Ruthi Postow Birch's Blog, page 7
March 18, 2021
Stories from the HR Department – Crazy Bosses
There are a thousand stories in the HR department. Bosses out of control get to star in their fair share of them. These loose-cannons-in-charge keep human resources managers awake at night.
HR — THE REASON THEY DRINKTwo HR managers from different companies met after work for a drink. They’d both had hard days, and their conversation went like this—
“This was a good idea,” she said, looking around for a waiter. “It’s only Monday and I’m already in serious need of a weekend. I spent the morning buried in changes to ERISA compliance regulations. Then, I had to drop it because the vice president’s assistant was crying in my office. I spent the rest of the day trying to glue her back together.”
He asked, “What happened — although I can probably guess?”
“Her crazy boss is what happened — the unthinking jerk! As she was going to lunch, the assistant stuck her head in his door to ask if he needed anything. How hard would it have been for him to say yes, no, or nothing? But no. He said, “Don’t speak to me unless I ask you a question. I consider you nothing more than an extension of your typewriter.”
He said, “So you have crazy bosses too. If it makes you feel better, I have a senior partner who’s worse.”
He told his legal assistant, “If you don’t have something intelligent to say, never speak to me again.” Of course, he had to add, “I’ll enjoy the everlasting silence.”
“Yikes.” She shook her head. “I’ve talked to the VP but he doesn’t get it? I can’t even head off the problems because I never know when he’ll blow — he’s a loose cannon.” They laughed.
“Yep,” he said. “That’s my partner exactly — a loose cannon. And the cannonballs land on my desk. If you’re gonna survive in human resources, you have to have a sense of humor. We’ve gotta laugh.”
It was another Monday and a furious boss stormed into the human resources department demanding, “Where’s my assistant you hired?”
“She quit,” said Ms. HR without emotion.
“What? She can’t! It’s her first day. The turnover around here is ridiculous. Why can’t you find people who are stable — or who can at least last one full day? What was her excuse?”
“Let me ask you a couple of questions that might help us figure it out. Did you give her an assignment with a tight deadline this morning?”
“Yes — that’s what she was hired to do, isn’t it?”
“Then, while she was working on it, did you send her down to get a coke from the machine?”
“Yes. I’m too busy to go running around.”
“Did she bring it and put it on your desk, along with a napkin and straw, then go
back to the document that had to be gotten out today?
“Yes.”
“Did you buzz her to come back in because she hadn’t popped the top of the can? And did you say? ‘The straw!! You didn’t peel the straw. When I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it correctly and completely?’”
“I wanted to let her know from the start that I expect her work to be done completely.
The new legislative assistant hadn’t been with the firm a week before she was in Ms. HR’s office in tears.
“I think I’m fired.”
“Why? Tell me what happened.”
She wiped her eyes and said, “Mr. B [the senior partner] told me to write an analysis of the fisheries legislation and how it affects Alaska. It was the first assignment he had given me, so I jumped on it [Sob]. I wanted to impress him. I had it on his desk in less than two hours.”
“Fifteen minutes later, his secretary told me he wanted to see me in his office. When I went in, without looking up, he held up the analysis. It was all marked up in red slashes and circles. Then he looked up at me over the rim of his glasses, and whispered, “‘I suggest you don’t use this as a writing sample when you apply for your next job. And do not bill the client for your wasted time.’”
Ms. HR rolled her eyes and sighed. “Go back to work. You’re not fired. Mr. B scares everybody.”
When the woman left, Ms. HR closed the door. This was another one for her journal — Mr. B’s whisper rings through the halls again. Then she started to laugh.
By Ruthi Birch
Coming soon. More stories from human resources — Can Ms. HR keep the crazy bosses from interviewing — and alienating — potential employees?
The post Stories from the HR Department – Crazy Bosses appeared first on Life(F)unscripted.
Stories from the HR Department – Crazy Bosses
There are a thousand stories in the HR department. Bosses out of control get to star in their fair share of them. These loose-cannons-in-charge keep human resources managers awake at night.
HR — THE REASON THEY DRINKTwo HR managers from different companies met after work for a drink. They’d both had hard days, and their conversation went like this—
“This was a good idea,” she said, looking around for a waiter. “It’s only Monday and I’m already in serious need of a weekend. I spent the morning buried in changes to ERISA compliance regulations. Then, I had to drop it because the vice president’s assistant was crying in my office. I spent the rest of the day trying to glue her back together.”
He asked, “What happened — although I can probably guess?”
“Her crazy boss is what happened — the unthinking jerk! As she was going to lunch, the assistant stuck her head in his door to ask if he needed anything. How hard would it have been for him to say yes, no, or nothing? But no. He said, “Don’t speak to me unless I ask you a question. I consider you nothing more than an extension of your typewriter.”
He said, “So you have crazy bosses too. If it makes you feel better, I have a senior partner who’s worse.”
He told his legal assistant, “If you don’t have something intelligent to say, never speak to me again.” Of course, he had to add, “I’ll enjoy the everlasting silence.”
“Yikes.” She shook her head. “I’ve talked to the VP but he doesn’t get it? I can’t even head off the problems because I never know when he’ll blow — he’s a loose cannon.” They laughed.
“Yep,” he said. “That’s my partner exactly — a loose cannon. And the cannonballs land on my desk. If you’re gonna survive in human resources, you have to have a sense of humor. We’ve gotta laugh.”
It was another Monday and a furious boss stormed into the human resources department demanding, “Where’s my assistant you hired?”
“She quit,” said Ms. HR without emotion.
“What? She can’t! It’s her first day. The turnover around here is ridiculous. Why can’t you find people who are stable — or who can at least last one full day? What was her excuse?”
“Let me ask you a couple of questions that might help us figure it out. Did you give her an assignment with a tight deadline this morning?”
“Yes — that’s what she was hired to do, isn’t it?”
“Then, while she was working on it, did you send her down to get a coke from the machine?”
“Yes. I’m too busy to go running around.”
“Did she bring it and put it on your desk, along with a napkin and straw, then go
back to the document that had to be gotten out today?
“Yes.”
“Did you buzz her to come back in because she hadn’t popped the top of the can? And did you say? ‘The straw!! You didn’t peel the straw. When I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it correctly and completely?’”
“I wanted to let her know from the start that I expect her work to be done completely.
The new legislative assistant hadn’t been with the firm a week before she was in Ms. HR’s office in tears.
“I think I’m fired.”
“Why? Tell me what happened.”
She wiped her eyes and said, “Mr. B [the senior partner] told me to write an analysis of the fisheries legislation and how it affects Alaska. It was the first assignment he had given me, so I jumped on it [Sob]. I wanted to impress him. I had it on his desk in less than two hours.”
“Fifteen minutes later, his secretary told me he wanted to see me in his office. When I went in, without looking up, he held up the analysis. It was all marked up in red slashes and circles. Then he looked up at me over the rim of his glasses, and whispered, “‘I suggest you don’t use this as a writing sample when you apply for your next job. And do not bill the client for your wasted time.’”
Ms. HR rolled her eyes and sighed. “Go back to work. You’re not fired. Mr. B scares everybody.”
When the woman left, Ms. HR closed the door. This was another one for her journal — Mr. B’s whisper rings through the halls again. Then she started to laugh.
By Ruthi Birch
Coming soon. More stories from human resources — Can Ms. HR keep the crazy bosses from interviewing — and alienating — potential employees?
The post Stories from the HR Department – Crazy Bosses appeared first on How To Build A Piano Bench.
March 2, 2021
Weird Encounters – Ambushed by a Stranger
Right now, someone somewhere is having a too-close encounter of the weird kind. Have you ever been ambushed by a stranger who barges into your life without warning — or invitation? Like when you’re trying to teach a thirty-pound puppy not to jump on people and a stranger comes closer, and says, “Oh, it’s okay. He just wants to play. I love dogs.”
Ambushing strangers became a fad in the 1980s. One day, I was on my way to a client meeting. I was walking down the street, minding my own business, when I became vaguely aware of a stranger walking toward me. As she came nearer I realized she was talking. Who was she talking to? She was looking in my direction. I looked behind me, feeling stupid. Nobody was there. So, I supposed she was talking to me. But why? And why was I embarrassed? Was my skirt hitched up? I checked. It wasn’t.
I walked faster, trying not to look at her, but she wasn’t letting me get away. Now she was a few feet away. “Smile. God loves you!” she proclaimed, flaunting a beaming smile of her own along with a look of what seemed to be superiority.
I wondered, does she really know what God is feeling? Has she been called to pass on His message?
I didn’t think so. I thought she was a bully who assumed she had the right to interrupt my thoughts and tell me how I should feel. But I felt strangely guilty. I was certain my face was red.
She kept staring at me with that chilling grin, obviously expecting me to produce a grateful smile. I didn’t want to smile. I wanted to throw a snarky comment back at her. But under the glare of that grin, I couldn’t come up with one. Then, against my will, I did it. I produced a weak smile and even a feeble nod as I scurried past — like a rat from a trap I thought. I was furious that I’d let her win!
It nagged me for days. I’d wake up at three o’clock in the morning, reliving the scene, but with a difference. Safe in my bed, I shot back clever retorts that would defrost her grin and send her scurrying away like a mouse.
If He loves me, you’ll disappear. Yeah. That’s what I should’ve said! No, no. This is better, I know he does, but I understand he’s not crazy about you. Or even better, Cry! Nobody loves you!
Just when I’d almost made myself stop obsessing on it, it happened again. Another stranger accosted me demanding a smile. Before I knew it, this command-a-stranger-to-smile thing had become a fad.
Even after the nights I spent planning snarky retorts, I never once managed to come back with one in the moment. I couldn’t get over being stunned that a stranger would try to bully me into doing something I didn’t want to do. I began to cross the street when I saw someone walking toward me.
The craze gradually died out. Years passed without a stranger giving me the smile-command. Then, in 2020, I was walking my reckless and rowdy puppy (which meant I was fighting to keep him from dragging me across a busy street so he could greet a dog on the other side), when a man I’d never seen before came up and ordered me to, “Smile! Look at this beautiful day. You should appreciate all you have to be thankful for!”
How dare this man I’d never seen before claim to know my level of ingratitude! At least he didn’t claim to know what God was thinking.
He was judging me. I was furious — mostly at myself for feeling embarrassed. Once again, my sarcastic response didn’t come. I was only able to spit out a petulant, “Leave me alone!” like a child on the playground.
My middle-of-the-night sessions with myself began again. Why didn’t I say….?
That was a year ago. I’m almost fully recovered. I rarely find myself walking down the street, muttering curses and snarky remarks at invisible assailants anymore.
By Ruthi Birch
The post Weird Encounters – Ambushed by a Stranger appeared first on Life(F)unscripted.
Weird Encounters – Ambushed by a Stranger
Right now, someone somewhere is having a too-close encounter of the weird kind. Have you ever been ambushed by a stranger who barges into your life without warning — or invitation? Like when you’re trying to teach a thirty-pound puppy not to jump on people and a stranger comes closer, and says, “Oh, it’s okay. He just wants to play. I love dogs.”
Ambushing strangers became a fad in the 1980s. One day, I was on my way to a client meeting. I was walking down the street, minding my own business, when I became vaguely aware of a stranger walking toward me. As she came nearer I realized she was talking. Who was she talking to? She was looking in my direction. I looked behind me, feeling stupid. Nobody was there. So, I supposed she was talking to me. But why? And why was I embarrassed? Was my skirt hitched up? I checked. It wasn’t.
I walked faster, trying not to look at her, but she wasn’t letting me get away. Now she was a few feet away. “Smile. God loves you!” she proclaimed, flaunting a beaming smile of her own along with a look of what seemed to be superiority.
I wondered, does she really know what God is feeling? Has she been called to pass on His message?
I didn’t think so. I thought she was a bully who assumed she had the right to interrupt my thoughts and tell me how I should feel. But I felt strangely guilty. I was certain my face was red.
She kept staring at me with that chilling grin, obviously expecting me to produce a grateful smile. I didn’t want to smile. I wanted to throw a snarky comment back at her. But under the glare of that grin, I couldn’t come up with one. Then, against my will, I did it. I produced a weak smile and even a feeble nod as I scurried past — like a rat from a trap I thought. I was furious that I’d let her win!
It nagged me for days. I’d wake up at three o’clock in the morning, reliving the scene, but with a difference. Safe in my bed, I shot back clever retorts that would defrost her grin and send her scurrying away like a mouse.
If He loves me, you’ll disappear. Yeah. That’s what I should’ve said! No, no. This is better, I know he does, but I understand he’s not crazy about you. Or even better, Cry! Nobody loves you!
Just when I’d almost made myself stop obsessing on it, it happened again. Another stranger accosted me demanding a smile. Before I knew it, this command-a-stranger-to-smile thing had become a fad.
Even after the nights I spent planning snarky retorts, I never once managed to come back with one in the moment. I couldn’t get over being stunned that a stranger would try to bully me into doing something I didn’t want to do. I began to cross the street when I saw someone walking toward me.
The craze gradually died out. Years passed without a stranger giving me the smile-command. Then, in 2020, I was walking my reckless and rowdy puppy (which meant I was fighting to keep him from dragging me across a busy street so he could greet a dog on the other side), when a man I’d never seen before came up and ordered me to, “Smile! Look at this beautiful day. You should appreciate all you have to be thankful for!”
How dare this man I’d never seen before claim to know my level of ingratitude! At least he didn’t claim to know what God was thinking.
He was judging me. I was furious — mostly at myself for feeling embarrassed. Once again, my sarcastic response didn’t come. I was only able to spit out a petulant, “Leave me alone!” like a child on the playground.
My middle-of-the-night sessions with myself began again. Why didn’t I say….?
That was a year ago. I’m almost fully recovered. I rarely find myself walking down the street, muttering curses and snarky remarks at invisible assailants anymore.
By Ruthi Birch
The post Weird Encounters – Ambushed by a Stranger appeared first on How To Build A Piano Bench.
February 8, 2021
Puppy Training – But Who’s Training Whom?
A soft-coated Wheaten terrier puppy has come to live with us. We call him Mackie. He’s adorable.
Mackie has one habit that’s making me uncomfortable — he constantly stares at me. He follows me everywhere I go, watching, always watching, watching. He never speaks. He doesn’t blink. He just stares into my eyes. It’s unnerving — it feels like the puppy is judging me.
It’s raining today, so instead of walking Mackie, I put him out in the yard. He knows what he’s there for, but he doesn’t do it. He just stands there looking at me in disbelief, instead of bouncing around the garden, sniffing for the perfect spot as he usually does. Now he’s laying down on the patio and staring at me, the one–eyed stare of the betrayed. Is this puppy training me?
Tonight, while I made dinner, Mackie watched every chopping, mixing, stirring move I made. His expression said, “You go through all this to make dinner for you and Ron, but for me, all you do is pour a scoop of dried stuff into a bowl — a bowl you haven’t washed in three days?”
For emphasis, he chewed up a wooden spatula.
I’m taking Mackie for a walk. He lets me know he’s happy by gleefully nipping my legs and ankles, then running, jumping, and dragging me around by the leash. I’m bleeding. His teeth are razors.
Covered with Band-Aids, I Google: “how to train a puppy to stop biting.” I find an expert who says, “Yell ouch,” real loud, then turn my back on him and ignore him. That’s supposed to tell him he’s in trouble and make him feel bad. It’s worth a try.
I didn’t have to wait long for him to bite. I looked him in the eye. I yelled, “Ouch,” at the top of my lungs. I turned my back on him.
Apparently, it didn’t make Mackie feel bad. He wasn’t fooled by the turning my back trick. He simply walked around to my other side, sat down, and stared up at me.
I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to laugh, but I laughed. He’s really a smart little dog — and he’s funny. I think I’m falling in love with the judgmental ankle-biter.
On Sunday, I wanted to sleep in. Ron took Mackie downstairs, gave him breakfast, and walked him.
Maybe ten minutes later, I was awakened by the pounding of paws on my bed. I turned over and there was Mackie’s adorable, yet reproachful face, peering over the covers at me. If he had fingers I’m sure he’d have pointed at the clock.
Last night, I was busy writing and let time get away from me. I looked at the clock in horror that I was half an hour late getting Mackie’s dinner. I rushed to the kitchen, filled his bowl, and set it on the mat.
“Enjoy,” I chirped.
But Mackie didn’t enjoy. He didn’t run to his bowl. He didn’t get up. He cocked his head and stared at me with his one visible eye — showing he was disappointed in me. There’s no doubt that the puppy training is on me, and he’s mastered the skill.
At least he didn’t turn his back on me.
Mackie taught me a new game today and it doesn’t involve biting my ankles. The game is Fetch & Keep. I throw his toy. He runs to get it — then he keeps it. Game over.
Maybe the constant surveillance is because he thinks I’m no good on my own and the only hope for me is his constant attention. But I’m getting used to it. I’m even starting to like it. It feels good to know when I open a door I’ll find him waiting for me on the other side. It’s nice to be missed.
Tonight, while Ron and I were watching TV, Mackie put his paws up on the couch, laid his head on my lap, and stared into my eyes. I felt his stare pulling me deep into his eyes.
I stare deep into his eyes.
And deeper.
And deeper.
And deeper.
And we both know I’m hooked — totally. Mackie’s puppy training is complete. I’m his! Now he gets busy pulling tissues from the box and shredding them to decorate the room.
By Ruthi Birch “I’ve seen a look in dogs’ eyes, a quickly vanishing look of amazed contempt, and I am convinced that basically dogs think humans are nuts.” – John SteinbeckThe post Puppy Training – But Who’s Training Whom? appeared first on Life(F)unscripted.
Puppy Training – But Who’s Training Whom?
A soft-coated Wheaten terrier puppy has come to live with us. We call him Mackie. He’s adorable.
Mackie has one habit that’s making me uncomfortable — he constantly stares at me. He follows me everywhere I go, watching, always watching, watching. He never speaks. He doesn’t blink. He just stares into my eyes. It’s unnerving — it feels like the puppy is judging me.
It’s raining today, so instead of walking Mackie, I put him out in the yard. He knows what he’s there for, but he doesn’t do it. He just stands there looking at me in disbelief, instead of bouncing around the garden, sniffing for the perfect spot as he usually does. Now he’s laying down on the patio and staring at me, the one–eyed stare of the betrayed. Is this puppy training me?
Tonight, while I made dinner, Mackie watched every chopping, mixing, stirring move I made. His expression said, “You go through all this to make dinner for you and Ron, but for me, all you do is pour a scoop of dried stuff into a bowl — a bowl you haven’t washed in three days?”
For emphasis, he chewed up a wooden spatula.
I’m taking Mackie for a walk. He lets me know he’s happy by gleefully nipping my legs and ankles, then running, jumping, and dragging me around by the leash. I’m bleeding. His teeth are razors.
Covered with Band-Aids, I Google: “how to train a puppy to stop biting.” I find an expert who says, “Yell ouch,” real loud, then turn my back on him and ignore him. That’s supposed to tell him he’s in trouble and make him feel bad. It’s worth a try.
I didn’t have to wait long for him to bite. I looked him in the eye. I yelled, “Ouch,” at the top of my lungs. I turned my back on him.
Apparently, it didn’t make Mackie feel bad. He wasn’t fooled by the turning my back trick. He simply walked around to my other side, sat down, and stared up at me.
I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to laugh, but I laughed. He’s really a smart little dog — and he’s funny. I think I’m falling in love with the judgmental ankle-biter.
On Sunday, I wanted to sleep in. Ron took Mackie downstairs, gave him breakfast, and walked him.
Maybe ten minutes later, I was awakened by the pounding of paws on my bed. I turned over and there was Mackie’s adorable, yet reproachful face, peering over the covers at me. If he had fingers I’m sure he’d have pointed at the clock.
Last night, I was busy writing and let time get away from me. I looked at the clock in horror that I was half an hour late getting Mackie’s dinner. I rushed to the kitchen, filled his bowl, and set it on the mat.
“Enjoy,” I chirped.
But Mackie didn’t enjoy. He didn’t run to his bowl. He didn’t get up. He cocked his head and stared at me with his one visible eye — showing he was disappointed in me. There’s no doubt that the puppy training is on me, and he’s mastered the skill.
At least he didn’t turn his back on me.
Mackie taught me a new game today and it doesn’t involve biting my ankles. The game is Fetch & Keep. I throw his toy. He runs to get it — then he keeps it. Game over.
Maybe the constant surveillance is because he thinks I’m no good on my own and the only hope for me is his constant attention. But I’m getting used to it. I’m even starting to like it. It feels good to know when I open a door I’ll find him waiting for me on the other side. It’s nice to be missed.
Tonight, while Ron and I were watching TV, Mackie put his paws up on the couch, laid his head on my lap, and stared into my eyes. I felt his stare pulling me deep into his eyes.
I stare deep into his eyes.
And deeper.
And deeper.
And deeper.
And we both know I’m hooked — totally. Mackie’s puppy training is complete. I’m his! Now he gets busy pulling tissues from the box and shredding them to decorate the room.
By Ruthi Birch “I’ve seen a look in dogs’ eyes, a quickly vanishing look of amazed contempt, and I am convinced that basically dogs think humans are nuts.” – John SteinbeckThe post Puppy Training – But Who’s Training Whom? appeared first on How To Build A Piano Bench.
January 19, 2021
Crazy Things I Heard Grown-Ups Say When I Was A Kid
Visiting the relatives was no fun when I was a kid because nobody had kids my age. And when the grown-ups got together, all they wanted to do was sit around and talk about boring stuff — who died, who got married, who got saved, who drank whiskey. But sometimes, all of a sudden, some crazy things I heard them say would take me from bored to all-ears.
When I was nine, we went to visit Mama’s Aunt Ella in North Carolina. As soon as the hugs and hellos were over, we sat in the kitchen and had pie. Then, Aunt Ella went into a long story about how a cake she made for the fair fell. Mama and Daddy laughed — grown-ups thought the most peculiar things were funny.
When Mama started asking about all the other kinfolks, I knew it would go on forever. I whined to Daddy, “There’s nothing to do. I’m bored.”
He said, “Take your coloring book and go sit on the porch. Let your mama enjoy her cousin.”
I was at the door when a crazy thing I heard Aunt Ella say stopped me. “Ben needed shooting, so Eula shot him.” (Ben was married to Aunt Eula, who was Aunt Ella’s sister.)
With a picture in my head of Aunt Eula shooting Uncle Ben, I flopped to the floor to hear what came next.
“It wasn’t much of a wound — he was only in the hospital overnight. Of course, Eula didn’t set out to kill him. She just needed to wing him to get his attention.”
“And it sure did get it because, since that day, he’s a changed man. He’s stopped all his cattin’ around, cussing, and meanness.”
I wasn’t sure what all that meant, but it sounded like something to talk to my friend Delilah about when I got home.
“Thank the Lord,” said Mama. “That man has made Eula’s life a misery. I told her to leave him the first time he hit her. Now, what will happen to her?”
“Not a thing. The police knew about Ben. Everybody knew Ben needed shootin’. He’s the only one who didn’t know it.” She grinned and added, “But I reckon he found out.” Then, she blasted out a laugh.
I didn’t know why she laughed. I stared at her, trying to get the joke.
Just then, Aunt Ella noticed me. She looked at Mama, put a finger to her mouth and said, “Little pitchers have big ears.” I’d known that old trick since I was five. Now, Mama would send me out to play in the yard or run an errand. She did, so I never did learn what was the joke, or if Aunt Eula really shot Uncle Ben, and if she did why Uncle Ben needed shooting.
The crazy things I heard Daddy say were the best. He talked in pictures.
One Sunday we visited Daddy’s Uncle Harley and Aunt Berthel who lived two counties over from us. Right after we got in the car to go home, Daddy said,
“I tell you what. If Berthel ever wants to kill Harley, all she’ll have to do is wash him.”
I knew Daddy was kidding about Aunt Berthel or a bath killing Uncle Harley because he laughed. Then he said, in a sad voice, “I don’t know where Harley gets it. Our people aren’t dirty. I love him, but it’s real hard to spend time at his place.”
Then, he laughed again. “Truth is dirt, sweat, and tobacco spit are all that’s holding the man together. Wash them off and he’d go right down the drain with the water – dirt, grease, spit, and all!”
I took out my crayons and tried to draw Uncle Harley melting and going down the drain but I couldn’t make it come out right.
Mama said, “Berthel told me they have a pair of skunks as pets. Did he tell you?”
“Oh, yeah. Harley’s real proud of them. He showed me. Their cages are by the back porch.”
Mama made a face. “No! Not right by the kitchen window! The smell!”
Daddy said, “Yep. The little skunks don’t deserve that kind of punishment.” And they both laughed.
When I got home, I drew a picture of Aunt Berthel trying to make Uncle Harley get in the tub. It came out better than Uncle Harley melting.
Then I drew the skunks. I thought they were my best pictures.
The crazy things I heard the grown-ups say when I was a child became images that stayed with me — pistol-packing Eula, Uncle Harley circling the bathtub drain, skunks holding their noses. I have to thank those people who lived life (f)unscripted and left my head full of stories and sayings to spice up my life.
By: Ruthi Birch
The post Crazy Things I Heard Grown-Ups Say When I Was A Kid appeared first on Life(F)unscripted.
Crazy Things I Heard Grown-Ups Say When I Was A Kid
Visiting the relatives was no fun when I was a kid because nobody had kids my age. And when the grown-ups got together, all they wanted to do was sit around and talk about boring stuff — who died, who got married, who got saved, who drank whiskey. But sometimes, all of a sudden, some crazy things I heard them say would take me from bored to all-ears.
When I was nine, we went to visit Mama’s Aunt Ella in North Carolina. As soon as the hugs and hellos were over, we sat in the kitchen and had pie. Then, Aunt Ella went into a long story about how a cake she made for the fair fell. Mama and Daddy laughed — grown-ups thought the most peculiar things were funny.
When Mama started asking about all the other kinfolks, I knew it would go on forever. I whined to Daddy, “There’s nothing to do. I’m bored.”
He said, “Take your coloring book and go sit on the porch. Let your mama enjoy her cousin.”
I was at the door when a crazy thing I heard Aunt Ella say stopped me. “Ben needed shooting, so Eula shot him.” (Ben was married to Aunt Eula, who was Aunt Ella’s sister.)
With a picture in my head of Aunt Eula shooting Uncle Ben, I flopped to the floor to hear what came next.
“It wasn’t much of a wound — he was only in the hospital overnight. Of course, Eula didn’t set out to kill him. She just needed to wing him to get his attention.”
“And it sure did get it because, since that day, he’s a changed man. He’s stopped all his cattin’ around, cussing, and meanness.”
I wasn’t sure what all that meant, but it sounded like something to talk to my friend Delilah about when I got home.
“Thank the Lord,” said Mama. “That man has made Eula’s life a misery. I told her to leave him the first time he hit her. Now, what will happen to her?”
“Not a thing. The police knew about Ben. Everybody knew Ben needed shootin’. He’s the only one who didn’t know it.” She grinned and added, “But I reckon he found out.” Then, she blasted out a laugh.
I didn’t know why she laughed. I stared at her, trying to get the joke.
Just then, Aunt Ella noticed me. She looked at Mama, put a finger to her mouth and said, “Little pitchers have big ears.” I’d known that old trick since I was five. Now, Mama would send me out to play in the yard or run an errand. She did, so I never did learn what was the joke, or if Aunt Eula really shot Uncle Ben, and if she did why Uncle Ben needed shooting.
The crazy things I heard Daddy say were the best. He talked in pictures.
One Sunday we visited Daddy’s Uncle Harley and Aunt Berthel who lived two counties over from us. Right after we got in the car to go home, Daddy said,
“I tell you what. If Berthel ever wants to kill Harley, all she’ll have to do is wash him.”
I knew Daddy was kidding about Aunt Berthel or a bath killing Uncle Harley because he laughed. Then he said, in a sad voice, “I don’t know where Harley gets it. Our people aren’t dirty. I love him, but it’s real hard to spend time at his place.”
Then, he laughed again. “Truth is dirt, sweat, and tobacco spit are all that’s holding the man together. Wash them off and he’d go right down the drain with the water – dirt, grease, spit, and all!”
I took out my crayons and tried to draw Uncle Harley melting and going down the drain but I couldn’t make it come out right.
Mama said, “Berthel told me they have a pair of skunks as pets. Did he tell you?”
“Oh, yeah. Harley’s real proud of them. He showed me. Their cages are by the back porch.”
Mama made a face. “No! Not right by the kitchen window! The smell!”
Daddy said, “Yep. The little skunks don’t deserve that kind of punishment.” And they both laughed.
When I got home, I drew a picture of Aunt Berthel trying to make Uncle Harley get in the tub. It came out better than Uncle Harley melting.
Then I drew the skunks. I thought they were my best pictures.
The crazy things I heard the grown-ups say when I was a child became images that stayed with me — pistol-packing Eula, Uncle Harley circling the bathtub drain, skunks holding their noses. I have to thank those people who lived life (f)unscripted and left my head full of stories and sayings to spice up my life.
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January 11, 2021
REREMEMBERING CHILDHOOD CHRISTMASES – WHAT WAS YOUR BEST GIFT?
With the rush of Christmas morning over, I sat back amid the colorful clutter of torn wrapping paper and ribbon and thought back to the wonder of my childhood Christmases.
At barely dawn, I’d wake up my parents so we could go into the magical scene I knew was in our living room. Lit by a rainbow of light from the tree, were the gifts and surprises Santa Claus had left for me. One gift came to my mind, the best gift I ever received as a child. I was twelve and standing by the tree was —
A shiny, brand-new bike!
When I saw it there, tied with a big red bow, I stopped in my tracks. Was it really real? Then, I ran to it and almost hugged it. It was so beautiful, deep sparkly blue with shiny chrome handlebars. I thought about how I dragged that bike into every picture Mama took that Christmas.
But it was something I didn’t know that made the bike my best gift ever. My brand-new bike wasn’t new.
Daddy had rescued the bike from a junk pile, bought a new seat for it, hammered out the dents, and painted it to look like new. We didn’t have much money, but I didn’t know it because Mama and Daddy knew how to make magic with the money they had.
Christmastime was a season for wishing. That meant going through the Sears Christmas catalog — Grandma called it the wish book. I dog-eared pages and circled the hottest new toys, but as I remember, I usually got different toys that those I wished for. For example, when I was eight, I just had to have the Betsy Wetsy doll advertised on every kids’ TV show. She really ate, and cried real tears, and wet! And she came with a plastic bath tub so I could give her a bath.
That was too much reality for Mama. “I’ll tell you right now. Santa’s not bringing you that doll. You’re not getting a toy you have to feed and clean.” Instead, I got something that has outlasted any doll.
The Jon Gnagy Learn to Draw Kit
It was a box full of wonders for a child who loved to draw. It had real art paper, pencils, a kneaded eraser (I never learned how to use), a sandpaper sharpener, and a book on how to draw everything from shapes — a covered bridge to a great Dane. The covered bridge was my masterpiece. Drawing became a pastime I’ve loved till this day.
What was the best gift you ever got as a child — one you still remember?
I asked my family and friends that question and learned my parents weren’t the only ones who made magic.
C: The sold-out go-go gift my folks magically found
You know how every year, there’s always that one present all the kids want but that almost immediately sells out. It just can’t be found. That’s the one I always got.
I was sure my parents were witches or at least had some kind of mystical powers or maybe a link to Santa’s elves because they were always able to confound all the other parents and get that game or special toy for me.
Then came the Christmas of the go-go boots. I was afraid their powers wouldn’t be enough, because I saw on the news two dads fighting over the last pair in the State. But my folks’ magic prevailed. I was the only girl on my block to have white vinyl go-go boots.
R: The Humphrey Pennyworth Bop Bag
It was fun to punch old roly-poly Humphrey Pennyworth and knock him for a loop, even when he bounced back to bop me on my head. But what made him important and memorable was that he came out of the funny papers that my dad and I read together every Sunday. Humphrey was one small part of the best moments of my life.
J: A Storybook Christmas-in-Connecticut
When I was ten years old, we lived in Honolulu — not exactly the picture-book setting for Christmas. But our Daddy fixed that for us.
A few days before Christmas, he brought home wooden orange crates, nailed them together, and covered them with paper printed like red bricks. Then he added logs and paper fire. A fireplace in Hawaii? Unimaginable, in the 40s. Christmas eve, we thumbtacked our stockings over the artificial fire, and Christmas morning came down to find gifts from Santa surrounding it. Dad made us a picture-book Christmas.
C: The Not-A-Gift
My best gift ever? Hmmm – excellent question. I think the best gift for me was not-a-gift – it was an empty box, a carton from the new fridge that my folks gifted each other. MY brother Michael and I played with it for weeks, if not months. It was a fort, a hide-out, a whatever-we-wanted it to be. It taught me material gifts are not as important as things that allow a child to use her imagination.
A: Ghostbusters gun
My favorite gift was a Ghostbusters gun. I put on the proton backpack, turned a handle and a foot-long foam came out to grab whatever “ectoplasm” creature was in the room. Coolest ever!
Another gift from the wish-book —
When I was eight, Chatty Cathy was the hot toy. She was the first doll that actually talked. In the Sears toy department, I pulled her string and she said, “I love you.” She was all I wanted.
But, “That’s not a doll. It’s just a gadget,” said Daddy. “It won’t last a week before the string breaks and it’s no good anymore.” (I wonder how many future engineers took the doll apart to learn how it worked.)
In retrospect, I think I’d have been disappointed in her. Cathy was way too bossy and whiny.
Tell me a story. Change my dress. Brush my hair.
I hurt myself. I’m sleepy. I’m hungry.
Instead of a bossy baby doll, I got Fluffy, who came with a business dress, a fake mink coat, and muff. Fluffy didn’t talk or wet, but she was headed for New York City where she would meet fabulous people and have an exciting career (I made that part up).
What was the best gift you ever got as a child?
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December 21, 2020
Pop Beads & Tie Clips – Memories of a Childhood Christmas
I was nine years old and it was Christmastime. This was the first time Mama let me take the bus to Prichard, all by myself, to buy presents. And I had a whole seven dollars to spend! I sat on the bus, so excited I bounced up and down in my seat, till an old lady got on and sat beside me.
I got off the bus in front of Kress’s Five and Ten. With rows and rows of counters piled high with everything anybody could want, it was the best store in Prichard for buying presents – maybe the best in all of Mobile.
I walked past the soda fountain and only stopped for a minute in the toy section. I was there on important business — first at the men’s counter.
There was a beautiful pipe made of dark swirly wood, but it was two dollars and thirty-five cents, and Daddy smoked cigarettes anyway. Even better, was a fancy silver fountain pen in a blue case. It looked like it cost too much, too, but it was only seventy-five cents. Then I saw a tie clip with a silver boat on it for fifty-five cents — Daddy ran tugboats. I could buy both and still have nearly six dollars to buy my other gifts.
I was paying the saleslady when I saw the best thing — a little statue of a hobo with a red nose, bowed mouth, and black top hat.
The lady said the hole was on purpose. “It’s an ashtray. When you put a cigarette in the hole, smoke comes out of his mouth.” That would make Daddy laugh!
I headed to the jewelry counter. It overflowed with beads, earrings, pins, and watches.
I picked up a necklace made of sparkly red rhinestones and asked the lady if they would be good for my mama. She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Too showy.”
She led me to a display of beads, picked up a necklace, winked at me, and broke it in two! I must have looked scared because she laughed and put them back together. “See?” she said, “They’re not broken. They’re pop beads — the latest things.”
Pop beads! Perfect! I bought a set of three strands in different shades of pink.
I had two dollars and twelve cents to buy a gift for Grandma. I got the Lilac Talcum Powder she loved and a little red-crystal rose on a green stem pin.
I still had enough money for a coke-float and bus fare. Then, I got an idea. Mrs. Gates, an old lady on our street, was so sweet to me. I’d get a present for her, and I knew what. In the back, behind the dishes, for just ten cents each, there were wax flowers and vases – real crystal I thought. I bought a vase and a red rose to go in it.
I skipped home from the bus stop, hugging my packages, and spread them on my bed. I wrote a note to put in the box with Mama’s beads. “Dear Mama. These are pop beads. If you break them, don’t worry. They aren’t really broken.”
Then I got Mama’s wrapping paper and tape and set about wrapping. Present-wrapping was harder than I’d thought. I could see in my head what I wanted something to look like but I couldn’t make it happen. The boxes ended up patched and taped and tied with droopy ribbons.
But the hobo! He became a lumpy, lopsided, blob, held together by a half-roll of tape. I looked at the presents and started crying.
I tore off all the paper, blew my nose, and started over. It took a few tries but at last, they looked pretty and had only a couple of patched places.
The hobo was still a blob wrapped in red paper. Then, I had a great idea. I made a Christmas card for Daddy and tied the three packages to it.
Christmas morning, I was awake hours before I could wake up Mama and Daddy without getting in trouble. Finally, it was six-thirty. Late enough, I decided, and ran to their room. “It’s Christmas! Wake up! Santa Claus came. Come on!” I ran to get Grandma.
Mama always went in first to turn on the tree. Then, we went in. The lights from the Christmas tree showered the presents with color. Candy canes and boxes of chocolate-covered cherries stuck out of the stuffed stockings that hung on the mantle. I thought our living room was more beautiful than any department store window in Mobile. Nobody ever knew how to make Christmas like my mama!
While Mama made coffee and hot chocolate, I sat on the floor inspecting the toys from Santa, a Barbie doll in a black evening gown, a real china tea set, a game, a hula hoop, a coloring book, and the biggest box of Crayola crayons.
Then it was time to open presents. I jumped up. “Open mine first! Here, Grandma, go first.”
Grandma opened the pin. “Oh, my, my,” she said – she always said that. “Isn’t this the prettiest thing!” And she pinned it on her nightgown.
“Mama, here. Open yours.” When she saw the beads and the note, she grinned her crooked grin. “I wanted these. Mrs. Reeves was showing hers off on Sunday. Now I have some.”
I picked up the card holding Daddy’s gifts. They dangled like a broken puppet as the paper bent and tore. “I couldn’t get it to look the way I wanted,” I said.
He read the card and laughed, then opened the pen. “I’ll write real fancy with this.” Next, he opened the tie clip and pinned it to his shirt. “Stanley’s going to be jealous of this.”
He held up the hobo. “Now, what’s this funny thing. Let me guess. It’s a bowl of goldfish.” I laughed and shook my head. “Then soup bones maybe? No? I’d better just open it.”
He unwound the paper wrapped round and round and laughed when he saw the hobo. I jumped up and explained, “It’s got a hole in it, but it’s not broken. You put your cigarette in the hole and he blows smoke from his mouth.” Daddy laughed. “I have to show this to Stanley. He’ll get a kick out of it.”
After breakfast, I went to see Mrs. Gates. When I gave her the present, she carried on like I’d given her a Cadillac car. “This is just beautiful and so fine. Why, just look at how the vase catches light just like crystal.” She hugged me. “You’re the sweetest girl to think of me. You’ve made my Christmas!”
It was the best Christmas – just like I knew it would be.
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