Our ways with words.

Creative language arts.

I was not an English major in college.  Rarely spoke in public.  Couldn’t spell.  Not good at diagramming sentences.  Didn’t know parts of speech.  Had a hard time understanding punctuations and where to place the Period.   Grammar was mutilated.  Took two remedial English classes and had to drop both or take an incomplete.

So, to say the least, English was a second language.  My mom and dad, the red dirt farmer and his wife, taught me more better Okie speak.  Speaking in short broken and incomplete sentences with lots of dot dot dots.  It worked okay until I finished sixth grade.  These days, I can get by with dictating into my iPhone and sending a cryptic text and blaming the corrupt verbiage on SIRI.  “Boy howdy! If that don’t beat all I ever saw,” my Okie dad would say.

What she did after leaving the three bears.

Good reviews.

I got a hardy thumbs-up from granddaughter E-7.745.  “That was a good bedtime story Pops. 

It was a follow up story to the “Three Bears.”  Goldie decides to color her hair pink and return to the Bears house in the woods and was turned away due to non-recognition.  Even though she had a nice pink dress and pink Patton leather shoes.  Mama Bear said, “Don’t know you kid.  Must have the wrong house.”  Slam! Goldie returns the next day with a blue ensemble including blue hair.  Same thing.  “You’ve got the wrong house.”  Slam again.  Goldie thought to herself, what do I have to do to get a play-date with Baby Bear?

So Goldie returns the next day with play shorts and yellow top with hair washed and golden lochs.  “Goldie, where have you been, Mama Bear exclaims. Baby Bear has been looking for you.”  Duh!  Smiling face with tears of joy.

Should’ve gotten a babysitter

Ask and yee shall receive.

It was a pleasant time that evening.  All of us were gather at a favorite Mexican restaurant.  Not one of those Tex-Mex salty and overly seasoned kind but a southwest eatery with less fried foods.  The variety found…well in the southwest.  To be specific, in southern California. 

The chips and salsa were on the table and lots of chatting, dipping, and munching was going on.  At the table were my brother and his wife.  My cousin and his wife.  Another cousin came alone.  My wife, nine-year old daughter Monica, and myself.  We all had made our order and lots of merry making was percolating.  In the background were the ever present Mariachi singers crooning their Latino tunes.  It was a festive time. 

After a few bites of beans and rice, our daughter Monica got up from her chair, walked slowly up to the Mexican trio in mid-harmony, and asked the Latino Crooners to please play her favorite song.  “Could you guys play Clementine?”  “Say what senorita Chiquita?  Could you sing Clementine?  Polite chuckles were circulating around the table and the room.  The three Latino musicteers were looking at each other as if a Martian just landed.

So, in an unrehearsed fashion they began, Oh my darling, oh my darling oh my darling Clementine…”

Don’t be afraid to ask.  You might get what you ask for.  Fade to black.

Great Plaines Aliens

/The way it worked out, I was born in East Los Angeles to an Okie family.  My family called me the baby of the family, a title I always hated.  But anyway, two sisters and a brother were older.  My mom, dad, brother, and oldest sister came from the red dirt Plaines of southern rural Oklahoma.  So, including me and my youngest sister and no matter how you define it, we were blood Okies regardless of our birth place.  Which, as mentioned before, was in East L. A.  If we were not Okie by birth place and ancestry then by appearance and manner.  A smelly bunch and fraught with poor behavior.  Noisy while eating, and void of articulation.  None of us knew courtesy, politeness, nor were we willing to just sit and listen.  Just a gathering of humanoid skunks.  Petulant and always hungry.  And we bathed only on Saturday evenings by the way. -3-menu�����

Hair today. More tomorrow.

Its looking pretty bad. I still need a haircut. The hair on the back of my neck is starting to curl. If only I could get that hair to grow on the top.

I’ve been thinking to call my favorite shaver company, Wahl, and order a barber set and ask a neighbor to buzz me off. Plus I do need to order a new shaver.

The one I have is falling to neglect and poor maintenance. All of which reminds me my dad use to cut my hair with a pair of hand squeeze manual clippers.

It would sometimes pull your hair if not gouge out a big chunk of hair. Glad those days are over. Dad, if you are listening up there, you saved me lots

of barbering money. RIP

Lucky to be alive

Finger licking good!

The way I was brought up by Okie parents I am surprised I’m still alive.  And what I am saying, without any thought, I still lick my fingers.  And now with some consideration I just might catch the virus any day now after licking my fingers.  It’s an OCD condition living like southern red dirt Okies, I’m sure.  Boy Howdy!

It all started with a forever diet of my mom’s very greasy fried chicken.  An Okie food staple requiring massive amounts of finger licking.  I’m positive Colonel Sanders copied this digital licking mantra from my mom.

The second food item we Okies cherished was homemade ice cream.  Banana, strawberry, or vanilla.  It all didn’t matter.  It all ran down our fingers before we got our spoons to our mouths. Plus we were very careless how we held the bowl or coffee cup over flowing with the creamy froth.  Plus that was half the fun slurping the cream from our fingers.

The third item we Okies loved to lick was the watery goodness of Watermelon.  We got it all over our fingers as well as our faces.  Plus it dripped and ran down to our elbows.  How else were we to keep it from dripping on our jeans and white t-shirt. 

The sad thing, it’s a habit hard to stop.  Plus not being close to a water basin to wash hands.  Couple that with today’s health crisis, I may be gone soon.  Boy howdy!

Couldn’t help ourselves

WE couldn’t help it.

Wife and I are staying inside for the most part and sheltering in place.  But once in while we have to get in the car and drive around.  But there are these little stops we have to make.  Happens without much thought.  Like homing pigeons we seem almost always return back to Braums.  And I’m talking about their drive-thru.  A good place to practice social distancing with a little reward.  Third pound cheese burger without the cheese and made with mustard instead of their drippy sweet secret sauce.  Or a four piece fried boneless chicken with water.  Or a vanilla yogurt Mix with reece’s Pieces.  Or occasionally pop into their market and get a half gallon of two-percent when it’s not out of stock.  Most of all I won’t touch my face.  So, we’ll go home and wash hands for twenty-seconds while singing Baa Baa Black Sheep.  Hey!  For Pete sakes. We’re old. 

It’s so simple

Just liquid soap and warm water.

That’s your first line of defence.  Let it become a habit.  To give you adequate time to wash, sing ‘Does your chewing gum lose it flavor on the bed post over night.

It goes like this:

Does your chewing gum lose it flavor on the bed post over night.  Does your mother make you spit it out but swallow it in spite.  Do you catch it on your tonsils and heave it left and right. Does your chewing gum lose it’s flavor on the bed post over night.’  Then rinse and dry hands.

Just liquid soap and warm water.

That’s your first line of defence.  Let it become a habit.  To give you adequate time to wash, sing ‘Does your chewing gum lose it flavor on the bed post over night.

It goes like this:

Does your chewing gum lose it flavor on the bed post over night.  Does your mother make you spit it out but swallow it in spite.  Do you catch it on your tonsils and heave it left and right. Does your chewing gum lose it’s flavor on the bed post over night.’  Then rinse and dry hands.

More stupider than most.

Creative language arts.

I was not an English major in college.  Rarely spoke in public.  Couldn’t spell.  Not good at diagramming sentences.  Didn’t know parts of speech.  Had a hard time understanding punctuations and where to place the Period.   Grammar was mutilated.  Took two remedial English classes and had to drop both or take an incomplete.

So, to say the least, English was a second language.  My mom and dad, the red dirt farmer and his wife, taught me more better Okie speak.  Speaking in short broken and incomplete sentences with lots of dot dot dots.  It worked okay until I finished sixth grade.  These days, I can get by with dictating into my iPhone and sending a cryptic text and blaming the corrupt verbiage on SIRI.  “Boy howdy! If that don’t beat all I ever saw,” my Okie dad would say.