“That is so weird.”
That is the response I got when I told The Kid that they used to sell warm cashews in the ladies’ lingerie department in stores.
Are you old enough to remember that? Every time I went to Belk Tyler’s and JC Penney’s with my mom, she’d get a small bag of cashews. They were kept in a small, lightbulb-warmed, glass-fronted case that sat on the wrap desk. The nuts were scooped into little lined paper sacks that made a delicious, anticipatory crinkly sound when the sales lady filled them.
Looking back, when I was a kid there was a lot of stuff that went on that didn’t make a lick of sense. But at the time, those things seemed perfectly reasonable to everyone.
Since I was a kid, most of the oddness I took note of had to do with kids and the lives we led back then. Honestly, the fact that most of us made it with hearing, sight, limbs, fingers and toes all accounted for is nothing short of a miracle.
I was in junior high before our family car had seatbelts. The only baby seats were the laps of adults. I and every kid I knew regularly napped in that shelf between the back seat and back window. In the mid-seventies, our family owned a VW bug, and when there were more people than seats, I sat in the tiny space behind the back seat. If we’d ever been rear ended, they would have had to use tweezers to gather me together.
Leaving us at home to play was no guarantee of safety.
I’m not sure if we had toys or potential exhibits at the manslaughter trial. Lawn darts: sure kids, here are some metal darts with tips sharper and more lethal than the arrows headhunters use. So make sure you throw them into the ground and not at your little brother.
Slip & slide? More like slip and call the insurance company and see what our deductible is for personal injury. Older children with a scientific bent were given chemistry sets—basically child-sized meth kits.
Our Halloween costumes came in boxes; cover-alls that tied at the neck and plastic face masks that stayed on by a thin elastic thread. If we behaved while trick-or-treating and Mom was in a good mood, we’d get to wear them to bed. We had choices like Barbie, GI Joe, and Underdog. But these suits were so flammable it was like we were running around the neighborhood wearing shiny, colorful explosives.
As an asthmatic with croup, Mom said I spent many nights clad only in a diaper, sleeping on a bed of ice–not unlike shrimp cocktail. Only without the tomato/horseradish dipping sauce.
And when we did get hurt or sick, the medicine and treatments we were given would be the basis of a social services investigation these days. 
Upset tummy? Every home medicine cabinet had a bottle of Paregoric, which settled even the worst stomachaches. The reason was it was chock full of morphine, which effectively paralyzed our innards. A cold with a cough was treated with a heaping spoonful of medicine full of codeine. A scraped knee could give you a touch of brain damage when the antiseptic dabbed on it was Mercurochrome, a mercury-laden wonder drug.
Thinking about the vast difference between my childhood and kids of today makes me think. I wonder if, in thirty years, parents will be shocked and appalled that when they were little, they were actually allowed to walk in the scary, dangerous outdoors on their own two feet, they used their teeth to chew potentially harmful solid food, and they hadn’t even invented bubble wrap suits yet.
Now that’s my kind of crazy. I’d love to be as fierce as these amazing women.
And I’ll be in my rocking chair at the home, laughing my mercury-addled head off.
Thanks for your time.
I started visiting because my Yugo-sized dog Crowley is obsessed with birds of every kind.
When the winter came to an end, two couples; a pair of Canadian geese and some mallards decided to stay and set up housekeeping.
Once the eggs hatch though, and the male regains the power of flight, he’s history.
Then the geese mate for life. The female makes a nest and lays four to nine eggs. She sits on the nest with the gander nearby. They also molt now, and for the four weeks the eggs take to hatch, the female doesn’t get up, eat, or drink.
Crowley and I visited the pond every day. Soon five tiny ducklings and four little goslings made an appearance. Like a scene out of Robert McClusky’s Make Way for Ducklings, tiny fuzzy birds walked in straight lines with parents both leading the way and bringing up the rear.
The route we use takes us through a field, then out onto the sidewalk of a busy road about fifty yards from the pond. As we came around, I noticed something in the street that looked like a tree stump. As I was trying to convince myself it must have fallen off the back of a landscaper’s truck, we got closer.
The next morning, I hurried to the pond.
My best guess is the male made a test flight to try out his regrown feathers which weren’t quite ready, and he fell into the path of a car. But he was a good mate and a good dad.
Thanks for your time.
So, it looks like slumber parties are quickly becoming a thing of the past for many. Because of the threat of disastrous social media postings propelled by the poor judgement of children combined with nervous helicopter parents, many families are opting out.
As best as I can tell, slumber parties became a mostly American thing after World War II. Madison Avenue sold the whole “suburban, two kids and a dog, backyard cookouts, summer vacations, car in the garage, wifey in the kitchen” scenario. Parents who just a few years earlier had learned that life can be changed forever in a moment wanted to live that safe and comfortable ideal.
Pajama parties declared to the world there was enough room, food, and fun to share. That here was an average middle-class families that belonged. Just like Donna Reed, Leave It To Beaver, and Ozzie and Harriot; they were neither different nor unconventional.
I grew up going to and throwing slumber parties. I consider myself somewhat of an authority on the rituals of mid-late 20th century pre-adolescent overnight accommodation festivities.
The guest list is usually populated from classmates. But there are always one or two kids that the host knows from scouts, or dance class, or somewhere else. This child will know no one else and unless of unusually strong personality, feels like a duck at an armadillo farm.
There will be a sad sack. This is a child with little or no sleepover experience who is both timid and quiet. Often the child’s presence on the guest list is at the mom’s behest and will be cousin, younger neighbor child, or child of a parent’s friend. 
The glamorous child. This kid is possibly a bit older, but definitely more sophisticated. In a room of tweens, she will be the only one with a bra and a boyfriend. Pajamas will be silky rather than snuggly and lip gloss will not be clear. Almost always gets her own way when she declares something is “lame”.
The suck-up. This is the same kid that in school reminds the teacher she forgot to assign homework. This kid is kind of a pill and will strongly object to most of the dares in “Truth or Dare”. But she will get help if things go south, and her mere attendance will keep the shenanigans from going from mischief territory into felony-ville.
At least one person will get their feelings hurt and there will be tears—often from the sad sack, but sometimes it will be the young hostess. Emotions are high at these parties, and the hormones flow like beer at a frat party. Normally the rest of the invitees will then go into protective mode and tissues, “I love yous”, and promises of undying friendship will abound.
There’s also a high probability that at least one child will call their parents to be picked up. Homesickness is the most desirable motivation, but much more likely will be the result of upset tummies and unsightly fluidic eruptions.
Thanks for your time.
In 2018, Washington state representative Matt Shea wrote a document describing a “Biblical basis for war” against people who “practice abortion and same-sex marriage”. In it the currently serving, elected government official instructed: “If they do not yield, kill all males.”.
One is mind-boggling evil, one is outrageously ridiculous. But they are both depressing examples of the extreme ends of the spectrum. The ones that result in people fearing and hating them or finding them so whiney and absurd that even when they have something important to say, no one listens.
In political science, there is a phenomenon known as the horseshoe theory. It posits that rather than a straight line between pure communism on the left, and fascism on the right, it’s shaped like a horseshoe with the extreme ends residing very close together in belief and action.
This kind of ultimate extremism, whether it’s the driving force at the heart of an entire nation or an organization of true believers, can only be maintained by authoritarianism or totalitarianism. When those in power are completely convinced, down into their very marrow, that they have all the answers to all the questions, and only they know what is best for everyone. And this dominion must be maintained at all or any costs. They are absolute in their belief that the decisions they make, and any discipline or punishment meted out is necessary, in fact good, and even ordained.
But the only people who have all the answers and see the world solely in stark shades of black and white are fools, children, and fanatics. Sure, it’s easier and more comfortable to put our fellow man in neat little boxes like hero, villain, saint, and sinner, but all thinking, reasoning humans know that life doesn’t work that way.
Every one of us has a story. There were shady garden paths, dangerous rocky roads, and tricky confusing detours that got us to where we are at this moment. We’ve had missteps that have made us kinder, tragedies that have hardened us, miracles that have amazed us and made our souls a little brighter, and betrayals that have almost broken us. 
And yet, we regularly get out of bed in the morning to do it all over again. And most of us usually try to be our best selves. The selves that are shocked, horrified, and saddened by those zealots out on those horseshoe fringes.
We try to make the world around us a better, kinder place. We try to make the journey of our fellow man a smoother, more peaceful one. We try to help where we can and call out evil when we see it. We look within ourselves, and attempt to exercise our better angels, and exorcise our demons.
And if a member of a marginalized portion of the population says that something we or others say or do is hurtful, or frightening, or patronizing, we listen to them. And imagine if that person had your mother’s face, or your child’s, or your own. And try to understand and do better.
And remember, if your heart’s in the right place, you’re halfway home.
But at the very end of the show, Monty and his lovely assistant Carol Merrill would roam the audience. They’d pick a woman, and award $50 or so if she could pull a random item from her purse. It could be almost anything; a bobby pin, a spoon, a band-aid or a postcard.
When my dad asked me about upcoming columns, I told him I was toying with the idea of an inventory of my bag.
So what follows is a heavily redacted list—but only because of space constraints. The items may be numerous but are definitely not a risk to national security. Not top secret, just overly abundant.
I have approximately forty thousand consumer loyalty badges collected on a keychain which also holds a brass penguin and a souvenir fob from JFK airport that has the New York skyline on one side and DEBBIE on the other, which perpetually flashes off and on, thanks to a very reliable photocell.
There are many other objects, both sacred and profane in my old curiosity bag. Every time I reach into the black hole that is my tote, I find something that I’ve either forgotten about or is so unexpected I’m sure it must have been placed there by ghosts.
Thanks for your time.
After having to reschedule at least four or five times, the Matthews Family Band finally made it to North Carolina’s little piece of Swedish heaven last week.
The Kid’s been before, and in fact, sleeps on an Ikea bed. Petey and I were both neophytes. I wasn’t expecting much, I mean, it’s a furniture store with meatballs—I’ve shopped for furniture and home goods, and Stouffers make perfectly fine Swedish meatballs.
Mothers: you know how everybody talks about how much labor and childbirth hurt? And how the real thing is so much more painful than your wildest nightmares? Like how there really are no English words that can adequately describe the scorching, soul-eviscerating torment you’ll experience?
The place is huge. This isn’t Target with full grocery store. This is original thirteen colonies huge. The foyer is bigger than an airplane hanger. There’s a nursery/kid jail that’s bigger than your average Chucky Cheese.
Then I found my dream closet. It was more of the Louvre for clothes, shoes, accessories and purses. There was a beautifully upholstered slipper chair and even a glass of Champagne waiting for me on the luxurious dressing table.
And throughout, everything is clean and bright with that Ikea blend of attractive casual yet super chic.
And PS, the meatballs were way better than Stouffer’s.
In one week, my little brother will be fifty-one(!) years old.
My mom was not on board at first. But we liked it, and it was our special little tradition. In three years, the first bill got filled up, so we just took a new Monopoly C-note and stapled it to the first. This year is the fourteenth year. Other than a kinda sweet, kinda sappy sibling tradition thing, I love it for a far more important reason.
Each year we try to find cards that are so rude (Not dirty, just extra snarky), the only person you could send it to is a sibling—they already know you’re a jerk. Shoot, they had a hand in molding your clay into jerk-like form.
Shows how much he knows; my mustache has gone gray, so I don’t have to wax it anymore.
I had a few lessons in twirling, but I was never very good at. It did come in useful when I wanted to whack something or someone on the head—not to hurt them, just to get their attention.
When I was in college, I had some minor surgery. One evening my folks came to visit me in the hospital, having left my fourteen-year-old brother at home. The next night when they visited, they told me that the mirror in the bathroom my brother and I shared had shattered. Nobody knew what had happened, but it was completely busted when they got home.
“Were you trying to make a blow torch?”
Thanks for your time.
The first time I met the man, it cleared up one mystery. The second time, it initiated another mystery that’s never been solved.
Mostly, I’m the lone human of the forest. So one day when I saw an ATV half hidden out there, it made me very curious. I was sure I was alone. Had it been stolen? Where was the owner? Was he ok?
But as he approached me, he stopped. And he asked me for a word.
“My friend’s father does. I look after it, and he lets me hunt back here. When you’re here you disturb the deer with your white hat.” The way he said hat, it was like I was wearing rabid badgers on my head. For some reason, he really hated my simple white baseball cap.
“Every time we put ‘em up, someone pulls ‘em down.”
After a couple hours of research, I discovered the man’s name and eventually found a phone number. I gave him a call. I explained who I was, where I lived, and asked if there was any way, under any conditions, I could keep going.
He didn’t have a son and there was no friend looking after the woods. Not only was I very welcome to visit his forest, he absolutely did not want somebody back there hunting.
Finally, he rode up on his ATV. He looked like he was going to scold me for coming back, but I didn’t give him the chance. I told him about my conversation with the owner.
Then he rode off and I never saw him again.
But there are two things about me he didn’t know.
Thanks for your time.
My father’s horse, named Macho (Spanish slang for arrogant, extra strength, manly man), wasn’t very tall, but he was sturdy, and built like a dump truck. He was also quite beautiful; chestnut brown with black socks on all four feet. His mane was black, thick and stood straight up.
The general consensus around the base’s ranch, Lazy R, was that he’d been badly gelded. So badly that it never even occurred to him that he was, in fact, a gelding.
Except in the case of hurricanes, the horses were always pastured at Lazy R. When we went to the ranch, we’d grab some halters and leads, then go out into the pasture and bring out our horses.
Macho and I were friends. I adored him, and that half-stallion was firmly convinced that all the attention and affection I gave him was absolutely his due. One night he actually fell asleep with his head on my shoulder as I rubbed his neck and spoke quietly to him.
Usually, as I approached our horses and called to them, they’d walk up and stand patiently while I hooked them into their halters. Then we’d go on to the next horse and repeat until I had all three and we walked out of the pasture to the corral for food and grooming. Like I said, usually.
Macho was the first horse I got to that day. He was surrounded by his mares, and looking like he was feeling especially stallion-y. Really keyed up and full of himself. Ominously, he didn’t approach me, but backed up a few steps.
Horses will not run over a human. It may look like they’re going to, but they will veer off at the last second. So, I stood still waiting for him to run past, then I’d hook him up, and go after the next one.
He knocked me down, ran over my prone body, stepped right on that hollow where the collar bone meets the shoulder, and got in one last insult when a hoof flipped up and smacked me right on top of my skull (there is still a horse hoof-shaped indentation on my melon). He then turned around and calmly walked back over to his pasture groupies. 
It was weeks before I went into the pasture by myself.
Thanks for your time.
Are you having a bad day, week, month, year?
I’ve got great tidings for you. The problem is neither in your stars nor yourself. You’re not to blame.
The entire list of previously awesome things that are now atrocious due to millennials is too long to list, but what follows is some of the more hair-raising examples.
Shopping malls; the places where we grew up, hung out, met crushes, fell in love, then bought our wedding dresses and rented turquoise tuxedos. Those whippersnappers now shop online and patronize locally owned small businesses. They are responsible that those giant cathedrals for the worship of conspicuous consumption, and its ensuing unnecessary credit card debt are quickly becoming empty things of the past.
The game of golf. For some reason kids today don’t see the allure in dressing in ugly candy-colored matching sets and riding a kiddy car around acres of land tortured with chemicals, chain saws, and mowers into perforated, make-believe Edens so they can hit tiny balls with sticks and pay tens of thousands of dollars a year for the privilege.
Next time you run into a grocery store and those thousands of boxes of sugar-frosted, vitamin sprayed, artificially colored and flavored breakfast cereal have dwindled to a mere few hundred, blame those kids. For some reason they think they’re too good to eat pseudo-food full of ingredients that were created in a lab in Altoona.
This info has been interpreted that with makeup and filtering no one will ever look old. Maybe not in a photo. But remember, the oldest of the millennials are not even forty yet. The first time a 45-year-old millennial looks into the bathroom mirror in full sunlight after a long night? Amazon won’t be able to get enough vans full of anti-aging products up their driveways.
There are industries that will disappear because young people have no need for the product. But that’s been happening since folks lived in caves and hunted woolly mammoths with sticks and spears. When’s that last time you bought a chamber pot or a buggy whip?
But they are also fiercely protective of each other, their struggles, and vulnerabilities. It may not be their journey, but they are deeply committed to help make the paths of each other as smooth and safe as they can.
Thanks for your time.
bull city mom 