I hated the "You just wait 'til your father gets home!" line--as a father and as a son. Once, as I arrived home, my wife ordered, "Go yell at your son!" Why? I'm not even mad at him.

I consider my stepfather my true father; my biological father basically gave me half my DNA and a first decade full of abuse that nearly killed me. My stepdad filled the role of father, as it sounds like you did for your adopted son. M. Scott Peck wrote in The Road Less Traveled that love isn't so much about emotion as about behavior - what you do for someone; love is work. My stepfather did the work. I counted him as not only my role model but one of my best friends from the time I was 12 until he died in 2003. A wise, funny, gentle man.

Once when I was in 8th grade, my mom had told me she needed me to start part of dinner cooking when I got home from school. If I didn't get that done, there'd be hell to pay when she got home. Mom was loving and devoted, but had a flamethrower for a temper. Well, I got home and immediately accidentally locked myself in the garage - I could get out into the yard, but not into the house. I thought for a while about how insistent Mom had been that I had to get dinner started right then, and finally decided I had to get into the house no matter how. So I kicked in the door from the garage into the house. When Mom got home from work and saw the door she flipped out, and the thing she said most often was along the lines of "you just wait until George gets home!" He got home, looked at the wreckage, and asked "What happened to the door?" I told him, and he just laughed and said, "Well, you'd better fix it."

It wasn't funny then....

My son loved to fish. It rained the night before he went fishing. He came home and knealed down next to my recliner where I was watching football. "Dad, I need to tell you something." Yes?

"I got stuck at the lake and walked up to Jimmy's house. We used his dad's tractor to pull the pickup out." Yes?

"We tied onto the bumper and ...." Let me guess, you pulled the bumper off? "Yes."

Did you get the pickup out? "Yes."

"Am I in trouble?" he asked. No, if you learned to not tie onto a bumper. We'll get it fixed this week. "Oh, good." He rose and started for the door. He stopped and dropped back to beside my chair saying, "That's not all!"

He had continued to try different places around the lake and gotten stuck in each place every time he pulled off the pavement and each was another story of getting stuck and pulled out. He had charged a tow truck fee to me, put ruts in the golf course lawn, etc.

By the time he finished the story I was laughing so hard I couldn't be mad. Okay, it was funny at the time.

He was the one who taught me to enjoy life; not the reverse as in your case, James. I wasn't his stepdad; I adopted him. Same idea, he was my son.

Yes, I think one of the best of the many good things I learned from my stepdad was his guideline, "As long as you're meeting your responsibilities and meeting your family's needs, don't miss opportunities to have fun."

It wasn't funny at the time, but I remember my new wife watching the water drip from the roof of our first home into the utility room and asking, "Do you think we'll ever be able to afford...more pots to catch all the drips?" Not a new roof, that was out of the question.

You may be right, James. Surface water is river water. My mistake, I think; I got the terms confused. I say it has to do with homeopathy, where a tiny amount of something bad (arsenic) becomes good for you.

Your story about the lake vacation reminded me of the old saying, "No one ever, on their deathbed, wishes they'd worked more hours and weekends."

When I was in high school, my parents took the family to Colorado for a week every summer. We'd rent a cabin on a lake and spend the week fishing from shore or from rowboats, hiking in the woods, and just relaxing. It was a tradition and a high point of the year.

One year we had real money trouble; our mom and George, our stepdad (my hero and role model, the person I want to be like when I grow up) had barely saved enough for the Colorado trip. But a heavy rain came through, the beginning of the mid-to-late summer rainy seasons, and within minutes water was leaking into the house in several places - dripping from ceilings or light fixtures which had to be gingerly turned out, and coming out from under the baseboards in the hall, so that wall was shot.

They did some figuring and realized that getting the roof fixed would cost almost exactly the amount they'd saved up for Colorado. I could see which way things were going to go, and I understood the idea that you take care of what you have to do before you go play, but I was bummed.

Then George stood up - he was 6'4" - and looked very thoughtfully at my brothers and me, and smiled. He turned to Mom and said, in his rumbling deep voice and faint Louisiana accent, "You know, Carol, somehow I can't picture these boys in the years ahead reminiscing and saying, "Wasn't that a great roof we had that summer?" In short order we were loading the car.

We knew it might rain more over the next week, but somehow we just didn't worry about it. When we got home - in a driving rain - the house had become a swamp. But even as we were cleaning up, dragging carpets outside (once the rain stopped), going on the roof to try and spot each place that was leaking - we kept thinking about getting a week at the lake instead of a new roof at that point, and laughing - we thought our parents were kind of crazy, and we were proud of their craziness.

We were able to get the roof redone a little later; George landed a couple of lucrative jobs and that paid for it.

Yeah - dark green, so they must have been Trekkies who thought it was Vulcan blood. I'll give them the benefit of the doubt and say maybe the light wasn't good enough to tell the difference. Maybe we got off lightly when they didn't take Paul's jacket too.

That's a pretty funny story James. Stay! The dandelion tool must have looked so suspicious with dandelion juice on it.

The water utility referred to the well water as groundwater, so I took that to be the term. Anyway, I wonder what cause of kidney failure is more prevalent in other places? Maybe it's having money - that's definitely less prevalent here than in most other states!

They began putting groundwater (groundwater is from rivers--acquifer water is from wells), from San Jaun/Chama via Rio Grande, online in December, didn't they? I never understood the millions spent for the filtration if they were going to dillute the arsenic with groundwater, but hey...no one asked me.

The arsenic levels violated EPA safety standards by a smidgen, but my doctor friends tell me that kidney failure is a symptom of arsenic and we have one of the lowest rates of any state in kidney failures. Who knows?

Thanks, Laurel-Rain - it was suspenseful for my parents, but my friend and I were blissfully unaware of what was going on until we got back to my house. Kind of funny to think we were just cruising around town for hours without a clue that the police were looking for us.

Will, the groundwater is from wells - they're just now starting a project to also take water from the Rio Grande and San Juan rivers because the city's water use has outgrown what they can take from the aquifer (it's a problem of unsustainable growth and development without planning or oversight, but that's a whole other issue). It doesn't taste very good. Here's a link to the city water utility's info page on the arsenic thing http://www.abcwua.org/content/view/282/5... ; we have since gotten a high-end water filtration system.

Somehow I missed the arsenic story, James. By mixing groundwater with the well water the arsenic levels should go down; makes the water taste terrible, though. Have you noticed?

Wow, James...That was a suspenseful tale. I was sitting on the edge of my chair throughout!

I won't tell my brushes with police stories.

I was chased by someone around the lake, with my girlfriend beside me; I won't tell what we were doing at the lake. They gave up chasing us eventually and turned in my license plate, they'd seen fall off my car, at the police station.

When I was in high school my friends and I spent a lot of time just driving around town at night. Once I was out with a guy named Paul, one of my friends who was kind of a theatrical personality.

I was driving. Paul took off his coat and turned around and tossed it into the back seat; it slid off the seat onto the floor. He reared up in his seat, grabbed the coat, and threw it forcefully onto the back seat again and pushed it down, yelling "Stay!"

A couple of minutes later I noticed that another car seemed to be following us. I sped up and took several turns, and they were definitely following us, so I decided to lose them - we were in an old Plymouth Valiant and they were in a Mustang, and I knew I couldn't outrun them on pavement. So I led them to an area on the edge of town where the pavement stopped and we were on some pretty rough washboarded gravel road - they had a lot less ground clearance (and were probably less willing to beat up their car), so we lost them pretty easily there.

Once they were out of sight, I headed back into town and got on one of the main drags heading back to our neighborhood. Along the way we came to an intersection where the police appeared to be in the process of setting up some kind of traffic checkpoint, but they didn't have the street fully blocked off yet, so I just blew by and kept going.

By this time I was getting low on gas, so we drove to Paul's house. He got in his car and followed me back to my house, where I parked my car, climbed into his, and off we went again.

We finally decided to go home somewhere past midnight, and when Paul pulled up to my house to drop me off, all the lights were on, which was weird. I saw my parents looking out the front window. Paul came in with me, and they looked very worried and asked whether we were okay - we were puzzled and told them we were fine. They asked whether anything bad had happened that night, and we were even more puzzled and said no. Then they told us the police needed to talk to us, and called the cops to tell them we were there. Now I was really confused and getting worried.

It turned out that the people in the Mustang had seen Paul's goofy behavior with his coat and decided they were seeing someone being beaten up in my car - they had tried to follow us, and had called the police on their CB and reported the situation, including a description of my car and where they'd last seen us heading when I lost them. The incomplete traffic checkpoint had actually been a roadblock to try to catch us. They'd traced my license plate and shown up at my house, which scared my parents; we were rowdy kids and the possibility of us having gotten into some kind of fight didn't seem out of the question to them. Then after the cops left, my folks had heard me pull up when we switched cars, but we were gone by the time they got out the front door. They'd called the police and told them the car was back but we were gone; the cops came back to the house and searched my car for evidence, with my stepdad looking over their shoulders. They did find a dandelion digging tool (I had a part-time job cleaning up around a shopping center and a couple of office buildings) with what they considered suspicious stains - dandelion blood! - so they took that; I never did get it back.

When my folks called the police and told them we were back, they came back and questioned Paul and me for some time, but were finally satisfied that the only violence in my car had been committed against Paul's jacket. We finally got done with it all around 3:00 a.m.

My wife and I were at the Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale - she was going to have surgery there, and they did about the most thorough exam and workup imaginable (incidentally, the people and their work are absolutely top-notch). We were making the rounds seeing a whole series of specialists, with her getting various tests done and then going through the results (we got caught up on a lot of reading sitting in various waiting rooms.) At one point, we met with several of the staff to go over some lab work; they were reading down a long list of findings, and then they paused, and the doctor said, "Your lab work also indicates elevated levels of arsenic in your system." At that, they stopped reading, and every head in the room except my wife's swiveled my way and they all just stared at me.

Well, the groundwater where we live in Albuquerque has elevated arsenic levels, and it shows up in the tap water. It's an ongoing issue with the city and state government, but they just don't have the budget to improve the processing enough to get the arsenic levels down to where they should be, although it's not really high enough to be dangerous.

My wife started laughing and we explained that, and assured them that they'd see the same thing in lab work on anyone from Albuquerque, but they didn't look convinced; they kept giving me the hairy eyeball for the rest of that meeting.

Incidentally, her surgery and recovery went well, so everything turned out fine.

Alarmed? I'd've wet my pants.

Great icebreaker, Will...

My mom had been in a bad wreck on her way to work, and her face had been smashed through the window on her car door. It had torn her up pretty badly. She went to the hospital and got her face sewn up, then got a ride home - she was resting on the couch in the living room, then remembered that my brothers and I would be coming home from school soon (1st, 2nd, and 6th grades). She was kind of woozy from the painkillers and reasoned that if we walked in and found her on the couch we'd be alarmed, and she should meet us at the door so we'd know before we came in that she was there. So she kind of propped herself up on the couch, which was next to the front window, and told herself she'd just keep an eye out for us through the window. She fell asleep again with her chin resting on the window ledge; the curtain was behind her head. So we came walking up and were greeted by the sight of what appeared to be our mother's ash-gray, bloody, severed head sitting on the window ledge. We were alarmed.

u all? where ya'll from?

If I'd been the prisoner, I'd have prayed for a hacksaw...or bail money.

I was walking onto a stage to present a management course, long ago. I caught my (very expensive) suit pants on a nail just as I stepped out, heard it rip and felt the cool breeze as the audience applauded politely, then laughed histerically. My face matched the red tie I was wearing, I'm sure. "Anyone have a safety pin?" I asked. I finished the morning class and changed during lunch. Now, it's funny. Then, not so much.

hi u all write alot

That's a good one, Ally!

My brother used to work at a jail. Well, there was this one guy in a cell and he didn't know that there was a video camera in there with him too. My brother and two other guys and a lady were whatching him, because they had nothing better to do.

All of a sudden, the guy in jail got down on his knees and prayed "Oh, Lord. If I could only have a Bible, I'd be very happy."

The lady whispered to one of the guys that my brother worked with. "You know, you should really give him your Bible."

So he went to the cell and opened the door and said "This was outside your cell. I thought you might want it."

After he left the guy got down on his knees in his cell and said, "Oh thank you Lord! Now if I could only have a piece of paper."

The secound guy that my brother works with, who was trying to be funny silently slipped a piece of paper into the cell.

Then the guy in jail said, "Wow!"

I can't hear that story enough times! Even now I'm laughing!

It wasn't funny at the time, but when I was in 6th grade, there was a kid in my class at school that sat had those railroad track-style braces.

Mrs. Gibson, who used to scare me because she had flabby upper arms, had commanded us all to sit quietly at our desks to practice our penmanship, or something like that.

All of a sudden, I heard someone cry out behind me, "Hell!...Hell!" Mrs. Gibson froze and peered at the rebel with her narrow eyes.

I whirled around--rather shyly, if a person can shyly whirl--and saw Michael's contorted, gaping expression, aimed right at me. His eyes were wild with pain, and I noticed that the tender, protected underside of his tongue was stuck to the wires of his braces on his bottom teeth.

Trying to say, "Help!" didn't quite come out the way he meant it to. ;o) And much to my surprise, I came to his defense when She Who Must Not Be Named flew into a fury.

It wasn't funny at the time, but I think it is hysterical now. In 7th grade, everyone in our home ec class had to enter a cherry pie baking contest. The judges were interested in mine, because the filling was made up of both sweet and sour cherries. We started cooking. I knew nothing about electric stoves. I dropped some filling on the stovetop, so since neatness and appearance were the most points, I decided to pick it up. Suddenly, it smelled like something was burning. Someone screamed and said my apron was on fire. I did the most intelligent thing, of course, and fanned the apron. The fire got bigger. Then I tried smothering it, and the fire just kept going. Finally, someone who's brain was working put it underwater. That finally put it out. I got the pie finished in time, but my appearance was rather laughable. I had a zigzag hem with a brown rim around it. Guess what? I didn't win. SURPRISE!!! That is an hysterical moment I will never forget. I learned to think of it as funny as the years went on.

It wasn't funny at the time...to my wife, but to me; well, she later agreed it was funny.

We were in our early twenties and in Amsterdam -- our first trip to Europe, ever. KLM lost all of our luggage. She had worn a pant suit and cowboy boots. She packed her black evening gown along with her purple cocktail dress in a carry-on, but packed her shoes in the luggage--now lost.

We divorced many years ago, and I have few fond memories, but I will always remember her standing naked (except for her brown boots) in our room at the Grand Krasnapolsky Hotel holding first the full-length gown and then the short dress up in front of her and asking, "Which goes best with the boots?"

For the record, I bought her some shoes. I still laugh when I think of that moment. That was a long time ago.

It wasn’t funny when it happened…’The Deer on the Side of the Road,’ a Harvey Story.

You have to understand one thing about Harvey. He likes to be helpful. A few years back, when Harvey lived in a small, dusty town in Spring City, which was named after a spring that the pioneers discovered when they were very thirsty, and which is now only a pipe that spurts water out of a small, poorly built monument, Harvey was driving on the freeway in his beat up car.

He drove past a truck pulled over at the side of the road, the did a double take, whiz, whiz, when he saw a guy with his girlfriend looking at a deer that had been hit. It was still alive. Harvey felt sad.

He stopped his car, then was shocked when the couple got in their truck and drove off, leaving the animal struggling for life.

Oh no! This isn’t right, Harvey cried. His sense of justice did an invisible salute, and Harvey got out of the car. I must go to this poor animal, and see what I can do to put it out of its misery, he told himself.

So Harvey walked up to the injured deer, who looked at him weakly, with wild eyes and a barely audible snort. Harvey felt sad, because the animal needed to be put down. (He didn’t know about calling highway patrol.) He put his hand to his chin in pensive thought and muttered, “I might have something in the car I can use to put this creature out of its misery.”

He rummaged around in his car and found an old butter knife from some forgotten lunch sack. That was the only thing that even remotely looked like it could do the job.

With determination to do a heroic act of compassion, and with the story of the Good Samaritan echoing somewhere in a far off reach of his brain, Harvey strode over to the deer. It hadn’t moved at all, and lay panting for breath.

Harvey knelt down and picked up the deer’s floppy head. I don’t even know where the jugular vein is on a deer. It’s ears are in a different place than mine are, and I know the jugular is right below my ears. My my. It’s got to be somewhere on the side of the neck.

And so, Harvey began to saw away.

The deer’s neck was very thick and furry. He sawed for a long, long time and didn’t make any progress.

There’s got to be something I can do, he thought. He stood up and with his foot on the deer’s shoulder, Harvey pulled up on its head and tried to break its neck with lots of twisting and yanking. Wow, they’ve got really rubbery necks, he told himself. The deer made a weak snort, and Harvey realized he needed to take more fervent action.

He spied a large rock a few feet away. He was thoughtful for a moment. “It must be done.”

Harvey picked up the dinner-plate sized rock and began to pound on the deer’s skull. The animal was so near death, that Harvey hoped this might help it cross the fragile brink that separates this life from the next.

Suddenly, the deer flipped its head up and opened its jaws at Harvey with a loud bray. All Harvey saw was a wide, gaping mouth and menacing, sharp teeth. He backed away, and while he stood there holding the rock, the same truck pulled up. The guy and his girlfriend got out of the truck. He pulled out a rifle from the truck and as they both walked towards the deer, they spotted Harvey, holding a rock. Harvey and the deer were both bloody with his humanitarian attempt to alleviate the deer’s suffering.

The guy with the rifle took a long, sweeping glance at Harvey and the deer, then said, “Dude, you’re sick.” Then he put the but of the rifle to his shoulder and put the deer out of its misery.

P.S. When Harvey sheepishly snuck through the back kitchen door of the old pioneer house, he discovered his mother there, standing on a chair, screwing in a lightbulb.

When she saw him covered in blood, she screamed and fell off the chair, certain that he had been shot, or hit by a car.

“Oh, Harvey!”

In my family, we have something we call Harvey stories. (The name has been changed to protect the innocent. His real name is Kerry Soper. Oh, woops, did I say that?) He is family. He is a father, a teacher and an artist who happens to make about as much money selling his art as he does as a teacher of pop culture in the humanities department of a major university. He is married to one of my sisters.

This thread is dedicated to Harvey Stories, to stories that weren’t funny when they happened to him, but that are hilarious in retrospect. Perhaps he'll publish them some day, so I'll just get the thread started with this jewel. I may get some of the details wrong, but...

If you want to share any ‘it wasn’t funny when it happened’ stories, please do. Just keep the language clean, the topic clean enough for children to read, and use fictitious names, (if necessary ☺ .)

I vote we start each story with the words, "It wasn't funny when it happened..."