I like the sound of rain on a tin roof .... I do NOT like the sound of cracking ice under my feet ... Kindness with sincerity is joyful ... The Paris Hilton types of the world who were born on 3rd base, act like THEY are the ones who just hit the triple ... Speaking of kids---When I was at church on Christmas Eve, there was a 4 year-old kid in the pew in front of me hopped up on Mountain Dew and Christmas Cookies.  He was doing something that was somewhere between karaoke and break dancing.  It seems that God answered my prayers quite promptly because after a couple of minutes the little tike dropped off into a sugar coma.

     Note to my friend’s wife:  When your man finishes a project that you asked him to do and he says: Well, how does it look?  (FYI, this question is the male version of "Honey does my butt look big in these slacks.” .... As all men know there is no right answer to that one.)  Anyway ... "Not bad or pretty good" is not what he wanted to hear.  Some better options you might want to try are: "You’re an absolute freakin genius.” ... “This is fantastic!!!” ... “How clever of you to fix it that way” ... “I am so lucky that you know so much and are so handy.”

  There’s nothing that seems to express true religious tolerance and acceptance of other people’s beliefs like the person who said to me, “I don't care what religion someone is just as long as they're a Christian.”

      As I was traveling the 101 freeway at 65 mile an hour in the middle lane, a car in the left lane going at least 75mph suddenly decided that unless they cut across all three lanes at a sharp angle, they were going to miss the Scottsdale Road exit just 148 feet ahead.  In that split second, as it careened past me on it’s projectile path, I see the cell phone that’s propped on her shoulder and held in place by her 74º tilted head. There’s a cigarette in her left hand and her right hand palm is positioned at the top of steering wheel.  Her Edward Scissors-hand finger nails scraping the nicotine off the inside of the windshield as she turns the wheel while her lap dog wheezes from the second hand smoke.  Maybe it only happened in my mind, maybe it didn’t happen exactly like that or maybe it just didn’t happen at all.  However improbable, my anecdote has possibility not to mention potential probability.   Real or not, it’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.

   I wish the guy that created AUTO-TUNE (The device that makes even the most “pitchy dawg crooners” a “singer”) had also created a device called AUTO-VETTING.  We need something that counteracts all the endless bombarding of misinformation that is spewed forth by the 24/7 “cable news” yahoos.  Maybe these braying, yipping, self appointed “expert” talking head know-it-alls need to be fitted with a dog collar type gadget that zaps them every time they say something stupid or untrue. Also needed is an antidote for those conspiracy theory-eyed emails clamoring that these “REAL FACTS” support their angry outrage and that they “must” be passed on with no further fact checking being necessary.  My Grandma Esther used to say it best: “Ya gotta listen to everybody, no matter what side of the center from which they shout and spout. The “real truth” is found in the middle and you should base your opinions and decisions upon what you find there.”

  Ya gotta wonder about the bimbo I saw wearing flip flops when I was in Minnesota and it was -5º.  That’s not fashion, that’s stupidity. Despite her name, I think even Lady GaGa has more sense then that!! ..... Nothing says Christmas like the song: Grandma Got Run Over by a John Deere. ...It seems that the most unrealistic shows on TV are the “Reality” ones.....I like the fact that my van has a keyless remote. I can find the van right away instead of walking around in the parking lot in a dementia induced haze as to where I parked it. .... I don’t tweet or text---My thumbs are too big... Warmest Wishes and May you find 2011 filled with Love, Joy and Much Laughter.

 To be brief...is to be...almost next to interesting!

        Or so I've been told.  Here's our year.

In April Patsy and I went Backpacking in Utah with Barb & Tom Edwards.  Hiking 28 miles total, 21 of them toting the back packs.  June found us in Belize diving and sailing with our good friend Lydia Hernandez, star of The Redneck Rambler, a series I'm producing.

July took us to Colorado to attend two weddings on the same day and went white water rafting on the Arkansas River the day before.  As President of the Phoenix Local, I attended the The National Convention of AFTRA (American Federation of Radio Television Artists) in Philadelphia at the end of July.  

Being a life long member of the Macintosh Family, I updated to the latest Mac Power Book Pro in September.  Making my DVD Movies has been made even easier and much much faster.  I've finished several projects, but I'm still behind in delivering promised videos. 

November 1st was "Hammer Toe Time" for me.  I had surgery at the VA on both feet that corrected eight toes.  After almost 7 weeks of walking around in my "Moon Boots" I finally got the pins out and hope to return to practicing my River Dance routine in a couple of weeks.  In the mean time I'm perfecting my "Old Man Shuffle."  

Not having knitted since she was a wee one, Patsy has taken up the needles again and knitted two Afghans since Thanksgiving.  She finds it relaxing and mindless and is working on more.  She can watch TV, knit, bake bread and contemplate world order, all at the same time.  She's a multi-tasker of the highest order.   

In celebration of Patsy's 50th Birthday, she has invited her siblings and their spouses, to join us on a 4 cabin catamaran that she has chartered.  We will be sailing and diving in St. Maarten the week of January 23, 2008.

So that's about it for this year's edition of the Missal.  I could tell you more, but I won't.  If you have the time and want to bother you can visit my website: web.mac.com/cupofjoe1

Happy Holidays

Patsy & Joe

Family heirlooms can be anything. All families have them and all families have their inside jokes. A compilation of occasions where all it takes is a short phrase or maybe just a look to create recognition.

You can't explain it and you shouldn't try. They are heirlooms.  Only in our clan would the phrase COOOOLD MEEEATS mean anything. Believe me it was a real knee slapper and still is.  Coooold Meeeats was a sign of fine dinning.  Yup, the Oscar Mayer Variety Pack of cold cuts brought much jocularity to our meals.  "Please pass the Grey Poupon cause we have bologna sandwiches for every occasion."

My Mother's RHUBARB COBBLER was very good, but what moved it into the Family Joke Hall of Fame was waiting to see how times she would say, "It's one of the three perennial vegetables ya know." We would make bets not to see if she would say it, that was a given, but rather how often the phrase would be used. After the zillionth time we lost interest, but if you're somewhat curious, it averaged twice per baking.

Every summer my mother would can quarts of peaches, pears, cherries, practically anything that would fit into a Ball quart jar.  In addition, us boys would man the wine press creating apple juice, grape juice, basically whatever could be crushed, squeezed and turned into liquid form was our job and intent.

The contraption was on a tripod and had a 15 gallon stainless steel drum. The crushable items where placed on the grate and a metal plate placed on top and that would be cranked down until the items met their doom. The skins and pulp would stay on the grate and the liquid would come out the spout. I guess you could say we were some of the original juicers, the Jack LaLannes of the midwest and as it turned out, way ahead of our time.

Sadly for us there were no Reality TV shows back then.  Had there been, my dad and us five boys could have all grown beards and had a show called: Juice Dynasty.  Other possibilities may have come our way:   The Real Desperate Juicers of Minnesota or Toddlers & Juice Toters or The Biggest Juicer or Beet Camp or Extreme Juice Over or Ice Road Juicers or Make Me a Juicer or Who Wants to be a Juicer or So You Think You Can Juice or maybe even, Juicing With the Stars.  Oh what could have been, but I digress.

We happily juiced for years and then Mother read about a Beet Wine recipe in Readers Digest. We squeezed and two gallons of the purple stuff flowed and subsequently another heirloom was about to be created, THE BEET WINE INCIDENT.

Later that winter one of my younger brothers was sent to the basement to get a jar of canned peaches. He did not return. We waited. He still did not return, so I was sent down to retrieve him.

Next to him was one of those gallon A&W Root Beer jugs. It was almost half empty. He apparently thought he was going to have solo access to this serendipity find of A&W. Little did he know that it was not a good Root Beer gone bad, but rather a bad Beet Wine gone good.  He had hit fermentation heaven before his time. I'm sure for a short time the world seemed a little bit bigger and spun a little faster for my baby brother, the wine connoisseur.

You haven't lived unless you've seen a 5 year old rolling around on the dirt cellar floor slurring his ABC's and babbling "I think I'm drunk Sam. I think I am. I don't like eggs and ham."

I helped him back upstairs and gave him some coffee. For myself, I brought up some tomato juice that had been squeezed out several years prior.  If I recall correctly it was a ‘56 or ’57 vintage, two very good years for vegetables.  Memory also tells me that It possesed robust tannins, brawny and balanced with a leafy hazy complexity.  Piano legs with a earthy bouquet hinting of beef steak that lingered on the pallet.  The canned peaches remained in the basement.

What I do recollect for sure is that we boys never squeezed another beet and it was several years before I saw another issue of Readers Digest in the house.  My mother the moon shiner never spoke of the incident again.

WELL, THAT'S THE WAY I LIKE TO REMEMBER IT.

Most of us, at one time or another, have been asked the question: When did you stop believing in Santa Claus? We all have our own memories of Christmas, but it depends upon where we came from and what we hook our memories onto that make them different.

Just before Thanksgiving, one year I returned to visit my family and the farm of my youth. My oldest brother David now owns the place. The weather was unseasonably warm and sunny and even though it was deer hunting season I thought a walk down the lane, past the pond to visit the old house was a good idea.

I also thought it wise to dress in my brother's orange Elmer Fudd hat and coat. (Years ago, I had told Dave that I wouldn't go deer hunting with him.  My reasoning?  I wasn't going to spend two years in Viet Nam and then come home to get shot out of a tree 'cause some buck-fevered idiot from Chicago thought he saw a deer.)

The old house is not an actual building, but rather the location and the memory of the original log cabin built by my Irish great-grandparents in 1854. There is nothing there now and hasn’t been for over a hundred years except the wild rose bushes and the outline of a longtime empty root cellar.

With my eyes closed, I sat on the hill that overlooks the pond and listened.  I then realized how much the wind in the treetops sounds like the surf of the oceans in which I scuba dive. Many of the trees, though taller and older were still recognizable and a remembered part of my childhood.

The biggest change on the farm was the result of a July tornado that demolished the barn, leveled the remainder of the old silo and knocked the chimney off the house.

Built in 1933, after another tornado had destroyed the previous barn, the most identifying feature of the farm was gone. What is left now is just the cement foundation, which seems to have been way too small to have supported what before seemed to be such a large barn.

Gone was the barn where my four brothers and I worked and played.  The place where Gary broke his nose swinging from the hay barn rope in his efforts to be like Tarzan.  Where Roger told Duane: "That's enough hay!  If you throw another hay bale down the chute and it ends up killing me, I'm going to come up there and pound you."  Gone was the silo room where I smoked a pipe for the first and last time. Gone was the destination of one winter's efforts. The snowdrifts were so high that we actually dug a tunnel, engineered by David, that went from the house to the barn.

The barn may no longer be there, but the memory of David (who now claims that he was in cahoots with our parents) adamantly and with great conviction told us four younger brothers to keep our noses pressed up against the bedroom window that faced the barn. He said, "If you keep looking and believe hard enough, Santa will land on the barn roof and tie his reindeer to the silo."

How could anyone ever doubt that possibility?  The barn is gone, but I still see Santa landing on the roof and throwing the reins around the silo.

WELL, THAT'S THE WAY I REMEMBER IT.

11-15-95  A View from the Rim.

I grew up in Minnesota on a farm located on a ridge overlooking the Mississippi River by the Wisconsin-Iowa border. The Midwest may not be the best vantage point for an overall view of the world but growing up there did give me the foundation for determining the way I look at life.

Though I'm not very old I actually did go to a one room country school. We had one teacher and a total of 24 students in 8 grades. We didn't have kindergarten back then. The 5 year olds were too valuable as farm helpers to be playing with crayons and laying around all afternoon taking naps.

Cliched as it may sound my 4 brothers and I did walk to school in the snow, rain, sleet, wind and occasionally sunshine. Sometimes on special occasions we got to drive the tractor to our educational institution. It was almost a 5 mile round trip trek and in hindsight it was very good for us because the nearest health club was located 120 miles away. Frankly if it didn't look like a bale of hay or a pitchfork we wouldn't have known how to use those fancy workout machines anyway.

Our school did not have a VCR or a computer, but I will tell you that the #2 pencil did reign king and seemed, at times, to be the size of a small red wood tree. Graduating from the #2 pencil to the ball point pen was akin to moving from the card table, during the family Thanksgiving feast, to the grownup table. It was a big deal.

Some say "you can't go home." I haven't lived in the region of my youth for many years but I do go home, at least mentally, almost everyday. Not because I long for the "good old days" but sometimes to find the answers to the questions that face me today.

Last week someone happened to ask, "Hey Joe how come you only eat soft cookies? I "took" a trip home and found the answer without much trouble. It would be nice if it was that easy with all matters of life.

Our mother suffered from rheumatic fever when we were young and for a time us five boys took turns cooking, doing the laundry, milking cows, etc. Even though he was only about 12, my brother Gary liked to experiment during his cooking chores and one time made cookies.

With great pride he placed his dessert in front of dad wanting him to be the first to taste his latest creation. Dad tried to bite into the cookie but it was like a slab of granite with less give.

In an attempt to soften it he then tried dunking it in his coffee but that too ended in failure. Dad put down the still hard concoction and said in his usual understated way, "Well, who's responsible for these concrete delights?" Gary thought his cookies were a success.

Ya see, the answer lies within and if you know where it started you can deal with it.

My point being (if I have one) is that one person's success may end up being another person's idiosyncrasy. The aftermath of something as simple as a bad batch of cookies can linger long and can affect many, each on a different level. Sometimes the results are obvious sometimes you gotta dig a little deeper. Now I know why any soft batch cookie was always more appealing to me than animal crackers. Another mystery solved, another question answered. Life is good.

I look forward to sharing more stories and views from the rim in the coming weeks.

12-27-1995  A View from the Rim.

A Minnesota farm most likely wasn't the best or highest perch from which to observe the world, but it might possibly have been one of the better places for gaining perspective on how to see life. Even at an early age, I intuitively knew that humor was a way to deal with almost anything that came my way.

I am named after my two grandfathers, Joseph and John, and one of my earliest memories is that of my Grandpa John's wake. I was 4. I remember standing on the kneeler, my dad kneeling beside me, looking in the coffin and thinking, "Grandpa sure has a narrow bed."

It was about 6 months later that the terse, but memorable encounter with Grandpa Joe occurred. First, being 4 1/2 I didn't want to take a bath. Second, I surely wasn't going to let Aunt Mary be in charge of the ordeal, so I tried to elude my captors by hiding under a bed.

First I saw the feet, then the knees and then inches away, THE FACE, Grandpa Joe's face. He could say more with just a stern look and with better results, than most mothers could accomplish by countless hours of yelling. Without a spoken word, the face said, "GET OUT FROM UNDER THAT BED AND INTO THAT BATHTUB NOW." Without hesitation, I complied.

When I was 12 years old I spent the summer working on my grandparent's farm. It didn't matter that my parents, four brothers and our farm were only 5 miles away I began to feel like an only child going out on a big adventure.

Living with Grandpa Joe and Grandma Esther was like being with Grandpa and Grandma Walton, only better because I didn't have to say goodnight to John Boy and Mary Ellen.

I learned quickly that summer that this white-haired man with bushy eyebrows was a much different person from that of my first perceptions. I found that the man I had been so afraid of was kind, amusing, a friend and my tutor.

I was never quite sure if he was pulling my leg at times or just tugging at it. He claimed that once while driving his team of horses through a valley it had started to rain. "The edge of the rain just stopped, it was like somebody just pulled a curtain. Bell got soaking wet while Star was completely dry. I, myself, was half wet, half dry."  Grandma responded with: "I think your Grandpa is half full of it."

We shucked peas, ate Kohlrabies out of the garden and milked cows while listening to polkas playing on the radio.  Grandpa Joe shared with me that there would always be an even number of kernel rows on an ear of corn. He told me that if I trapped gophers all summer he would give me $10.00, but surprised me with $50.00. It was like winning the Powerball Lottery, but lots more valuable.

Coming back from church on that August Sunday morning Grandpa stopped the car just after he turned onto the gravel road. He said that he didn't feel well and wanted to know if I could handle driving us the rest of the way home. Grandma had never learned to drive. Grandpa entrusting me with his 1953 Fluid Drive Dodge has been one of the greatest honors ever bestowed upon me.

Later that day, Grandpa Joe died while taking his daily nap. He was 69 years old, meeting the average life expectancy of a man at that time. The funeral parlor had to arrange for a second night of the wake because they couldn't accommodate all the people that came to say good-bye to my Grandpa Joe.

I told everyone that my Grandpa was so well liked and so highly thought of that he was held over for an extra showing.

WELL, THAT'S THE WAY I LIKE TO REMEMBER IT.

A midwest farm may not be the best vantage point for a view of the world but growing up there did give me the foundation for determining the way I look at life. It's those little things you learn in your youth that later have a very significant impact. I haven't lived there for years, but some things just stick with you.

I read not long ago that Californians consume the most fruits and vegetables, Easterners devour the most pasta and us Midwesterners eat the most potato chips and donuts in the country. I don't doubt that for a minute. It seemed as if most serious conversations were either about food or the weather. Life apparently was best when both were talked about simultaneously.

On more than one occasion, depending if it was summer or winter, regional colloquialisms floated above the din of the after-church throng. "Oh geez dat hail was coming down da udder day...oh geez...it was da size of...oooh DONUTS. Oh ya shoulda seen it. Snow flakes were coming down the size of tater chips. It was a mess. We had ta pull over and put da chains on ya know."

Though our Minnesota farm was almost 300 acres, it wasn't a very big place in the overall scheme of things. It wasn't until I went to Viet Nam that I began to experience life on a much larger and harsher scale.

I have always been thankful for my midwest roots because I believe that it was my sense of humor and the solid foundation that I acquired there that kept me grounded, giving me something to hang onto.

Today I brood about matters that don't go my way for about two minutes because I comprehend that things could be much much worse. I understand that I will never, ever again, feel as lonely or as scared as I was over there.

Being in that overseas place for two years changed me quickly and indelibly, but it did not alter the basics that I held within me. I used to tell my Dad I went to Viet Nam as an 18 year old, but 3 days later I felt as if I was 34.

The worst time I ever had "over there" was near a place called An Hoa. Our detachment was surrounded by the Viet Cong and without any air or artillery support, it was inevitable we would soon get overrun.

At the last minute we did get some outside help, but not before several of the enemy managed to break through the wire. A VC soldier tumbled into my bunker and luckily for me his weapon had jammed. So...there we were!!! Eye to eye!!! The two second encounter seemed like an eternity. Hopefully it will be the most frightening incident I will ever experience.

I had no ammo left and so I reached around and grabbed at anything that was there and swung as hard as I could. I will never forget the look on his face when I hit him with that BAG of DONUTS.

WELL, THAT'S THE WAY I LIKE TO REMEMBER IT. My experience might not show that life is a circle but sometimes maybe it helps to think so. All I know for sure is that I'm still here and I haven't thought of donuts as being food in years.

06-14-96  A View from the Rim

Each year, the month of June brings us Flag Day, the first day of summer, my friend Jeanne's birthday and Father's Day. My father died July 9, 1984, but he is still very much an almost daily part of my life, Father's Day or no Father's Day.

I don't remember Father's Day getting very much attention while growing up on the farm in Minnesota. Maybe it was because we were on summer vacation and we didn't have a special program at school like we did for Mother's Day.

Several months before my father died, I had a dream that I was delivering a eulogy at his funeral. I don't know if that dream was some type of cosmic sign or fateful reminder, but I did, however, decide that when the time came I would deliver his eulogy. Dream or no dream, it felt like the right thing to do.

Maybe it was to make up for all the Father's Days that we let slide by without much fanfare. Maybe it was my way of letting him know what an important, positive, influential contribution he made, not only to MY life, but also to those that knew him. Father's Day or no Father's Day.

“According to the dictionary, eulogy means tribute, a speech in praise of a person, especially one who has recently died. Well, Dad, I know you'd be embarrassed by all the attention, but there are a few things I want to tell you and all the other relatives and friends who have come to say good-bye to you today.

It's never easy to say good-bye, but we can take some consolation in the fact that you were here with us for as long as you were. Those of us who remain behind are left with memories of your subtle sense of humor and twinkling blue-green eyes.

You will also be remembered as the guy who was kind, quiet and shy. You were giving, caring and loving to our mother and us children, and loyal to your friends.

You were known as Bernard, Ben, Benny, B.J., Benji, Grandpa, Gramps, Bumpa (to one of your granddaughters) and by what I always called you, Big Daddy.

You were the guy who, when we kids were little, watched the WIZARD OF OZ with us year after year. You were the guy who would be "everlasting pitcher" when the neighbor kids came over to play softball. You were known for your straight and tight fences. You were one of the world's greatest passenger seat drivers. You were calm and took things in stride.

Some of my greatest feelings of approval and accomplishment are the result of you uttering four small simple words, "Ya did good, Joey."

We all know how you didn't like to travel. Once when we were little, we thought we were going on an African Safari, what with all the extra gas, tires and oil you packed, but we were really only going 90 miles away. Regardless of our endless teasing you would laugh with us when we brought up the fact that you stopped halfway there: “To let the tires "cool down".

Though these phrases might not mean much to many of you, I will always think of Big Daddy when I hear things like: "Hold it right there mush mouth." "Lucky for E-Birds." "Stop your complaining...flip the record over and play a new tune." "Fool around...fool around...you're laughing now but you'll be crying in a moment." "If I have to get out of this chair and come up those stairs...I'm gonna have to smack one of ya." (That was, probably, the biggest and most consistent lie and threat my father ever made, because never once did he ever hit any of us.)

Big Daddy, I know you probably felt you didn't give us as much as you should have, but I beg to differ. A man should not be measured by what he has materially accumulated, but rather by how he has treated his family and friends. You have touched our lives and we are better for it. You gave more than you took because you followed your own advice. "Try to leave the wood-pile higher than you found it."

Big Daddy, you may not have been a great man, but you were a good man and ultimately that's the most important thing. If good memories are worth anything, then like a true Irishman you have left us with a rainbow and a pot of gold.

Big Daddy we're proud of you...Ya did good.

WELL THAT'S THE WAY I REMEMBER IT.

© Much Laughter Unlimited  05-03-96  A View from the Rim.

Red meat, whole milk, kool-aid, jello and SUGAR.  Kind of makes me long for my youth on the Minnesota farm.  Oh...I don't think so.

"Just a spoonful of Sugar" did not originate with Mary Poppins or Walt Disney.  Nope!  We not only had good ol' American Apple Pie and Cherry Cobbler in our house...We had vegetables with SUGAR!  Rhubarb Bars, my mother's version of Cherry Cobbler was pretty good.  Yes sir...even the vegetables were sugar-coated!

I'm not sure of all the ingredients but at least one 50 pound sack of sugar disappeared from the pantry after each batch of Mom's beloved Rhubarb bars.

The logic of using 5 cups of sugar to negate the tartness of 2 cups of rhubarb was lost on my father.  For that matter, it's lost on me too.  It must be genetic.  My father just didn't know that SUGAR was and IS the key to good sound hyperactivity. 

Most parents, when I was a kid, not only condoned, but encouraged the practice of consuming Twinkies and Mountain Dew for bedtime snacks.  Those same parents spent most of the night hollering up the stairs, "You kids settle down and go to sleep."  Well, DUH! 

I recently had a job performing comedy at a small college in a Colorado.   The event coordinator, Carolyn (her name has been changed to protect the guilty) met me at the airport.  As she ushered me to the awaiting van she apologized and asked if it was OK that she had brought her three kids along. 

"I'm dropping them off at their Grandmother's for the weekend.  The three of 'em (ages 7-11) promised to be good if I would get them something special for the trip."

We pulled into a Dairy Queen and she loaded the kids up on Dilly Bars, Chocolate-Dipped cones and vats of the king of SUGAR and caffeine sodas, Mountain Dew.  We took off in what I later referred to as the "SUGARMOBILE."  It was a long 4-hour trip.

The Van rolled down the highway like a Detroit Designed Sugar Loaf; a 4-wheeled beehive filled with 3 preteen sugar bees.  Swarming, screaming, whining and buzzing about me.  It's surprising how far and how long three kids, hopped up on SUGAR, can fly.  Their mother yelling, "You kids settle down.  You promised me you would be good."  Well, DUH!

When I went to Minnesota to visit family I would always make a point of seeing my "Grandma Gertie."  It was a "quiet" 4 hour drive to see her in Osh Kosh, Wisconsin. 

She was not my "real" Grandma.  I lived next door to her for one college semester.  This 4' 11", hard-of-hearing, 74-year-old had no grandchildren of her own, so we adopted each other.  She needed someone to worry about, fret over, but most of all...feed.  She was a warm, kind, lonely lady who made wonderful cookies.  I liked the attention and her cookies, but I liked her and her company even more.

We would sit on the front porch with our glasses of grape Kool-Aid and oatmeal-raisin cookies.  I would SHOUT out yarns about my parents and four brothers and she would say, "WHAT?  Ya know I can't hear."  We would laugh.  I would shout louder.

She may not have heard well, but she appreciated my sight-gags.  I would look down the street, take a big drink and look back at her with the grandest purple grape mustache possible.  We would laugh, then tell each other some more stories.  I miss her.

Even though I only lived next door for 5 months our friendship continued until her death.  A strong bond nurtured by phone calls, annual visits, post cards and glucose.

I'm convinced that grandmothers are genetically programmed to say three words in life..."YA GOTTA EAT."

You may have been at a Dennys ALL YOU AN EAT buffet eating for 4 days and ready to explode.  It doesn't matter.  When you got to grandma's house the first thing you heard was, "YA GOTTA EAT."  It's part of their DNA, they can't help it.

For 15 years, without fail, we would honor tradition:  Upon arrival, food and SUGAR in all shapes, forms and color appeared (of course)...it's "a grandma law."  Out came the cornucopia: ice cream, cake, cookies, cobbler, soon the potato chips, a cascade of confections, the crullers were down off the shelf.

I'm hypoglycemic but I learned it was easier to drive away in a sugar coma than to refuse a grandma.  I did try though,...Once.

"Hi Grandma Gertie, How are you?"

"WHAT! You know I can't hear."

"I said nice to see you.  How have you been?"

"WHAT! What did you say...you know I can't hear?  You’re looking thin...here...have some honey-dipped chocolate chip marshmallow fudge."

"Grandma I shouldn't have so much sugar.  I'm hypoglycemic...it's nothing serious...it's not like cancer or anything...I just have to watch my diet.  OK??  You understand?"

"WHAT??!!...YOU HAVE CANCER!!!...AND YOU'RE GOING TO DIE!!!...I thought you didn't look well...It's no wonder...YA GOTTA EAT...have some cake and ice cream and a couple of cans of Mountain Dew.  It will help you make the drive home.

Driving home across Wisconsin towards Minnesota in my semi-hallucinating sugar coma, I swear I saw a van with Colorado plates pulling out of a Dairy Queen.  It was filled with three kids eating Dilly Bars and singing, "...To Grandma’s house we go."

WELL THAT'S THE WAY I REMEMBER IT.

Much Laughter Unlimited  03-24-96  A View from the Rim.

One of my eccentric aunts used to tell me, "It's the journey not the destination that's the most important part of a trip."  She may be right.

I've been lucky enough to travel to many places in the world and lately in my capacity as a SCUBA Instructor I've been going on many journeys.

I just returned from a four day trip to Mexico and I paid more attention to the process than I had in a while.  I was traveling with the usual eclectic group filled with the joyful banter and energy that is a part of most expeditions.  There was also the usual concern about plane tickets, delayed flights, passports, filling out a visa, Peso conversion, departure taxes, clearing customs and missed connections.

During the journey home, it seemed that many of my fellow travelers spent time reflecting upon the past several days, reliving the laughter, camaraderie and shared experiences.  There was an almost quiet, introspective tone as we sought our safe return to the familiar.  It could have also been that everyone was just tired.  In any event, I realized that regardless of how far we travel away from home we really don't leave it all that far behind.

When I was six I was convinced that our family was going on an African Safari or at least to Disneyland.  The three younger brothers were staying with Grandma because it was "way to far" for them to make such a trek.

Even at my age, I was impressed by the extra special preparation for this event.  I soon discovered, to my disappointment, that it was not to see exotic places half way around the world, but rather to visit relatives in Austin, a town only 90 miles away.  Yes, that is correct, count 'em, 90 miles away. 

For me, it was still a big trip and my first real journey away from our Minnesota farm, but I think for my parents, especially my father, it might as well have been a trip to the moon.

My father wasn't fooling around with this endeavor.  He bought a car that was only three years old and put on all new tires.  He also put two spare tires in the trunk along with extra gas and oil.  "Just in case, cause ya never know."

My mother made lots of food and sealed it in Tupperware containers that were placed inside another bigger Tupperware box that may have been a steamer trunk in its previous life. 

I'm not sure if my father had read it somewhere or if it was just part of our family folklore, but he convinced us it was best to travel in a group when venturing so far from the homestead.  Neighbors, from the next farm over, were going with us to visit their relatives in the same town.

Arrangements were made to have someone milk the cows during our three day jaunt and so like nomads of the Midwest, we struck out with our two car caravan at the crack of dawn.  Mom and Dad in the front and my oldest brother and I in the back seat separated by the Great Wall of Tupperware.  The neighbors tailgating behind us in great fear that if they didn’t they they might get separated from the pack.

I don't remember what we did or whom we saw once we got to our destination.  What I do recall, with vivid clarity, was stopping for a picnic and having Kool-Aid, bologna sandwiches, Rice Krispy Bars and watermelon rind pickles.

I also remember the wind blowing in my face and my left arm getting sun burnt because I had placed it on the window ledge, elbow pointed at 9 o'clock, so I could be "just like my dad."  My father said things like, "There are more white barns and the corn isn't as high in this part of the country."  My mother kept telling my father to slow down because, "The telephone poles are going by so fast they now look like a picket fence."

Maybe my aunt was right.  It is the journey!!  All these years later, no matter how far I venture from home I still think of my father stopping in Chatfield, the halfway point of my first trip, so he could "let the tires cool off." 

                                             WELL, THAT'S THE WAY I REMEMBER IT.

02-09-96  A View from the Rim.

Because of my  four brothers,  I remember laughing a lot while growing up on the farm in Minnesota.  Humor is a funny thing and that's not meant as a pun.  Good humor just is.  It serves many purposes and should be kept from over analysis.

I have always thought that my brothers were all naturally much funnier than I would ever be and so did most others.  I was the "quiet one" so it came as a surprise to many when I later made a living as an actor/comedian.

Several years ago while on a trip "back home" I ran into a childhood friend and he said, "So I hear you're a comic now.  Are Ya funny?"  I told him, "No, it's not that kind of humor."

My brother Gary died on Christmas Day, 1994, after a long illness. He was 43.  My brother not only faced his terminal illness with great bravery, but also with an abundance of humor.  We were now adults and despite the circumstances, we were still "laughing a lot."  We instinctively became very serious about using laughter as a coping skill with little time spent wondering how or why it was effective.  It seemed to be one of the best medicines available.

Gary needed to go to the hospital for another blood transfusion and we were in the lobby going through the process of checking in.  A hospital worker came flying down the hallway...pushing a food cart...on a tile floor...wheels wobbling...dishes rattling.  Gary watched it careen around the corner and then said to me, "Gee, I hope nobody ordered souffle today."

Gary was a master of the malapropism.  Probably his all-time best was when he was talking with one of his friends (I knew she was suffering from viral meningitis) and when Gary got off the phone I asked what was happening with his friend Carol.  He said, "Oh my it's terrible, she's just been diagnosed with spinal laryngitis."

We were watching the Winter Olympics and Gary wasn't feeling well.  A commercial for Kodak, featuring little Jimmy Johnson doing snow angels, came on the screen.  I asked Gary if he did snow angels while we were kids growing up in Minnesota and he answered, "Yeah, I did but it took me 3 or 4 years to realize that I didn't have to do them face down."

We were sitting through our usual long wait at the clinic hoping for his scheduled appointment to be remotely on time.  An elderly patient in a wheelchair took out his harmonica and started to play.  The staff immediately came out and asked him to stop his playing because it was disturbing the other patients.  The old timer said, "My appointment was at 2 o'clock and it's now 2:47."  He kept playing.  They took him in at once, of course, to silence his playing. 

Gary thought this was a really "cool way" to deal with the way doctors made patients wait so long.  I asked, "So, Gary, the next time we go to the clinic are you going to take a harmonica?"  "No," he replied, "I'm going to take an accordion, bagpipes if I can find them."  

WELL, THAT'S THE WAY I REMEMBER IT.  It's also the way I like to remember Gary.

© Much Laughter Unlimited 04-05-96  A View from the Rim.

My childhood encounters with aviation, on our Minnesota farm, were very earthward bound.  Climbing to the top of the silo to look down at the country landscape was an adequate height fix, but jumping from the roof of the barn onto the new, high, fluffy August straw pile, now that was the best.

One of our neighbors (everyone called him Crazy Davy) had an old crop duster and he was always offering to take us up for a ride.

My mother's answer was invariably the same, "No one in my family is ever going up in that thing."

I would often lie on the lawn and look at the straight white lines drawn in the sky by the Air Force Jets.  I liked hearing their sonic booms and I would wonder how something so small and so far away could make a noise so loud. 

Sometimes Crazy Davy would fly over our house and dip his wings.  I would wave back and then wait to hear HIS sonic boom.  I'm still waiting.

My first opportunity to experience flight was courtesy of Uncle Sam.  I received my first bag of complimentary peanuts on a flight that took me to boot camp.  Two and a half years later, I was not only a veteran of two tours of Viet Nam; I was a seasoned passenger.  I rode in Huey, Chinook and Cobra helicopters and once, even a Navy fighter jet.  Then there were those long flights from the States to that place "over there."  Thousands of air miles and not one frequent flier program available.

My father never flew in a plane.  I had urged my parents for years to fly out and visit me in Arizona.  My dad said he would fly but only if he could "keep one foot on ground."  Then he would say, "Yeah, I'll do it but you know your mother.  My mother would say, "Sure, I'll fly but you know your father."

Two years after my father died, I finally persuaded my mother to pack her bags and come out to visit. 

Accompanied by Aunt Mona (a frequent flyer) my mother was flying for the first time in her life.  Mom was convinced that her doctor should prescribe knockout drugs to get her through the ordeal.  "After all, they do that for those cats and dogs that have to fly, ya know."

Her doctor told her that it wouldn't be necessary, but to reassure her I recommended that Mona carry a ball peen hammer in her purse.  Not, of course, as a course of action, but rather as a visual placebo.

Upon her arrival, I was greeted with, "Now Joey that wasn't so bad...but good thing I had Mona there or I woulda gotten lost in Chicago changin' planes...I hear that happens to some folks, ya know.  Now I think though, I could probably even get home on my own if necessary."

"Glad to hear it Mom, now I won't worry about looking for your picture on airplane milk cartons."

It was my mother's first and only airborne adventure.  Another plane trip was talked about, but a year after her first flight, she died "peacefully" at her home.  Sitting in her big easy chair, next to the window, her tray table down and seat back reclined, she took her last flight. 

That was nine years ago and I've flown many times since.  Some things change, some don't.  For many fliers, it is still an EVENT, a special occasion; a reason to abide by the Dress-Up-Rule.  The peanuts are still a rite of passage as is picking up one of those 'free' SNACK SACKS as you board.

Unfortunately, many still have not figured out the procedure that would prevent ninety-seven fellow passengers from stacking up behind them.  Here's a hint: Coats and jackets should not be taken off while standing in the aisle, then folded, buttons up and then placed neatly in the overhead.

Don't waste your time OR mine!!!

Your handiwork is only going to be crushed and traumatized later by the suitcases of the I NEVER CHECK MY LUGGAGE guy.

Watching this process (way too often) I have wanted to pull out a bullhorn so I could help speed things up.  PLEASE!!...GET INTO YOUR ROW AND SIT DOWN!...THIS AIN'T NO BIG DEAL!!...THIS IS JUST A BUS WITH WINGS!!!...WE AIN'T GOIN TO THE MOON!...PLEASE!!...HURRY UP AND SIT DOWN!!...COME ON!!...COME ON!!...THE SOONER YA SIT DOWN...THE SOONER YA GET THE PEANUTS...COME ON!!...LET'S GO!!!

When I become too impatient with the whole ordeal, I "put one foot on the ground" and I think of my mother's first flight.  Sitting in her window seat, wearing her good dress and telling Mona, "Look at all that land down there and no cows on it."

Over the free pop and peanuts, Mom tells her new next door neighbors in 16 D & 15 F, "This is my first time flying ya know."

                       WELL, THAT'S THE WAY I LIKE TO REMEMBER IT.

© Much Laughter Unlimited  05-03-96  A View from the Rim.

I was thinking not long ago about our search for happiness.  What is happiness?  Where do we find it?  Where don't we find it?  The attitude of the searcher seems to make a great deal of difference.

Searching for and finding happiness seems to be a major endeavor in our lives.  We all encounter people that say; "If I loose 30 pounds then I will be happy.  If I get that job then I will be happy.  If I win the lottery then I will be happy.  Most folks do know it's not the end result that brings the most happiness, but rather the journey.  The goal is the motivation, but the trip is the most fulfilling.

In the quest for the most obvious, we can overlook all the not so apparent things that give us happiness.  I am convinced that it is not the quest of the obvious that brings us true happiness.  Recognizing happiness, no matter how small the amount or which unknown corner we might find it in, is part of the happiness.

I was teaching a scuba class that consisted of German students who were training to be commercial pilots.  One of them, who had been apprehensive from the start, toughed it out and got certified.

After the last training dive, I asked her how she felt about the experience.  I was already aware of her feelings, but was interested in her perceptions.  In her soft spoken German accent she said,  "Vell, I did not find da joy in da scuba, but dats OK.  I tried sumting difficult for me and realized it's not for me, but I feel good dat I completed vut I set out to do.  Dat is my reward, da joy of accomplishment."

She found joy where most of us would have found failure and anger.  Her insight gave me the incentive to investigate further.  I wanted to better understand those serendipitous sources of joy.

It made me think of an incident in 1984 when I found unexpected joy from an unlikely source.  It was a sad time for my family and me.  My 78-year-old father, a delightful combination of Jack Lemon, Jack Benny and Walter Brennan, had died

I wanted something to do.  Something that would make me feel useful and help pass the time before I returned to Phoenix.  On that July afternoon, after the funeral, under a sunny Minnesota sky, I hoed in my parent's garden and then mowed their lawn. 

The smell of the freshly mowed grass was a catalyst that started an escalation of memories about my youth.  Moments spent with my father that I might not have recalled otherwise.

I thought of one of the earliest and more indelible experiences that I had with my father.  It was when I was 7 years old.  My dad and I were out in a field raking hay.  His arms wrapped around me like denim guardrails as I sat on the tractor seat in front of him.  Four hands on the steering wheel, his at 10 & 2, mine at 5:30 & 6:30, and all the while my father letting me believe I was really helping.

I thought of something he said while sitting in his green lawn chair, just several weeks before he died, "The way the lawn is growing this year, you'd think we needed the hay."

Those two memories were like bookends of a mental journal that I hadn't realized I had kept about him.  As I pushed the mower, I remembered more of the pages that were between the beginning and the end.  I thought of some the many lessons that my father taught me and I recalled uncountable "little happiness'" that he brought to my life and the lives of many others.

I have thought of my father many times since that day.  I think often too of that July afternoon, while only mowing the lawn, I FOUND THE JOY. 

WELL, THAT'S THE WAY I REMEMBER IT

© Much Laughter Unlimited

I've noticed that many people, Larry King, Andy Rooney and Howard Stern, to name a few, get paid big money for thinkin' and ramblin' out loud.

I'm just a guy who grew up on a farm in Minnesota but that doesn't mean I can't or shouldn't be thinking out loud for others to read.  The value of MY ramblings doesn't match celebrity levels, of course, but hopefully the validity factor should at least give Joan Collins a run for her money. 

I've stated those very same observations in another column and it got me to thinking out loud AGAIN about some MORE stuff!  As the Literature Professor guy who owned that crime fighting dog once said, "Read on McGruff."  (Don't be alarmed!!!  I did that one ON purpose.)

Hope they soon find a cure for a condition that sure seems to be very prevalent, even in the '90's.  TCS Disease afflicts mostly men, but I've seen more than a few cases involving the female population.  Symptoms of TCS (Testosterone Competitive Syndrome) can be easily recognized by the Verbal Baiting, Chest Puffing, Body Posturing, One up-Manship antics of the afflicted!!

Wonder if Burt Baccarat had anything to do with the term Dressed to the Nines.

Been thinking of starting a support group for those people who have to deal with persons who are way too analytical.  FOOT (Friends of Over-Thinkers) chapters would meet in secret and have no agenda except to enjoy the silence.

The best question I've been asked this year is, "If one synchronized swimmer drowns, do they all have to?"

It seems lately that many sports figures are giving credit to God for achieving their moment of greatness.  I've also noticed, however, that when they loose they choose to blame bad luck, lousy referees and inferior coaching.  Come on guys!  Let's be consistent!!  God may reward your honesty!!  How about statements like: "I thank God for allowing me to have enough saliva to spit on the umpire."  "I offer praise to the Almighty for giving me the gall to complain about making only 28 million dollars a year!

Some people claim they don't find Trivia important, but I say, "What the hell is ALL knowledge but bits of Trivia.!!!!" I'd FEEL better knowing that MY doctor KNOWS there are 4 chambers in the human heart!

Being a Left Handed Jouster must have been a tough job!

Saw a sign in a shop on the Island of Utila that I especially like: NO CREDIT!!!!  Got No Time To Do The Books!

I propose that, in the middle of the night we should be able to sneak into the homes of the guys who use gas powered leaf blowers.  Set up a Boom Box and play Bagpipe Music.  Start out by playing it real soft, then real LOUD, then real soft, then real LOUD!!!

Saw no sense in correcting a friend who said, "When I go on my daily morning walks I like to look for Di-urinal animals."

I think DON'T LICK the MIRROR! will be a good title for the children's book I'm writing.

I have this theory that finding happiness and true friendship is akin to shopping.  You can go to a big mall looking for what you think you want and need, finding nothing.  Sometimes, on a whim, you can stop at a garage sale and find some real treasures!!

WELL THAT'S THE WAY I REMEMBER IT.