend a hand either.
I finished the job the hard way – all by myself
You have to understand at time we had three kids, I went to school full time, worked for the University (Work-Study) during the day, worked at night, and drove truck on weekends, so such mundane tasks as lawn mowing were at the bottom of my list. Besides, I was (still am) allergic to fresh cut grass and the thought of using a push mower didn’t add to my enthusiasm. So now you can understand why the grass was somewhere near 8 or 10 inches high.
We lived in a trailer park and had a narrow, long lawn. I finally worked up the courage to try the hand-pushed mower. It didn’t take long to realize that this was more than a simple job. I had to back up the mower, then shove it forward as fast as I could, only to cut a few inches before the momentum was lost, then the process would have to be repeated. This was real WORK, and it was a HOT day! It took a little while to mow the first 6 feet or so, along the edge – right by my bike.
Now my bike was a 100cc Yamaha dirt bike that I built out of three other trashed bikes, for almost no money. It was a real mover. I could do a “wheelie” through the first two gears – not bad for a 100cc. I was very proud of that bike.
So here I was pushing a stupid mower and that bike was just sat there doing nothing. That’s when I got one of my brilliant ideas. I wired a wooden box to the lawn mower and filled it with bricks. That would give it the traction it would need. Then all that was necessary was to tie the mower to the bike. So far, so good. The mower had to be guided when pulled so I called my wife out to do the honors. She is good natured and will try almost anything once, and she agreed.
I started off slow and the mower actually worked – well sort of. It left some tufts of grass but they could be cut later with much less effort. If you have ever ridden a bike, you know it needs a little speed to have better control. So I gave it more gas. The bike didn’t even grunt, I think it probably could have pulled a cement truck. So we sped down the length of the lawn.
My wife was running behind the mower, guiding it as grass flew up, covering her from the waist down. She understood (sort of) and we turned around and made another run at it.
After two or three runs, it all came to a stop when she looked up and saw our neighbor out by the fence with his movie camera, laughing and filming the whole procedure. She threw down the mower handle and went into the house. No amount of coaxing would get her to come back out, and for some reason the neighbor with the camera wouldn’t lend a hand either.
I finished the job the hard way – all by myself
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
In Touch With An Old Friend
It was this last August that I went to meet Teddy Hodges, an old friend from high school. He was a year older and wasn’t my best friend but he only lived a mile or so away, so we were neighbors. We rode the same school bus and flirted with the same girls – he was more successful at it than I.
I joined the Navy less than a week after we graduated high school. He laughed and said I was crazy. Some time later, he was drafted.
The traveling Viet Nam Memorial, often called “The Wall” came to town and was on display for all to see. I went down and we met again after almost 45 years. I looked him up, and with some sadness and lots of respect – I reached out and touched his name on "The Wall."
I joined the Navy less than a week after we graduated high school. He laughed and said I was crazy. Some time later, he was drafted.
The traveling Viet Nam Memorial, often called “The Wall” came to town and was on display for all to see. I went down and we met again after almost 45 years. I looked him up, and with some sadness and lots of respect – I reached out and touched his name on "The Wall."
This shows the entire Wall.
A little bit closer.
Close enough to read his name.
Have a good rest old friend, you certainly earned it.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
A Loaded Weapon??
(An addendum to the previous blog.)
The Vancouver Folk Society sponsors two folk music camps each year, one in July and the other in the late November or early December. They last from Friday afternoon till about Sunday noon. There’s plenty of good music and we have been there enough to have a lot of friends.
The summer camp is for the whole family and some of our grandkids have attended. It’s a good time. They have classes and other musical activities for kids and its fun for them.
The winter camp is geared for adults. For example they have a hot tub and make an announcement that clothing is optional, but I’m here to tell you than not many of them exercise their option. I’m sure you all know that I’m a ‘died in the wool’ redneck and am rather fond of my clothes, and besides the doctor told me to stay out of hot tubs. So I do.
Let me get back to the subject...Crossing the Canadian border. The border crossing is a little more than 100 miles north of where we live, so it’s a relatively short drive. However, there is often a long line of cars getting through the port of entry.
I like to drink a Coke/Pepsi or two when traveling any distance. One time we waited for more than an hour to get through the border check point. I REALLY had to visit the men’s room and wasn’t in any mood for nit-picking border guards at the time. He asked “Do you have any weapons?”
I responded “Only a banjo, but it’s unloaded and the safety’s on.”
He didn’t smile, blink or nod. He just said “Park over there” and pointed to an empty parking space by the booth.
They searched our car and even inspected the undercarriage with large convex mirrors on a pole. It was more than half an hour later when they finally finished and allowed me to find the men’s room and we were able to continue to the music camp.
My wife and daughter didn’t say anything, but they didn’t need to. I really learned my lesson that time. When crossing the border from then on, my answers are “Yes,” “No” or a minimal explanation. Nothing more than necessary. No extra chit-chat. No being friendly. No nothing, but only exactly what’s needed. Especially if I just drank a Pepsi.
The Vancouver Folk Society sponsors two folk music camps each year, one in July and the other in the late November or early December. They last from Friday afternoon till about Sunday noon. There’s plenty of good music and we have been there enough to have a lot of friends.
The summer camp is for the whole family and some of our grandkids have attended. It’s a good time. They have classes and other musical activities for kids and its fun for them.
The winter camp is geared for adults. For example they have a hot tub and make an announcement that clothing is optional, but I’m here to tell you than not many of them exercise their option. I’m sure you all know that I’m a ‘died in the wool’ redneck and am rather fond of my clothes, and besides the doctor told me to stay out of hot tubs. So I do.
Let me get back to the subject...Crossing the Canadian border. The border crossing is a little more than 100 miles north of where we live, so it’s a relatively short drive. However, there is often a long line of cars getting through the port of entry.
I like to drink a Coke/Pepsi or two when traveling any distance. One time we waited for more than an hour to get through the border check point. I REALLY had to visit the men’s room and wasn’t in any mood for nit-picking border guards at the time. He asked “Do you have any weapons?”
I responded “Only a banjo, but it’s unloaded and the safety’s on.”
He didn’t smile, blink or nod. He just said “Park over there” and pointed to an empty parking space by the booth.
They searched our car and even inspected the undercarriage with large convex mirrors on a pole. It was more than half an hour later when they finally finished and allowed me to find the men’s room and we were able to continue to the music camp.
My wife and daughter didn’t say anything, but they didn’t need to. I really learned my lesson that time. When crossing the border from then on, my answers are “Yes,” “No” or a minimal explanation. Nothing more than necessary. No extra chit-chat. No being friendly. No nothing, but only exactly what’s needed. Especially if I just drank a Pepsi.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Happy Garbage Day
Yep, today is garbage day. What a day! Every Thursday the faithful garbage man drives up and down the streets of Seattle and hauls away everything that was purged from your home for the last week. This is fine except around this house, garbage day brings back memories that I wish could be forgotten. Every Thursday!
It all started with an anniversary. Just which anniversary, I’m not sure. We’ve had so many. It was long enough ago that our kids were still living at home. Now I’ve never forgotten our anniversary, but that time I just didn’t mention it. The plan was to surprise her in the afternoon and take her out to an early dinner.
She didn’t say anything at first, but by mid-morning just couldn’t help herself. “Do you know what day it is?”
At this point it should noted that if anyone ever kept score, I would be world famous for saying something without thinking things through.
Of course I knew what day it was. Without thinking, I said “Oh, it’s Thursday! Happy Garbage day!” and gave her a kiss.
That’s when I added another item to my “Do Not Joke About” list. That list includes things like NEVER JOKE WITH:
1) The doctor when he’s putting on his latex glove just before he gives you a prostate exam
2) The policeman when he asks what’s your hurry
3) The security agent at the airport when he wants to look in your shoes
4) The Border Patrol agent when he asks if you have any illegal drugs
5) Anybody wearing a name tag with a really weird name
6) The panhandler when he asks you for ‘spare’ change
And of course anytime you wonder beforehand whether a silly comment would be appropriate.
There are more items on the list, but I usually forget them until after the fopa has been voiced.
I have to hand it to her. She took it all in good stride, even though she didn’t laugh as much as our kids did.
That was many years ago and still sometimes, out of the blue, one of our kids will call and wish us a Happy Garbage Day.
It all started with an anniversary. Just which anniversary, I’m not sure. We’ve had so many. It was long enough ago that our kids were still living at home. Now I’ve never forgotten our anniversary, but that time I just didn’t mention it. The plan was to surprise her in the afternoon and take her out to an early dinner.
She didn’t say anything at first, but by mid-morning just couldn’t help herself. “Do you know what day it is?”
At this point it should noted that if anyone ever kept score, I would be world famous for saying something without thinking things through.
Of course I knew what day it was. Without thinking, I said “Oh, it’s Thursday! Happy Garbage day!” and gave her a kiss.
That’s when I added another item to my “Do Not Joke About” list. That list includes things like NEVER JOKE WITH:
1) The doctor when he’s putting on his latex glove just before he gives you a prostate exam
2) The policeman when he asks what’s your hurry
3) The security agent at the airport when he wants to look in your shoes
4) The Border Patrol agent when he asks if you have any illegal drugs
5) Anybody wearing a name tag with a really weird name
6) The panhandler when he asks you for ‘spare’ change
And of course anytime you wonder beforehand whether a silly comment would be appropriate.
There are more items on the list, but I usually forget them until after the fopa has been voiced.
I have to hand it to her. She took it all in good stride, even though she didn’t laugh as much as our kids did.
That was many years ago and still sometimes, out of the blue, one of our kids will call and wish us a Happy Garbage Day.
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