Humor Me!

But as a nation, we were given comic relief through, of all people, Geraldo Rivera. Not Jerry Seinfeld, not Bill Cosby, not Ray Romano. But Geraldo Rivera.

Okay, okay. I confess I sat smirking in disbelief when Geraldo breathlessly led us to Al Capone’s vault several years ago. The TV special had been highly touted as THE event of the season. What did Geraldo expect to find in that airless tomb. The Lindburg baby? Blackbeard’s Treasure? Or Al Capone stretched out on a faded denim lounge with a horse’s head propped up beside him, compliments of The Godfather.? Of course, the vault was empty and an entire nation howled. It became known as “The Great Geraldo Comedy Caper.”

And I watched Geraldo ducking chairs thrown by irate husbands whose whiny wives Geraldo sympathized with on his tawdry morning show. He wore his split forehead and bleeding forearm scratches as badges of honor, which of course, they were not.

Poor Geraldo. He never learns to quit while he’s acceptably ahead.

When Fox News hired him, I switched on my trusty computer and fired off a protesting letter to Roger Ailes, wondering how he could possibly promote Rivera as a “trusted journalist” without guffawing out loud. When Ailes dispatched him to Afghanistan, I figured Ailes had a reason. He did. Ailes is a genius. He wanted to provide comedy to a frightened and bleeding nation:

Ours! And Geraldo was the sacrificial lamb.

Ailes got his money’s worth. Nearly every Geraldo news report is a side-splitting, rollicking, breathless comedic exercise in journalism.

My favorite, of course, was Geraldo in his bandana headband and felt Sahara hat ducking enemy fire, bullets ricocheting everywhere, talking about reciting the Lord’s prayer, while his camera man remained steady and unfluttered during the entire episode. I wanted to yell “DUCK, CAMERAMAN, GET DOWN! DON’T RISK YOUR LIFE FOR THIS IDIOT.” The camera never wavered as Geraldo unashamedly carved another wide notch in his Dissembling Belt.

The fact that Geraldo was several hundred miles away from where he said he was only added to the comedy. Ok, so flunked Map Reading 101. Did anyone seriously think Geraldo was ever in danger? He wasn’t even ALLOWED near the front lines. An army general, when asked why he denied Geraldo access, stated tonelessly, “His papers aren’t in order. When WILL they be in order? Oh, maybe after the war.”

You have to hand it to Geraldo; he doesn’t mind getting down and dirty in a desert war. He admitted he hadn’t bathed in six weeks. No wonder he was denied access to the front lines. Our troops endure the paralyzing smells of war: exploding bombs, burned forts and desert road kill. Do they really need six weeks of a reporter’s perspiration odor thrust up their already scortched nostrils?

But in a spirit of magnanimity, I want Geraldo to capture Osama bin Laden. I honestly do. Geraldo deserves it and Bin Laden deserves it. I want Geraldo to take a camera crew to a cave, slide belly-up into its 18 inch opening (remember Geraldo HAS a 31 inch waist, he keeps telling us, like we care) and surprise ole Bin Laden who’s enjoying a Desert daiquiri in a dark and dank corner.

This valiant capture would make Geraldo a hero worthy of collecting the $50 million reward and drown bin Laden in the embarrassment he richly deserves when he’s marched out at the end of Geraldo’s shaking, trusty little 38.

That photo alone would be worth MILLIONS in laughs.

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GOD'S MISSIONARY U-TURN

My sister sat quietly on the crude, worn bench in the sweltering African church listening to her missionary husband tell his congregation that soon he would accompany his 29-year-old wife back to the States.

She had been diagnosed with cancer. Examinations by German doctors in Monrovia, Liberia confirmed it, as did a biopsy. Her husband was advised that she had three months to live; a prognosis that, for compassion’s sake, he had not shared with his wife.

Unaware of the harsh time line, she stood to face her African friends, people she had taught, loved, cared for and won to Christ.

Opening her well-marked Bible, she addressed the familiar faces. “My friends,” she said, “God has given me two verses in Psalm 118:17,18: ‘I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the Lord. The Lord hath chastened me sore; but he hath not given me over unto death.’”

The African Christians moved restlessly on their benches. “Doesn’t she know?” they whispered to themselves and to each other. “Hasn’t anyone told her she has only three months to live?”

Bidding the congregation an emotional good-bye, she assured them she would indeed return to Guinea, West Africa. In her heart, she knew their work was not finished; indeed, it had barely begun.

They had been married eight years but still remained childless. Her heart’s continued cry had been to become a mother. And now this. Not only could she not expect to have children, but she had been diagnosed with cancer as well. She crawled inside her bed that was tented with mosquito netting and began her long prayer vigil.

In the deafening silence of the long night that followed, she heard the quiet, distinct, inner voice of the Spirit: “He maketh the barren woman to keep house and to be a joyful mother of children.” (Psalm 113:9)

Ultimately, her choices were two: accept the verdict of the German doctors or place her faith in the timeless word of God. She chose the latter; she would stand on the promises of her Lord.

As she penned these thoughts to her family back home, they remained incredulous. They talked endlessly about how to deal with her insistence that God would heal her. Was this basic faith or stubborn denial on her part? They began to make extensive plans about her care, her comfort and sadly, her funeral.

Arriving in New York, examinations and testing began for the young missionary, with doctors meticulously comparing new x-rays with those of German doctors in Liberia. There was more than convincing evidence in the first x-rays. Further examination by the cancer specialist in New York revealed that indeed she was full of malignant tumors.

Doctors began discussing the necessity of a hysterectomy which made her wonder how God planned to bring Psalm 113:9 about bearing children to fruition in her life.

But six weeks later, the New York specialists could detect nothing. The malignant tumors had virtually disappeared. There was no trace of cancer.

Finally, they were forced to concede that God in His mercy had reached down with His mighty, sovereign, healing hand and declared her cancer-free. She had stood valiantly on God’s promises, had taken Him at his Word, and He had honored her simple, unadorned faith.

God directed their return to Africa in August of that year to continue the ministry to which He had called them, a ministry that extended over thirty years.

Two years to the day on which Norma Gardner arrived in America with her husband, Andy, for cancer treatment, their first daughter was born. In the six years which followed, two sons were added to the family of this dedicated couple, two of whom returned as missionaries to Africa: Janet Gardner (Weiss) to Cote d'Ivoire and Andy Gardner, Jr. to Guinea, West Africa. Another son, Steve, also a seminary graduate, is seeking the Lord's leading in his life.

For the grateful missionary couple, God had made a miraculous U-turn on a path that others had too readily assumed was a heartbreaking, one-way, dead-end road.

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GOOD GRIEF GOOF-UPS

Memo: To Mariane from Husband John

We've gotta do something about your goof-ups, baby. I mean, they're becoming an embarrassment. This isn't National Goof-Up Month, is it? Didn't think so.

Some of your goof-ups were understandable but some were right off the wall.

Remember last year when you had the winning bid for an art book on Ebay and the seller in Nebraska kept sending you Emails which failed to provide her mailing address. You kept asking her where to send the check for the art book. Finally, after 5 Emails she provided her complete address with this P.S. "I have your package ready to mail to you. I hope you enjoy this quilt." Quilt?

In horror, you fired off an Email to your friend in Texas and in bold print screamed, "You'll never believe what the Dumbest Woman in Nebraska has done now."

Problem is, you mistakenly sent that Email to the woman in Nebraska who was so outraged that she replied that you'd NEVER get that art book now. And you didn't. (Even after umpteen apologies)

Or how about the goof-up last month when your friend in Michigan ordered three boxes of the world's most expensive chocolates for you as a Valentine's Day surprise. When they arrived, you mistakenly thought they were an early December order which you'd placed, so you returned the chocolates to the company with a "happy note" to the shipping department stating that the candy arrived too late and that Christmas was two months ago, in case they hadn't noticed.

When your friend in Michigan phoned to ask if her surprise chocolates had arrived, you passed plumb out, then called the chocolate company to request that the chocolates be re-sent. The problem was, your friend also called the company with the same request, so in a few days not one but TWO cartons of the world's most expensive chocolates were delivered to our front door, with a charge to your friend's credit card to the tidy little sum of $185.00.

Lucky for you, when you phoned the chocolate company (again) and ate platter-sized crow, they told you to keep both cartons of chocolates and consider the extra carton a birthday present from them (even though your birthday was last September). Seems like food companies are less than excited about food items being returned to them in these tense terrorist times, so you lucked out.

But was it worth gaining six pounds over?

However, your latest foray into Lala Land is the reason for this heart-to-heart private talk we're having here, dear.

In a burst of altruism and generosity, you contacted the largest chronic pain support group on the internet and offered to mail a CD of your inspirational piano music free and postage paid to ailing members of their group. A lovely thought, no kidding. Bound to get you some points with God. You figured you could handle 10 or 15 requests easily by burning the CDs on your computer, buying a few disks and jewel covers. What's the big deal, anyway?

The support group received this good news enthusiastically and put your offer and Email address on their website. Instantly, over 200 requests flooded your Email box, spilling down the sides of your computer and piling knee deep on the floor.

So what did you do? (I mean, after you got up off the floor from your comatose state.) You did what any wife would do when her husband was outta town and outta Dodge: you set your alarm clock every 20 minutes for 72 hours straight and burned 200 CDs of your music on your trusty iMac computer. In your "spare time" you printed a colorful jewel cover and disk label, wrote an accompanying letter, purchased 200 mailers, and sent the CDs on their merry way to recipients in 32 states, Canada, Australia, England and the Netherlands. And we won't even go into the 4 days you spent in bed recuperating.

So, what's it gonna be next time? What major goof-up can I anticipate? I'm your long-suffering husband.. There's just so much more I can take!

And yes, this letter is being kept private between us, so stop worrying.

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THE GREATEST SERMON I EVER HEARD

It lasted only twenty minutes. That’s all. Only twenty minutes. But the greatest sermon I ever heard was delivered in a small North Carolina Baptist church at the foot of the picturesque Blue Ridge Parkway.

The old man was bent over as he walked to the pulpit in the small white frame church. He looked frail. He looked tired. In fact, I wondered if this sickly, elderly man would even have the strength to deliver a message at all.

When he began to speak, my earlier fears were confirmed. I strained to hear him. He read the scripture in a voice barely above a whisper.

He lifted his head and announced quietly, “Today I want to talk about heaven. I’m homesick for heaven.”

He began by recounting what his impressions of heaven were when he was a young boy in Sunday School: streets of gold, choirs of angels, endless days with no nights, and plenty of cool creeks stocked with an over-abundance of mountain trout.

Then he walked to the side of the pulpit and without benefit of notes began to speak from his heart. He told us of the glory that awaits all of God’s children when they walk through heaven’s gates.

He lifted his bony arms heavenward and talked about God the Father who wanted nothing so much as for His created children to love Him in return.

He wept as he talked about God the Son whose obedience on the cross made it possible for the redeemed to enjoy the benefits of heaven for all eternity.

He talked about God the Holy Spirit and his work as comforter and guide to those who are born again and awaiting the second coming of Jesus Christ.

The old preacher, his face by now glowing with the sun’s rays filtering through the old church windows, described heaven as he thought it would be, painting it with gentle brush strokes and pastel colors that left us speechless, that left us longing, that left us weeping.

No one stirred. Not a sound could be heard in the church except the strained voice of this frail man of God who made heaven real and unforgettable and, joy of joys, obtainable.

And then it was over. Without music, without announcements, without anything that would distract us from what we had just heard, he quietly said, “May the blessings of God be upon you dear ones. Amen.”

He left the platform and slowly made his way to the door. But no one moved. For twenty indescribable minutes we had had the drapes of heaven parted just enough to give us a glimpse and to yearn, almost beg for more.

And all this from an old country preacher, who could barely walk, whose voice was just above a whisper, but who was covered from head to toe with the sweet, quiet anointing of his holy God.

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HAPPY THANKSGIVING

Thanksgiving should be declared the highest religious holiday on the American calendar since there are more burnt offerings on this day than any other.

The first turkey I ever cooked as a new bride sat in that sizzling 400 degree for over seven hours. Which isn't bad until you realize it was only a 3-pound turkey breast. After drying out and shrunk to the size and texture of a monkey head in that inferno, I had it bronzed and used creatively as a doorstop.

This Thursday in America, over 45 million turkeys will lay their cute little heads on the chopping block just so you and I can overindulge in white meat and corn pudding. My, my.

The difference between chickens and turkeys is that chickens celebrate Thanksgiving. But before they cheer too loudly, let me remind my little chick friends that Americans eat 75 pounds of chicken each year compared to 17 pounds of turkey. Which is why that popular restaurant at Monkey Junction is named "Chick Fillet" rather than "Turk Fillet."

I contend that turkeys have an undeservedly bad reputation. Who started the vicious rumor that turkeys are so stupid they drown looking up at the rain, anyway? Granted, turkeys think their nostrils are rain gauges. They look up during a thunder storm and chortle to each other, "My nose says we've had three inches of rain in the last hour," then drop dead from drowning.

The biggest turn off about turkeys is that wattle-warty looking thingy hanging down on their necks, which begs for simple plastic surgery. I mean, no food that I intend to savor on my tongue should have that shivering memory attached to it.

And, thinking their ugly wattle is God's gift to the fowl world, they strut and prance and two-step around, knowing their feathers aren't prized like goose down, or used in decorative arrangements like peacock plumes. Of course, it's only the males who strut, anyway. The females are too busy applying Elizabeth Arden creams to their rain gauges.

Before long, Thanksgiving Day will be so swallowed up in early Christmas decorations that it will be a thing of the past, anyway. Which is unfortunate because it's the only day in the year I can gain 8 pounds and not feel guilty since 200 million American also packed on the poundage that day.

Because Thanksgiving is now the introduction to the Christmas season, I tied the two events together in the following memorable poem which I suspect will eclipse Clement Moore's "Night Before Christmas." (or not)

'Tis the night before Thanksgiving
And all through our house
No turkey is baking; I feel like a louse,
For I am all nestled, so snug in my bed;
I'm not gettin' up and I'm not bakin' bread.
No pies in my oven, no cranberry sauce
Cuz I give the orders, and I am the boss.
When out in the kitchen, there arose such a clatter
I almost got up to see what was the matter.
As I drew in my head and was tossing around
To the bed came my husband, he grimaced, he frowned.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
He scared me to death and I thought, "Here he goes!"
He spoke not a word as he threw back my quilt
And the look that he gave was intended to wilt.
So up to the ceiling my pillows he threw
I knew I had had it, his face had turned blue.
"You prancer, you dodger, you're lazy, you vixen
Out yonder in kitchen, Thanksgiving you're fixin."
But he heard me explain, with my face in a pout:
"I'm just plain too tired and we're eatin' out!"

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HARRY G’s JEEP

Color me sad.

Harry G. has sold his jeep, that ragged old piece of rusted metal valiantly held together by strips of duct tape and twisted wire coat hangers.

How could Harry do this? Had he forgotten how much a part of this island that rattling piece of junk was? Had he forgotten how many out-of-towners followed his jeep around trying to discover Harry’s favorite flounder holes? Has Harry forgotten how much we loved seeing his American flag flying in the wind as Harry cruised the island, waving to all his buddies and blowing kisses to all the ladies?

The worst part is that Harry sold the jeep for $200. Good grief. The town of Carolina Beach would have paid more than that to have it bronzed and mounted at the city’s entrance. It was the ultimate red neck statement. Right up there with Red Man chewing tobacco, RC Colas and Moon Pies.

The least Harry could have done was hold an auction. It could have been the charity event of the year. He could have had a pig pickin’, invited a bluegrass band and the whole town would have shown up. Harry could have been his own auctioneer and regaled the audience with his home-spun stories of life in the fast lane (or at least what he remembers of it).

But no, Harry had to sell the jeep to somebody for a measly $200.

A gas station owner recently offered Harry a hundred dollars for the jeep but Harry held firm. “Throw in a weed eater and the jeep’s yours,” said Harry. But the deal fell through. The weed eater was worth more than the jeep.

Another local man wanted the jeep badly enough to pay Harry’s price but Harry, being the man of principle and compassion that he is, declined the offer. He was afraid the man’s substantial bulk would go straight through the floor board and Harry didn't want to see his friend hurt.

The jeep can best be described as vintage Harry because he kept it scrubbed and clean like he does his own house. Harry has always given depth and definition to the word “fastidious.” His mama raised him right. He’s forever scrubbing his kitchen floor, sweeping the porch, washing his windows. We oughta clone Harry and sell a copy to every Merry Maids service in America.

Even though Harry’s jeep had holes in the floor board big enough for a pelican to fly through, the jeep always passed inspection. Harry insists it was mechanically sound. The fact that the jeep might suddenly disassemble into forty pieces on Lake Park Boulevard any given morning was beside the point. It ran good and it was “basic transportation." And it was annually spray painted with a can of black Krylon whether it needed it or not. You can’t ask for better maintenance than that.

I don’t know who the new owner is and I don’t really want to. All I know is I’ll miss Harry riding around in the piece of junk, smiling and waving to all his fans, happy as if he had good sense.

He’s a man of integrity, though. When he sold the jeep, he even threw in the needle-nose pliers he used to start the thing.

The guy has class.

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HOW MARTHA STEWART BATHES HER CAT

1. Hold exotic Mandala Chausie cat on your lap, brush her fur with your Italian Alfredo Concetto brush handmade by Benedictine monks in Rome. Lie to your cat and tell her you're taking her shopping at Neiman-Marcus.

2. Wearing your priceless Emilio Pucci bathing suit, slowly carry cat to bathroom newly-redecorated with imported Spanish Servillian tiles, whispering to cat, "Cleanliness is not an option, darling" subliminally in her ear.

3. Ease yourself and cat down into sunken ergonomically-correct Egyptian marble tub, still stroking her fur.

4. Turn on brushed 24K gold faucet, releasing filtered, lavender scented, Alpine mountain water piped in from Twin Peaks, CA.

5. Pull cat down from Waterford crystal ceiling fixture. Ignore deep gashes on your cheek and head.

6. Lather cat liberally with Hibiscus Shivani Ayurvedic Shampoo imported from the Isle of Crete.

7. Follow soapy cat's mad dash through living room, across imported Gujarati coffee table, into sunken, satin-walled bedroom, across bed, slipping on as few hand-tied Sihasapa Sioux Indian throw rugs as possible. Ignore broken ankle.

8. Pull lathered cat from behind Dokania Indian dresser and wrap firmly in exquisite handmade 18th Century toile de jouy bedspread.

9. Stand under Hansgrohe Aktiva brass shower head gripping soapy cat, ignoring blood coursing down both arms.

10. Dive through open bathroom window behind cat, landing on newly-sculpted Japanese kamakura bonsai tree, ignoring bumble bees imported from Belize.

11. Lock cat inside house. Turn on custom-designed, multi-distribution interior sprinkler system.

12. Sit on porch in restored 17th century wicker armchair drinking iced Camellia Sinensis tea, enjoying mental image of cat dashing from room to room being thoroughly rinsed by interior sprinklers.

13. Ignore Allied Water Extractors bill for $12,734.00.

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I'M RICH, RICH, RICH

From out of the blue it came. Like a gift from above. More money than I ever dreamed of. I'M RICH, RICH, RICH. The refrain from "The Sound of Music" washed all over me. Julie Andrews was warbling, "Somewhere in my wicked, miserable past, I must have done something good." My ship has come in. My pot at the end of the rainbow just lifted its clay lid and dumped its gold coins all over me . I am one rich little mama.

No, my uncle Ervin didn't die and leave me his stash. I didn't surreptitiously enter the Virginia Lottery and win a bundle. Ed McMahan didn't send his stooges to knock on my front door.

Instead it came from, of all places, Ivory Coast, West Africa.

Today I received an Email from an enterprising 24-year-old African who informed me I'll receive 15 percent of his $16,500,000 immediately. Is that great or what? My trusty little ole computer tells me my share is $2,475.000. Whoooopie! Think of all the Little Debbie chocolate cupcakes that'll buy. My biggest worry now is whether I'll like the color of my new Lamborghini I can purchase with my newfound riches.

Peter Mutumba, writer of that Email, said the Chamber of Commerce in Abidjan, gave him my name because I am reputable, trustworthy and because I have an "esteeming nature." Wow. That is hardly faint praise.

It seems Pete's late father was a wealthy cocoa merchant in Abidjan before his sneaky business associate served him some grape Kool-Aid. (Shades of Et tu, Brute!) Before his death last year, the rich-but-poisoned daddy informed his astonished son that a vast sum of money lay in a secret trust account in the local First Native Bank in his son's name.

Poor Peter. Now he's gotta find a way to get that money outta Dodge before Kool-Aid Katumba, his daddy's business partner, comes lookin' for him.

After the Abidjan Chamber of Commerce gave Peter my name, he even prayed about it. (He didn't say to Whom he prayed; maybe I should ask.) Peter feels sure I have an appointment with the dollars of destiny.

You have to feel sorry for poor Pete. He's motherless, too, which makes him an orphan. Good grief. She went on to her eternal reward over18 years ago so Peter has only vague memories of her.

So, what is my responsibility in all this scenario? It's three-fold:

I have to send Peter the name of my bank and my account number. (No big deal since I only have a $23 balance, anyway.)

I have to agree to serve as Guardian of the $16.5 million since he's only a boy of 24.

I must make arrangements for Peter to come to this country after the money has been transferred to my bank.

I guess it's Number 3 that gives me pause. Hmmm. Does that mean I hafta meet his plane and put him up in my guestroom until I get him an apartment or a castle or whatever? I wonder if I can really, really trust Peter with my bank account number. But he seems like such a nice boy, so not to worry.

I have a week to decide what to do. After that, I forfeit this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

My brother always said I'd never be rich because I'm financially challenged. (What he really said was "stupid" but the other sounds better.)

After I receive all my money from Peter Mutumba, I'll tell my brother. Then we'll see who gets the last laugh.

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"I SPY, YOU SPY"

Last week on CBS Evening News, Dan Rather knitted his heavy eyebrows together and warned Americans, "A $100 piece of software can tell police all they need to know about a computer criminal. The downside is that it can be used to spy on you, too."

An hour later a friend sent me a link to software available online which can read my instant messages, steal my passwords, read my private Emails and reveal which web sites I visit. And all this for only $49.95 with a download time of ten minutes.

Well, now I'm really, really scared.

Let's see. So far this week I've sent Instant Messages to several friends. High on the list of important things we discussed was "Fifteen different ways to cook cabbage." That could get me in a lotta trouble. Cabbage is a very private and sensitive subject.

I also talked on Instant Message to a friend who was fed up with his job and wants out. Now I'm scared his mother (who owns the business) might have access to my computer, will fire him and I'll be responsible for the financial support of his wife and three kids and their exorbitant orthodontist bills. I probably shouldn't have said his mom was a beast, either.

But I'm really scared about some of the Emails I've received. One friend said her mom is so overweight she should put a sign on the back of her bike announcing "WIDE LOAD." That remark alone will change the seating arrangement at their next family holiday dinner.

The spy software can also track what web sites I visit online. This worries me no end. I visited Cool Cat Sites to see if there were any new jokes (there weren't). I visited the Bounce Fabric Softener site to learn whether wearing Bounce sheets will keep gnats and mosquitoes from devouring chunks of my flesh. And I checked out the Drudge Report to see if any Bible-thumping, tee-totaling, Femi-Nazi-hating, wild, weird and wacky right-wing Conservatives are threatening our national security. Yep. Still there. Lucky for us.

I visited a web site listing 100 ways to make money stuffing envelopes. I figure I can stuff their envelopes with my utility bills and mail them to people I don't know and they'll feel obligated to pay them for me.

Oh, I also visited the Avon web site to see which cream could "re-energize my aging skin cells and restore their youthful efficiency." Restoring my youthful efficiency is high on my priority list. I also needed something to remove unsightly facial hair and to close my Grand Canyon-size pores. I'd just die if someone's snoopy computer software revealed I'd visited this egregiously embarrassing site.

But I really should stay away from Emails. They get me in tons of trouble. One day I had the winning bid on eBay for a book belonging to a woman in Nebraska. Several Emails were exchanged between us, each one failing to provide me with her full name and address so I could send her a check. Finally, she wrote, "I'm mailing your package today. I hope you enjoy the quilt." Quilt? I had ordered a book. Completely unnerved by this "One-French-Fry-Short-Of-A-Happy-Meal" woman, I Emailed a friend in Texas: "I just received another nutty Email from the Dumbest Woman in Nebraska.

But I sent the Email in error to the woman in Nebraska.

She wrote back an immediate stinging reply. "I may be the dumbest woman in Nebraska but I've never done anything as stupid as what you just did. Now try to get your book." And I never did.

Now if that story gets out, I'm dead meat.

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I’LL BE A MILLIONAIRE

When my friend, Dee, told me she was throwing a birthday party for her stray cat at a posh assisted living center in Sun City West, Arizona, I thought Dee was nuts. When over 40 people showed up for the party, I thought they were all nuts. Dee had ordered a white sheet cake decorated with a black cat and the residents had made “cat pins” for the occasion. The party was a smashing success. I just couldn’t believe it. I laughed all night.

I’ve always been a dog lover, not a cat lover. Dogs have ruled our household for many years. We’ve raised Boston terriers, golden retrievers and a part cocker spaniel/part poodle dog named Missy, a little white fur ball who regularly pushed me over the edge of sanity, leaving me dazed and reeling in the debris below.

In our home, cats were about as welcome as horse flies on a wedding cake.

So, it’s with no small amount of trepidation that I admit to my family and friends that I’m now sort of a cat lover. Well, maybe not yet a full-blown cat lover but at least I’m no longer a cat hater.

The cat that turned the proverbial tide for me was Dee's snaggle-toothed, bent-tailed, sway-backed, stray cat, Missy. She has so charmed me that I might just die and leave her all my money. If I ever get any.

Missy showed up at Dee’s house a few years ago and was promptly ensconced as Queen with no need of a Court. Unlike other cats who think they’re gods, Missy is at peace with her own quiet persona. She’s a people pleaser, a patient, loving pet who seeks nothing more than food and affection. And Beluga caviar.

Because I couldn’t attend her party, I sent Missy Cat a fake coupon for fake Kitty Beluga Caviar which I priced at about $23,000 a tin. The problem is this cat took me seriously as did many of the retired partygoers who celebrated Missy’s birthday. Now Missy and her love for caviar are all they talk about. It was put up or shut up time for me. Since no one’s ever discovered shut up qualities in me, I had to do something to vindicate myself.

So I began printing and circulating “Missy’s Mewspaper,” a tongue-in-cheek little rag paper for the assisted living center with Missy Cat as editor. I included some original poems, an “Advice to Lovelorn Kitties” column, a Kitty Lost and Found section and even an obituary for a make-believe friend of Missy’s. I gave my warped version of how to bathe a cat (a virtual impossibility) and even printed my translation of a cat’s vocabulary. I wrote Missy’s Ten Commandments for Cats, and Missy's Prayer for the Day.

One item got unusual attention and was met with guffaws: “For Sale: 50 pound box of Grade A Hairballs from Missy’s Private Collection. All shapes and sizes. Clean. Stored in smoke-free environment. Can be made into lovely heirloom Christmas tree ornaments. Gift wrapping available. Price Negotiable.”

The problem is, I unwittingly made Missy Cat into a star of sorts. These silly little Missy’s Mewspapers were circulated in all over the West Coast, in Michigan, Minnesota, New York, Pennsylvania, Louisiana, North and South Carolina, Virginia, Massachusetts and several states that I couldn’t even keep up with.

Missy receives fan mail from other cats and now has a boyfriend named Snugs. Plans are for Missy and Snugs to marry this fall at the assisted living center with Missy dressed in a white gown and veil. How will I explain to a baker that instead of a traditional bride and groom, I want two cats on the tiered wedding cake?

People urged me to get a web site for Missy’s Mewspaper and to market Kitty Beluga Caviar. What started out as a single innocent snowflake snowballed into a sizable, unmanageable snow drift.

There was an even bigger problem. Missy was so traumatized by her recent stardom that she became sad, lethargic and wouldn’t eat. The diagnosis was Kitty Menopaws.

So Missy's Menopaws presented me with a whole new array of marvelous feline products I could market: Kitty Anti-Aging & Whisker Softener, Dainty Depends Undergarments for Menopawsal Cats, Funeral Parlor Fans For Kitty Hot Flashes, Richard Simmons’ Fat Cat Exercise Videos, Little Kitty Assorted Bunion Pads, Dr. Feelgood's Feminine Formula For Frazzled Felines, and so on.

I’m so excited. The marketing possibilities for menopawsal cat products are endless. This is a new and untried market. Nobody has ever thought of this before! I lie awake nights dreaming of the entrepreneur I’ll become. I can make millions just on Beluga Kitty Caviar alone. I just can’t believe all this. Talk about a financial bonanza! This could be bigger than the Pet Rock craze! My ship is finally coming in. I wonder if I should go public with my stock.

Good grief. Somebody stop me before I hurt myself.

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I’M NOT EATIN’ THAT STUFF

I don’t like eggplant. Never have, never will, don’t care.

Of all the seeds God planted in His victory garden, this one was designed to stretch man’s culinary imagination to its severest limits.

There is nothing you can do with eggplant that alters its white shirt box taste. Nothing. Smother it in tomatoes, fry it, sauté it, steam it, bake it, puree it, toss it in the air like pizza dough - it still tastes like a cardboard shirt box.

And eggplants aren’t even vegetables, for Pete’s sake. They’re fruits; specifically berries. Or so the dictionary says.

Eggplant aficionados try everything in the world to tempt us to eat this odd-shaped vegetable that looks like a purple martin bird house. (Eggplant aficionados are quite rare, actually. They have their own support group which numbers about eight people in the whole world.)

That being the case, why are these fibrous follies foisted upon us? Mahatma Gandhi said it best: “We are men of tolerance...but there is only so much men can tolerate.”

So, when I received an on-line recipe for “Roasted Eggplant Soup served with Tacos”, I gave some thought to preparing this gourmet treasure, but decided “what a waste of perfectly good, greasy tacos”.

Spicy eggplant meatloaf was another on-line suggestion, but the idea of mixing ground turkey, eggplant and feta cheese in the same bowl makes me squeamish. In my mind it dredges up something the dog has...(well, never mind).

But today I came across an eggplant recipe which could send the divorce rate into an even higher stratosphere: eggplant and sliced chicken sandwiches. Can you picture the hen-pecked husband unwrapping that sandwich in the hosiery mill lunchroom in front of all his tattooed working buddies? The guffaws alone would send him reeling, not to mention actually choking down this concoction straight out of Gross R Us, Ltd.

I admit I have some unusual not-so-gourmet favorites. Take hard-boiled eggs and grape jelly, for example. Chop the eggs, mix with grape jelly and eat it in the back of your closet, which is necessary since it invites extraordinarily peculiar stares from your family and friends.

Or peanut butter, bacon and raisins on toast. Hardly a new idea, but where I come from, it doesn’t even rate honorable mention on the “What To Eat The Day Before Payday” page.

But our son, Johnny, is every woman’s idea of a creative chef. He can search through his pantry, find four cans of food with no labels on them and produce the culinary delight of the decade which his wife and four daughters rave about for months.

He did that during a recent visit here at the beach. I hadn’t done much grocery shopping before he arrived, but still he decided to prepare grouper fish for dinner. Looking through the cupboards and refrigerator, he came up with a bottle of diet dressing and some horseradish sauce. I bit my fingernails, sure he would ruin the grouper, ruin dinner, and probably ruin my life. But he baked the grouper in a Ranch Dressing and horseradish sauce with several spices and presented it with all the flourish of Emeril Live. It was a smashing success.

Our son Tim is in love with sushi. Passionately. And I have no idea why. When I watch him eat those raw fish, I mutter to myself, “There is no way on God’s green earth that boy has my genes.” Left to my own devices, I would gather every sushi, escargot and squid and bury them in the deepest land-fill pit in America.

Right on top of all those eggplants.

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IT'S THE "GREAT ZUCCHINI", CHARLIE BROWN

Nothing about Halloween scares me. Not long-nosed witches, ghosts, ghouls or even Martha Stewart trick or treating in a black and white striped Oleg Cassini designer suit with "Inmate #48503845" expertly hand-stitched on the back.

Nothing scares me about Halloween. Unless it's my lingering fear that a 12 foot tall zucchini will show up at my front door and scare the bejeepies outta me.

I think zucchini are really kudzu in disguise and just as prolific. Kudzu vines grow as much as a foot per day during summer months, climbing trees, power poles, and anything else they contact. Under ideal conditions kudzu vines can grow sixty feet each year. I know because kudzu vines engulfed our mountain house fourteen years ago and I haven't seen one of our sons since.

Even under poor conditions you can plant an entire garden, watch sadly as the sun dries up the corn stalks and leaves the tomatoes withering on the vine in the sweltering summer heat. But at the far end of the garden, millions of zucchini are lying there cool and green as a proverbial cucumber, waiting for someone to load them onto a rusty pick-up truck and deliver them to an ungrateful neighbor. Like me.

Every time I turn my back, it seems, John stumbles in with another grocery bag full of zucchini that some hapless would-be farmer has unceremoniously dumped in the back seat of our car which by now smells like an over-ripe zucchini compost pit. Even our grand-dog, Bellamy, whimpers and refuses to ride in our car.

If these had been bags of pecans, I coulda frozen them. If they'd been tomatoes I coulda canned them. (well, my mama could have, maybe, but I sorta let the art of canning go past me the same way I let the art of making homemade lye soap slip by.)

I've tried cooking this hardy, smooth green quasi-vegetable. I've made zucchini meat loaf, zucchini balls, zucchini bread, and even zucchini (yuk) ice cream. It's like cooking eggplant. There's just no way to disguise its Arrow shirt box taste.

Zucchini is mentioned in the Bible (the book of Leviticus), and today remains part of the culinary fare in Israel and neighboring lands. Hey, I wonder if they could use it as cannon fodder against the Arabs.

In the United States, August 8 has been officially declared "Sneak Some Zucchini onto Your Neighbors' Porch Night." In one mid-western town, a man took his neighbor to court for dumping 8,000 pounds of ripe zucchini on his front lawn one night while he slept contentedly in a back bedroom.

When I went to our local Weeds 'R' Us store to pick up a copy of "Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Slugs But Were Afraid To Ask," I looked for any books about zucchini. Not finding any, I returned home to begin my own list of "101 Uses For Zucchini."

To wit: We could shred them and blow them into the attic for insulation. Use one in the toilet tank as a water saver. Paint the small ones brown like cigars, box 'em and give 'em to people who smoke too much and pollute our air. Dry them, hand-cut them meticulously into little peanut shapes and use them for commercial packaging fillers.

We could even market the smallest zucchini as vegetarian sausages to sell at our posh health food stores. Martha Stewart could dip them in Belgium callebaut chocolate and serve them chilled as a gourmet European summer popsicle treat.

I'd like to see Walt Disney Productions replace the annual Peanuts Halloween TV special with "It's THE GREAT ZUCCHINI, Charlie Brown." Maybe carve its place in the annals of classic filmdom like "Gone With The Wind."

Or maybe not.

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IMPROVING ON GOD’S CREATION

I wasn’t around kazillions of years ago when God created the world or its inhabitants (even though some mornings before I shovel on my industrial-strength under-eye concealer, I might look older than dirt). There is no way anyone can improve on God’s creation; I admit that. And looking around at some of His better specimens, everyone has to agree. Tom Cruise comes quickly to mind, for one.

But had I been around when God created man, (the head of the house), and woman, (the neck that turns the head), and had I been asked for some suggestions, I might have hesitantly and reverently come up with a few. To wit:

I would include a maintenance and repair manual with every new baby with directions to the nearest Body Parts-R-Us replacement store. The booklet would be folded and sealed in a Ziploc bag and tucked under the baby’s arm in the womb just before delivery. Sorta like a Cabbage-Patch baby with a certificate. Or something.

I would make teeth grow the same way and at the same rate as fingernails. When one tooth is decayed or broken, a new one grows in to replace it. Bye bye high-priced dentists. We’d make our appointments with Manicurists-of-the-Mouth. (I see some public relations work need to be done on this one. Frankly, if I were a manicurist, I’d rather work in someone’s mouth than on some man’s hot, sweaty foot. Well, okay, maybe not.)

And the appendix. What is THAT all about? My husband John calls an appendix a “vestigial organ which scientists suggest might have had a useful function in the far distant past.” But John, who’s a creation scientist if I’ve ever heard of one, says it’s only a theory and not a fact, so not to worry. (Of all the things that have kept me awake at night, that concern didn’t even make a faint blip on my screen.)

Because toddlers have perpetual runny noses, I’d grow a miniature windshield wiper on the upper lip to keep little Jimmy’s nose nice and tidy.

I’d have a torso-length zipper on every body to facilitate doctors removing a gall bladder or one of those useless appendix. I admit the zipper might be misused by the irate wife who unzips her sleeping husband and rips his heart out. (After all, forgetting an anniversary is a pretty serious crime; ask my husband, John).

I’d make women’s legs smooth and hairless with no need for a razor or a wax job. Razors were invented exclusively for men, anyway. And men are welcome to all the macho body hair they want. Except for ear hair. I can live just as long and die just as happy without looking at ear hair.

Eyes would have automatic zoom lenses so that John’s buddies could ogle the young girls in bikinis who walk up and down the beach. This would keep these over-the-hill guys from falling over the side of the pier and killing themselves just to get a better view of who’s sashaying what down below.

And this is the coup de grace: I’d have a thermostat on everyone’s navel which could be turned up to 500 degrees Fahrenheit every night to melt away any unwanted excess fat that accumulates on thighs, hips and tummies. This liquid fat could be excreted easily through the pores. And that would provide all the natural body lotion anyone ever needed! It’s recycling at its best. Is that a great idea or what?

Now, I wonder why I wasn't asked!

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JUST AN INNOCENT LITTLE BOOK

I think I was born a Siamese twin. My good sense and I were separated at birth.

I’ve written two books in the past two years, “Prisms Of the Heart” and ”Humor Me,” a compilation of my newspaper columns, some essays, and a few poems tossed in for good measure.

I guess I shoulda had more sense. “Humor Me” was the sole reason a friend in Michigan nearly got thrown off a plane. In midair.

Billie Jo was en route to Texas to visit her daughter before Christmas. She was anxious to see her grandkids again. But there were other reasons; Billie Jo hadn’t been well and this trip would be the shot in the arm she needed. She almost shot herself in the foot instead.

Billie Jo had saved her gift copy of “Humor Me” to read on the plane. She needed some laughs. God only knew how much she needed to laugh again.

Well into the flight to Texas, Billie Jo pulled out “Humor Me.” perused the table of contents and randomly selected the chapter “Stop The Plane.” It was a blow-by-blow account of a deplaning experience I had had, a combined claustrophobic/panic attack when I threatened to carve another exit door in the plane if I weren’t let out through the normal exit. It was, by my account anyway, a hilarious piece.

Billie Jo thought so, too. As she read, she began to laugh. Then she began to roar. Finally, a mixture of crying and laughter overcame her. It wasn’t hysteria but it didn’t lack much, given her fragile psyche and physical condition.

A flight attendant, concerned at her behavior, leaned over to whisper “Are you ok?” Unable to speak, Billie Jo pointed to the chapter title she was reading: “STOP THE PLANE,” and continued her laughing/crying jag.

The flight attendant stared in horror, then hurried to get another attendant. “Why are you showing us this?” one of them frantically asked Billie Jo. “Are you asking us to stop the plane? I hope this is some kind of joke. And look at the page number: 91. It’s just one number shy of 911, the date of the World Trade Center bombings.”

By this time Billie Jo was beyond repair. She was so hysterical with laughter that she hid her face in her hands. The flight attendant hurried to the cockpit to converse with the pilot who tried to make sense of the bizarre events taking place in seat 22-C.

Finally, convinced that this was not a serious hijacking attempt by an over-the-edge, middle-age woman, the flight attendants walked to the back of the plane where they eagle-eyed Billie Jo for the remainder of the flight.

But like the proverbial elephant, airlines do not forget. They keep awesome records. Of course, they regularly lose your luggage which ends up in Boise, but they keep meticulous files on their customers and their idiosyncrasies. Especially if they’re suspected terrorists.

Two weeks later, Billie Jo stood in line at the Texas Airport and heard her name called. They had not forgotten her or her book.

“Step over there to be searched, please” a crisp voice demanded of Billie Jo while 200 people in line watched with fascination.

As a male attendant frisked her from top to bottom, a young man in his 20’s standing nearby broke into a wide grin.

Billie Jo let loose. “I didn’t know the airlines let children on the plane unattended,” she snapped at him.

“Well, I’ve never seen a senior citizen strip-searched.” he laughed.

And all this because of an innocent, little “Humor Me” book. Good grief.

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JUST AN OLD CHAIR

Sarah stood in front of the dusty old shop in Nazareth and looked again at the chair. It carried scars of abuse, yet even they didn’t distract from the quality of workmanship or the general condition of the chair. True, it needed repair but every few days she looked at it with longing, hoping one day to save enough to purchase it for her own modest home. As a seamstress, her wages were meager but she managed regularly to deposit a few more coins in the small, clay pot hidden behind her bed.

After several months, Sarah hurried to the shop, counted out her coins to purchase the old chair which was by now covered with dust blown in from the desert sands.

“I don’t know why you’d want this chair in the first place,” commented the shopkeeper. “You can have it for a little less since no one else has ever shown any interest in it and it’s not worth much. I’d guess it’s about 75 years old.”

Dusting it off with the hem of her long robe, Sarah thanked the shopkeeper and tenderly carried the small chair to her home. She kept it next to the open window where she read or often rested after a long day’s work.

Sarah lived alone. Her three grown sons lived in Nazareth but only one came by with any regularity to visit. Ben was the youngest and displayed more interest and affection for his mother than the others.

For the next several years, Sarah suffered declining health and began to require more care. Ben dutifully brought her meals, kept her as comfortable as her bedridden state would permit. Sitting beside her bed in Sarah’s favorite chair, Ben read to her or recounted events of his childhood, stories which made his mother smile in faint remembrance.

One morning, with her breathing more labored than usual and sensing that her time was near, Sarah whispered to Ben that after her death she wanted him to have her favorite chair. Ben held his mother in his arms as she drew her last breath, then laid her back against the pillows, covered her tenderly, then hurried across town to get his two older brothers.

Thomas and Seth helped prepare her for burial and attended the traditional service. Sarah was buried with her fore bearers in the designated spot near their place of worship.

After the burial, the three young men returned to their mother’s home to discuss the disposal of her material possessions. There was a small table, a bed, some urns, several items of clothing, clay pots, and a few items that had been passed on to Sarah from previous generations. It was these items that Seth and Thomas began arguing over. Each claimed rights to them, each claimed their mother had promised the items to him. Each remained intractable.

Ben remained quiet throughout the afternoon as his brothers’ tempers flared and their voices grew more agitated. Finally, Ben said “I only want something to remember mother by. Just anything will do. I would be just as happy with this old chair, since I often sat in it beside mother’s bed to talk to her during her long illness.”

The older brothers, relieved that at least Ben was out of the equation, reached a compromise and began removing the furniture, clothing and other items from their mother’s home.

Ben took the old chair to his house where he dusted it, tears spilling down his cheeks. He remembered his mother so often sitting in the chair with her sewing on her lap. It was still a good chair and had been crafted by careful and experienced hands. Maybe it wasn’t worth much to someone else, but it held great value to him because it had belonged to his mother.

He turned the chair over to make a minor repair. Hidden in an obscure place behind one of the legs were carved these words: “Carpentry by Jesus of Nazareth.”

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LADIES DON’T CLEAN FISH

I like to catch ‘em, cook ‘em and I like to eat ‘em, but I don’t like to clean fish.

“Well, big deal,” you reply. “Who does?”

Men! Men make better fish cleaners than women. When they were little boys, they liked to lie in mud puddles, stomp through wet cow patties and pull off frogs’ legs. And that’s just for starters. Men make better fish cleaners because they enjoy cutting the heads off things, slicing open their innards and digging out the entrails. Not to mention scraping them down to their bare skin.

If you don’t believe me, take a trip to a chicken processing plant and count how many men are breaking the heads off chickens and disemboweling them. Then count the women. See?

Women, on the other hand, like to put on clean aprons and swish around the kitchen, putting together a gourmet fish dinner replete with fish-shaped place mats and little fishy-looking napkin holders and glass tumblers with sea horses on them.

Men have this macho thing about cleaning fish. On any given day you can spot a couple of men at the fish-cleaning table on the pier, waving their sharp knives over the catch of the day. (Has anyone besides me noticed that a lot of these fish could only be caught about thirty miles off-shore in a charter boat? But they pretend they caught them off the end of the pier on a live minnow or a flounder belly or something the rest of us didn’t have.)

We women stand there and watch as they cut the head off at a perfect angle, flipping it into the open trash can. We ooh and aah as they run that fillet knife close to the bone and strip back a beautiful fillet. We feed their egos about their prowess with a hook and their skill with a knife.

Now, if you watch the average woman clean a fish, you’ll see blood everywhere. And it’s not necessarily fish blood. Women would rather clean fish in their kitchen sinks where if they cut away half the fish, no one will notice.

But through the years, ladies, I’ve learned a thing or two about cleaning fish:

First, don’t ever start. That’s the biggest mistake you’ll ever make. You’ll be doing it for the for rest of your life.

Second, don’t brag about your fish-cleaning skills or your husband will bring his friends’ catch over for you to clean as well as his own.

Third, don’t look like you enjoy it. Make a real mess of the kitchen. Leave some fish scales on the linoleum where your husband will slip on them, and place the fish heads in the kitchen trash can for the cat to dig out and devour on the living room sofa.

Fourth and most important, leave a few small bones in the fish so when one gets caught in your husband’s throat, he’ll forbid you to ever clean his fish again.

Then kneel beside your bed and ask God to forgive you for being a conniving woman like all the rest of us.

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LAUGH ON THE DOTTED LINE

For many people, the only unforgivable sin is spontaneous, inappropriate laughter at their expense. That being the case, there’s likely a growing number of people running around in my world who have an unforgiving spirit toward me. The fact is I laugh easily and I laugh hard and I laugh at practically everything that moves or isn’t nailed down. It’s a failure of mine and I readily admit it. I should go to jail.

Maybe I have an enlarged funny bone. For the uninitiated, the funny bone is the place at the back of the elbow where the ulnar nerve rests against a prominence of the humerus. Is it possible, then, that some people have a bulging ulnar nerve or a more prominent humerus which accounts for giggling occupying a larger-than-normal part of their lives? No? I didn’t think so.

The average child laughs about 400 times per day, the average adult laughs only 15 times per day. What caused that significant laugh reduction as we get older to only 15 laughs per day and how can we reverse this alarming trend? This sounds like a national emergency to me and worthy of a massive federal investigation.

In one memorable Jerry Seinfeld television episode, Jerry and Elaine were enjoying a piano concert when Jerry quietly placed a Pez dispenser on Elaine’s knee. Elaine’s sudden outburst of laughter caused the performing artist to become at first disoriented and finally, furious at the interruption. It was a hysterical moment.

My own unbridled laughter has gotten me into more scrapes than I care to recall. I have this “thing” about people falling down. I can’t help it; I always laugh. Maybe I’ve watched too many “Three Stooges” clips.

One sub-zero night in upstate New York when I was nine years old, I saw my two-year-old brother run naked out the front door and onto the ice-covered street. Immediately behind him was my father, trying desperately to grab hold of Johnny who ran like a greased piglet down the center of the paved road. I stood on the front porch, cheering my little brother on, for reasons that surely bordered on insanity. Finally, my father’s feet slid out from under him and down he went on his back, sliding another twenty feet on the ice with his feet straight up in the air.

I really lost it then. I mean I doubled over laughing on the front porch and whooped and hollered and clapped and did everything but dance on the roof. It was simply the funniest thing I had ever witnessed in my short life on this earth.

That was until my father collected himself, tackled my little brother and brought him screaming and kicking under his arm into the house. Then it was my sister’s turn to laugh and cheer and applaud as I received a well-deserved spanking I’d just as soon forget.

When my brother was ten years old, he shyly walked up on the church platform to sing a solo at the annual children’s Christmas program. I was a teenager and accompanied him on the piano. The church was packed. My brother, to his credit, performed admirably until the last verse.

Suddenly, his pre-puberty voice hit a high note which sounded like a rusty, metal saw blade scraping over a cheap violin string. I burst out laughing, stopped playing the piano, and laid my head down on the keyboard in uncontrolled, hysterical laughter.

My embarrassed little brother was left to fend for himself. He bolted from the platform and disappeared, never to be heard from again. Well, actually he reappeared just in time for the stern lecture (make that a shouting one) I received from my very irate parents when we returned home after the program.

But my brother eventually had the last laugh. And at my expense. Just weeks before our marriage, John and I were sitting in John’s car one night talking about our upcoming marriage and discussing the intimacies that married life would offer. It was a very detailed and very graphic conversation. Suddenly, my young teenage brother raised up from the floor of the back seat where he’d been hiding under a blanket, listening to every word, and yelled, “Surprise!”

I didn’t laugh again for ten years.

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LIFE, LIBERTY AND THE PURSUIT OF HAAGEN-DAZS

If you’re like me, every time you go to a grocery store, Murphy’s law kicks in. Proceed with caution and with a big smile on your face.

When I arrive, I can never find a parking space because grocery carts have been recklessly abandoned at odd angles all over the parking lot, courtesy of hurried shoppers.

Just inside the door, I find only one cart remaining. It bears the cruel marks of weeks in the rain, with rusted metal and one bent wheel. The cart squeaks and lunges precariously to the left while I dodge a pyramid of lemons just in time to hit a cardboard display of garlic. But I keep smiling.

I rip off a plastic bag from a roll and begin the arduous task of finding its transparent opening. I twist it, rub it, blow on it and finally discard it and dump my onions loosely into the cart without it.

I peel a produce sticker from the center of my shirt which I’ve picked up from the grocery cart handle: 2 for $1. I pray no one has noticed.

I hum while sauntering down an aisle, pick up a box of crackers and search for a “better if sold by” date and find none. Instead, I read: SDML42964. Decoding it, I come up with the fourth month, twenty-ninth day of 1964. No way, I say to myself, am I going to purchase 36 year-old crackers, even though I have food in my refrigerator older than that.

At the meat counter I toss an eye of round roast into my cart, dribbling meat juices down the front of my sweater. No problem. It goes well with the milk from the cottage cheese that just leaked onto my shirt.

A screaming toddler, begging his mother for Fruit Loops, knocks several boxes of cereal to the floor and stomps them into the tile. I hurry up the next aisle to avoid being an eye witness to the whipping which is sure to follow.

I fill my cart with necessities, happily toss a carton of Haagen-Dazs ice cream on top and head for the cashier only to find several lines of bored shoppers idly leafing through seamy tabloids. I size up each shopper, mentally calculate their amount of groceries and decide to switch lanes.

I end up behind a woman who stands with her arms crossed, carefully scrutinizing each entry on the register.

At last, the cashier rings up the total and the lady begins doling out neatly-torn coupons, most of which are outdated. She searches for her checkbook and pen to begin the slow, arduous process of completing her bookkeeping. I watch her with growing concern and muzzle my instinct to kindly suggest that she prepare most of her check ahead of time like the rest of the world does.

Finally, my impatience jumps into overdrive and I steer my overflowing cart over into the Express Lane. The cashier gives me a wilting look as the woman behind me remarks sarcastically, “Hey, don’t you know this is an express lane?”

I smile broadly and respond, “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought ‘express’ meant a fast lane for those in a hurry and I’m in a big hurry!”

Their stares tell me this is NOT FUNNY.

I laugh all the way to the parking lot. I should be ashamed of myself.

Or not.

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LITTLE NORMA’S EASTER DRESS

“Don’t worry, honey. I’ll think of something.”

With that reassurance from Mother, my seven-year-old sister bounded upstairs to bed, danced a little jig in the hallway and finally settled down for restful sleep. Mother always “thought of something.”

Mother stood quietly by the curtained window. She had been unwell for months. Part of her problem was pernicious anemia, a condition that left her drained and bone-weary. Giving birth to six children in twelve years had taken a generous toll on her frail body. The years of the Great Depression of the 1930s had ravaged our family financially as well as millions of other families.

Little Norma wanted a new dress for Easter. A green one. The hand-me-downs from her three older sisters had been handed-down one time too many. Easter Sunday was “dress-up-day” at our small church in upstate New York. Ladies wore spring hats and colorful voile dresses. Little boys wore suits and ties. And little girls sashayed down the center aisle with their crinoline petticoats peeking from under full skirts and tight bodices. It was the one day in the calendar year every little girl wanted a new dress.

Mother crossed her arms and wondered where she could find material to make little Norma an Easter dress. Buying cloth was not an option; there was barely enough money for food. In fact, food was in such short supply that more often than not tomato dumplings or hamburg gravy were served to the less-than-enthusiastic children who gathered expectantly around the large oak dining table.

Finally, Mother walked out on the front porch which was partially covered with orange trumpet vines providing a lattice of protection and privacy. Sitting on the metal porch chair, she began to pray:

“Father, my little girl needs a dress to wear to church. I can make one if I can just get some material. And she wants a green dress for spring. Please, Lord, help me figure out what to do.”

The next morning Mother was hanging wet sheets on the back yard clothes line when a neighbor, Mrs. Carpenter, approached her. “I brought a dress that I’d like to give you. It’s plain brown but it’s made of excellent material. Perhaps you or one of your daughters could use it.”

Mother accepted the brown dress and thanked her warmly. After a pleasant conversation, Mrs. Carpenter left and Mother rushed inside.

Little Norma was in school so Mother began ripping out the seams of the brown dress. Her excitement grew as the dress separated into several pieces of fabric.

She talked quietly to herself. “I’ll bleach the pieces of material, but where will I get five cents for some green Rit Dye? This would make a lovely Easter dress for little Norma. I could surprise her with it.”

Mother carried the pieces of fabric to the kitchen sink where she filled a large pan with water, pouring in the small amount of Clorox still remaining in the bottle.

What she witnessed left her speechless.

The bleach slowly removed the brown dye from the material, leaving it the most delicate emerald green cloth Mother had ever seen. She rinsed the material in cold water and rushed to the back porch to inspect it in the bright sunlight.

It was breathtakingly beautiful. There would be no need to try to find five cents for Rit Dye. No dye could replicate this shade of spring green.

She raised her brimming eyes toward heaven. ‘Lord, I know this little miracle came directly from You. I can’t explain it otherwise. Thank you, Lord.”

Two days later, Mother quietly carried a little green dress with puffed sleeves, a white collar, and full skirt into little Norma’s bedroom. Mother hung the dress in the closet, then bent to kiss her sleeping daughter lightly on the forehead.

“Happy Easter, darling.”

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THE LITTLE SAILOR

My dad was a sailor in the Mediterranean during World War I and single-handedly brought the war to a close with his bravery and battle skills. Or so I told all my childhood friends when I wrapped Daddy’s well-worn Navy shirt around my skinny shoulders, pulled his white sailor cap down over my curls and sashayed around the neighborhood.

Daddy was a handsome, blond, curly-haired sailor whose picture on the deck of that navy troop ship should have been on every recruiting poster in America. He told me often of standing along the rail of that ship in the moonlight and desperately missing his fiancé, my mother, who waited back home for his safe return.

I have an idea, though, that Daddy had sailor’s blood coursing through his veins from the time he was a toddler for this reason: he gave depth and definition to the well-worn phrase, “swears like a sailor.”

Where Daddy picked up his colorful language baffled everyone, given his Christian upbringing. In adulthood, he turned out to be a saint, became a seasoned Bible teacher and served as a lay preacher. To me he was the most godly man I ever knew.

But his saintliness didn’t prevent his sharing his early childhood experiences with his own children, who doubled over with laughter and delight every time he recounted them.

He was given the nickname “Bub” by his sister who couldn’t pronounce “brother. The name stuck.

Bub’s mother was a well-known Bible teacher, who taught in the small neighborhood church as well as in her own living room. One summer afternoon in the year 1903 she gave seven-year-old Bub strict instructions to remain upstairs in his bedroom during a prayer meeting she was conducting for friends in her living room.

As the prayers were being offered by the large group kneeling in the living room, they were interrupted by a rooster whose legs Bub had tied together with a rope and who Bub was dangling from his upstairs window, swinging the screeching animal back and forth in front of the open living room window below. His mother charged up the stairs, retrieved the enraged bird from Bub’s grasp and locked Bub in his room for the duration of the prayer meeting.

That summer, Bub’s grandfather died after a long illness. Since he was well-known in the community, the funeral procession was long. At the cemetery, the pastor gave the usual farewells, prayed before the large crowd gathered around the grave site, and whispered a quiet amen.

Since Bub’s grandfather was a Civil War veteran, full military honors were afforded and a gun salute began.

As the guns were sending out their volleys of thunder, Bub’s grandmother fainted, both from exhaustion and the blistering summer heat.

“Oh no,” screamed little Bub to the large crowd, “The blankety blanks just shot grandma!”

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