Spook House

Let it be known that the girls in my class were very tight.  There were only 16 of us out of our unusually small class of 39.  The peachy thing about this was the fact that, if each of us had a slumber party twice during the school year, we basically could have a sleepover at someone’s house every Friday night.  

We, you see, were very good at math.  

I know that what happens at a slumber party should stay at a slumber party.  This time of year, though, finds me reminiscing about our over-nighters.  This is undoubtedly because one of our favorite activities was to build spook houses for one another.  

Sometimes the host-mom would help.  She’d cover our eyes with a long white cotton dish towel and have us feel “eyeballs” (peeled grapes), “intestines” (cooked spaghetti), and “brains” (one of the more brilliant uses for Jello.)

But usually we were left to ourselves and would methodically divide ourselves into two teams so that each of us could go through the others’ haunted house.  This usually took close to the whole evening, so the moms probably loved the idea.

Sometimes our brain-storming ideas went as smooth as silk and other times they went as well as trying to pick gravel out of a skinned knee!!!  

On one occasion someone came up with the idea to place a men’s black dress sock over the basement light bulb in order to dim the room.  Suddenly there was smoke…then a flame…then a bunch of panicked girls.  

I never said we were good at Science or Logic.

At another slumber party we spent the night without parents in a trailer house.  Out in the country boondocks, the trailer in and of itself became a spook house. A couple of male classmates knew where we were spending the night and kept shutting off the fuse box.  This, for a bunch of middle schoolers, is right up there with the thriller Friday the 13^th.

And then there was the spook house that took place in my own basement.  It was back in the 1970’s when all of us were hip and donning the lovely elephant-bottom jeans.  You will soon discover why this is noteworthy.

Even though that house has been taken down, I can still see the basement as if it were yesterday.  It was a bit dark and dank, and it was a perfect place for our idea.  We had decided to string a piece of yarn throughout the basement.  It was waist-height and the victim going through our creation would merely have to follow it to encounter the unknown.  

Predictably, we had someone tickling legs at one point and making spine-tingling noises at another.  Throughout the entire spook house, the adventurer would encounter unfamiliar objects brushing her face or find herself knocking into or tripping over something.

We had it planned out perfectly, except for one small detail.  We hadn’t counted on someone yanking the string in fear.

We had set a trap. Ironically, it was a small pink toy teapot made of plastic that would begin the havoc.  It was filled with water and hung at head-height of those walking through the haunted house.  The intention was to have them bump the teapot, causing water to splash on them.

The trap worked.  It worked too well, according to Kim.  She bumped the hanging trap, it spilled water on her head as planned, and—in a fight or flight reaction—she yanked the string that had been guiding her.

To this very day, no one will fess up as to being the one who had tied the string to something on the laundry shelf… the something that would change our dragging elephant-bottom pants forever.

It was a gallon-size bottle of Hilex bleach.

In the split second it took to yank a string, the bottle had fallen, hit the concrete floor, lost its cap, and turned what we thought was a good spook house into a very memorable one!

We gasped for air and clamored to find any light switch.  We clawed our way through a room adorned with strings, and traps, and bewildered almost-teenage girls. 

Mom smelled the intoxicating fumes from the next story up, and came to rescue the clan.  She was horrified to find over a dozen girls with their favorite faddish jeans bleached white up to the knees.  The large bell bottoms had virtually wicked the Hilex half-way up all of our pant legs.

To this very day, Brenda believes all of us that attended that party have remained impeccably healthy.  We killed every possible bad germ in our lungs and lived to tell about it. 

After that night, we became a bit more savvy and discerning as to how we constructed our spook houses.  In other words, we became better at learning from History.

And to this day, Kim declares that she is not responsible for the catastrophe.  She only pulled the string. 

And, being as good at math as we are, we know 1/16 of the party goers are really to blame.

All Because of a Wood Tick

Let me just say that wood ticks can be good for something.  Who would have known.

This, once again, is an odd—but very true—story.  It began as I was laughing out loud to myself in the grocery store line.  I figured I better explain to the checkout lady why I was chuckling.  Surely I wouldn’t want her to think I was nutso.

I began explaining in detail the time my brother had plucked a wood tick off of himself in bed a few years back, and—rather than kill or flush the critter—he had flicked it as far away from himself as he could.  Or so he thought.

The next morning he woke up to find it fixed and engorged between the eyes of his grumpy now ex-wife.  By now, of course, the two of us were having a laugh-fest between ourselves.  

Little did we know there was a third participant behind me in line.  Between snorts and laughs, she blurted, “Well you must be from the Midwest!  I don’t hear people talk about wood ticks around here.”  

She was perfectly right.  Coloradoans are more worried about deer ticks, recluse spiders, and a rare rattlesnake bite.

In my best Minnesota accent I stood erect and said, “Yup…you betcha!  I graduated from Hector, Minnesota…class of 1980!” 

She burst into hysterics and said, “You’re kidding me!  My dad—Neil Macheledt-- graduated from Buffalo Lake High School!  In fact, my mother (Wendla) was buried in the cemetery there in 2005.”  

For those of you who struggle with geography like I do, the two towns are a mere five miles apart.

After we had both checked out, we stepped to the side.  

   

“My mom graduated from Buffalo Lake.  She was a Buboltz,” I added.

“Oh, my gosh!  My grandparents—Alvin and Arvilla Macheledt-- sold their farm south of town to a Buboltz.”

This is when cell phones come in handy.  I called my mother.

As Jean and I pried for information, we discovered that the farm had been sold to Virgil and Judy Buboltz.  Mom kept interjecting how nice Jean’s dad and aunt (also Jean) were and, because of this, how I should not hestitate to become friends with her.

The story was to become even more entertainingly bizarre!  As Jean and I talked about how we both had sons that were seniors at Fort Collins High School, I received a call back from Mom.  She had talked to Aunt Eunice who knew even more information.

Come to find out, Jean’s grandpa Alvin had dated my grandma LuNita in high school.  Grandpa Buboltz  loved to tease Grandma by often telling the story of Alvin and her.  They had pulled the horses off on the curves between Stewart and Gibbon.  Everyone who has driven the Gibbon and Stewart road knows those curves.

Grandpa was even recorded on tape jesting, “The grass never grew there and the snow never melted there after that.”  He would joke with Grandma and ask what exactly they had done on that spot to cause this phenomenon.

She would just say with a grin, “You know how kids are in the buggy.”

We would later discover that my uncle and godfather Lloyd Buboltz would voluntarily sign up for the Navy with Jean’s dad.  They were close friends in high school.

Just remember some important tidbits. Truth is stranger than fiction.  It’s O.K. to laugh to yourself in the grocery line as long as you explain yourself.  For heaven’s sake, don’t let your teen age kids take off in a buggy.   And—believe it or not—wood ticks actually can be good for something.

An Acrobat Makes It to Kindergarten

The neighbor youngsters are off to school and my own grown children are starting college today.  Of course, it makes me wonder where another summer has gone.  Even more so, it conjures up memories of my own days in school.  It’s amazing how many snippets that I recall.

I can remember kindergarten like it was yesterday, probably because I nearly missed the first day.  Three days before the start of classes, I had seen an acrobat doing flips on a trampoline on TV.  Off I skipped to Mom and Dad’s bed (it was the largest in the house, after all) and attempted to repeat the acts I had seen on the screen.

After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, I finally made it a successful 180 degrees to land directly on the top of my head, spraining my neck.  I’ll make the story short by saying I ended up in the county hospital where they strung me up in a contraption that was to keep my neck straight.  Having been made for an adult, not a five-year-old wannabe gymnast, the straps ended up around my nose three-quarters of the time.  

The good news about all of this is that it helped me to remember my first day of afternoon kindergarten.  It helped to have been thrown into the stress of a discharge on the same morning of the biggest day in a child’s life.  I remember the exact dress I wore (a red plaid one with a white collar (to attempt to make me look innocent, I’m sure) and the noon meal I had (Campbell’s tomato soup) before getting on my first ever bus ride. 

Kindergarten in and of itself is worth a large section of my brain’s memory mass.  Like half of my hometown, I had a sweet-as-honey teacher with a hair bun named Mrs. Schultz.   She was loaded with smiles and kisses.  A lot of wet kisses, come to think of it.  To her advantage, she never had to get down on her knees to talk to us.  I think she might have been shorter than some of my classmates, although this might only be my silly recollection.

Even at that young age, I loved to write.  I especially loved writing plays for my Barbie dolls.  Spelling was not my mother’s favorite class, so she was undoubtedly overjoyed to pass this opportunity of spelling every other word in my plays on to a teacher. 

My sister taught me how to write my name in cursive, and I couldn’t wait to show Mrs. Schultz.  Her eyes twinkled and she leaned forward over her desk to plant a very wet kiss on my cheek.  It was nice and gross, all at the same time.

I made my first kindergarten best friend in the corner where you could string together necklaces. I still sing praises to Mrs. Schultz for providing a station for the crafters in the class.  I would go back to kindergarten now just for this.  Marilyn and I would have strung together cut pieces of straw, colorful buttons, and pasta on string all day had we been allowed.

I also remember sitting down on the floor to sing songs in front of the piano.  I especially recall one incident when another close friend ended up in the corner because she kept spinning on the floor on her rear end while sitting Indian style.

Now I look back and think Mrs. Schultz should have had Patty demonstrate her talents to all of us instead of disciplining her for it.  Most people can sing Itsy Bitsy Spider, but –seriously—how many people can sit perfectly cross-legged, much less spin around doing it while singing?  We would have been the best exercised, most limber kindergarteners in the United States of America.  Nowadays, we could have been on America’s Got Talent or had own singing stint on Glee.

Show and tell was another favorite part of my day.  I don’t remember any item that I personally brought in, but several treasures my friends did.    These were the days we still marveled at smooth rocks, pine cones, and pictures of kittens.  Part of me wishes I could still have Show and Tell today.  I would fly my mom in to tell a joke or two, and then have her show everyone how to sit Indian style and spin around on her rear end while singing a song.

Good luck with that, Mom.  I promise I won’t stick you in the naughty corner.  Instead I’ll reward you and we’ll go make some straw necklaces before having tomato soup for lunch.  This time we’ll skip doing flips on the bed, if it’s okay with you. 

Smart Pills

I knew her best after she was already retired.  She was born in 1900, and I was born in 1962. Even in her seventies, she’d hook the boat up to the car, drive to Lake Allie, back the boat into the lake, and take me fishing to catch the evening meal.   

I would get to spend a whole week with her each summer.  I remember her throwing her head back to laugh and laugh and laugh. Now I catch myself doing the same thing.

I can honestly say I think about my grandmother every single day.  Thank goodness that she left me with so many wonderful stories to tell about her.  She passed along a legacy of humor that has continued to trickle down through the generations.  I’ve always seen it in my aunts and uncles, my brothers and sisters, and now in my own grown children.

Grandma took care of a little boy after she was retired.  They were walking in the backyard one day when by happenstance they came upon a pile of rabbit droppings.

“Grandma, what are these?” he asked curiously.

“Why, those are smart pills,” Grandma said in jest.

A while later, little Kent came in with a grimace on his face.

“Those aren’t smart pills,” he protested in disgust.  “Those are poop.”

 “See!” exclaimed Grandma. “You’re smarter already!”

The escapades of my Grandma!

I remember vividly the year that my brother-in-law, a jokester himself, gave Grandma a toy by Mattel named Slime for Mother’s Day.  Slime was a toy back in the mid-1970’s that was an ooey, gooey, gross greenish blob that would slip through your hands and was impossible to hold.  It had the consistency of, well, slime! 

Upon opening the gift, Grandma’s face lit up.  We could see the creative wheels turning in her mind.  Suddenly she announced, “I’m going to play a joke on Dorothy.” 

Dorothy was a lovely aunt who, without question, would have a neatly folded handkerchief with her.  

Upon Dorothy’s arrival, Grandma desperately asked everyone in the room, “Does anyone have a tissue?  I have to sneeze…”

Dorothy, of course, was right there with her beautiful hanky.

“Aa-CHOO!” faked Grandma.  And with that we saw a big blob of light green slime bouncing between her fingers and beneath the handkerchief. 

My aunt, with her eyes wide open and seemingly panicked that someone could actually sneeze that amount out at one time, appeared to run in circles. She was quite confused that no one else was assisting her with Grandma’s dilemma.  The rest of us, shocked that Grandma could still pull off a prank so well at her age, had tears running down our cheeks through the laughter.

And then there was the marriage of my 60-year-old aunt.  She had lost her first husband to cancer, then married Charlie.  My grandmother at that time was 88 and in a wheelchair, but that didn’t stop her antics!  Grandpa and she had brought a wooden toy shotgun to the wedding.

“We heard it was a shotgun wedding,” they would say.  Grandma got great fun out of poking guests with the gun during the gaieties. 

One of my favorite memories of Grandma was when she was nearing her nineties.  We were reminiscing and I pried her to tell me what it was like delivering a large brood.  “So you had eight children?” I asked.

My Grandpa, at that time probably in his nineties, chimed up saying, “Yup!  And it didn’t hurt at all!”

I remember Grandma scolding him from her wheelchair to this day.  With a grin on her face she teased, “You get over here right now and I’m going to kick you in the butt.”

So, to set the record straight, I’d like to apologize to all of my elementary school teachers.  In my own defense, I wasn’t trying to be naughty in school.  At such an impressionable age, I just idolized my grandmother and thought that’s how every happy person acted.   It was like I had my own personal Carol Burnett in my life that I had permission to emulate.  

Now I realize I could have used some smart pills of my own.

Did You Marry an Ape?

My husband and I will be married 25 years this month.  Some days it seems like only five, and at other times it feels like 70. 
 

Someone close to me said it best when she recalled her 25^th anniversary saying, “I thought after 25 years of marriage, we would be like one.  You know, we’d read each other’s mind and finish each other’s sentences.  I didn’t realize that it would still be so much work.”   

Raise your cup of coffee if you agree with this.

I thought about her philosophical statement, and I realized a couple of things. Marriage is when a man and a woman become one.  The trouble begins when they try to decide WHICH one!  

As far as reading each other’s minds, my husband and I at times believe we read each other’s mind, but in actuality we just assume what the other is thinking and—unfortunately—assume incorrectly.  I have grown to the conclusion that it is best to leave the mind reading to the people on television (who, I have noticed, only read dead peoples’ minds.)

After being married for a quarter of a century, I never imagined that I would think so much about those once-upon-a-time wedding vows.   I start pondering the seriousness of them, like the “to have and to hold from this day forward” part. 

“To have and to hold” was fine while I was my brawny husband’s “fragile flower” and I loved curling up next to him during those cold nights.  But now that I’m a hairy, grumpy menopausal bear, I feel ready to rip off that warm leg he throws over me on those 40-degree nights (which are still hot for me). 

Or consider “the better, for worse” part.  The better parts were wonderful.  Kids.  Travels. Homes.  Friendships.  Everyday paradises.  It’s the “for worse” parts that are enough to scare even the family dog.

I vividly recall moving into a rental home in Missouri.  Being a good renter, I insisted that my hubby and I pressure wash the rickety picket fence before giving it a fresh coat of white paint.   It would be a good family project since our kids were all old enough to hold a paintbrush.

Little did we know that the overgrown seven-foot “trees” intertwined with the fence would turn out to be poison oak.  The pressure washing had aerosolized the devilish weeds.  We woke up the next morning with boils on our limbs and faces morphed beyond recognition.  Yes, this was a “for worse” situation.   

My husband has had other trials, too.  Never in his wildest imagination did he think I would transform into a mother ape that pulls an occasional haphazard hair from his ear as we drive down the freeway.  

Imagine being betrothed to an ape during the day and a grizzly bear at night.

As I recall the “in sickness or in health” bit, I am hoping that bad health includes the weight I’ve gained, the flabby arms that are beginning to develop, and the one random white hair on my chin that seems to appear overnight.  Surely this obligates my better half to stick with me.   

The part of the vow that we talk about the most is the “til death do us part” portion.  No, we don’t morbidly talk about death every day.  We do, on occasion, tease that—while we can’t divorce each other (our pact since day one)—we can kill each other.  Our vows say so.

I once read that every man wants a wife who is beautiful, understanding, economical, and a good cook.  Whew!  In that case, it’s unfortunate that the law allows only one wife.  

Happy 25^th Anniversary, Honey.  Thanks for loving me even though I can’t be beautiful, understanding, economical, and a good cook all in the same year.  Now, come here.  Just close enough for me to pluck another hair from your ear and kiss you on the cheek while I’m at it.