In A Hurry And Then . . . A Lot Of Shouting

17 February 2025

Story #1131

R. Linda:

Not long ago, Tonya and I went to lunch at an Irish restaurant that opened in Peterborough. I have to say, I felt like I was back on the old sod. The interior was much like you'd find back home. The dark panelling, the cosy atmosphere, the huge bar, and the menu! To die for! 

We lingered over after-dinner drinks a wee bit too long and found we would be late when the wee one got off the school bus. Mam had gone out for the day, so he'd be alone. We had promised to pick up milk and eggs for Mam on the way back, so we decided to go to the Dollar General store on our way home. It was usually deserted, so it would be quick to get in and out.

As we were in a hurry, it figured we'd get behind a lumbering box truck on a double-line road. It was going about 35 mph, but as soon as we came to hills, it would slow to about 15 mph. This was painful, considering we were running behind. Finally, the road opened to two lanes, and we could speed on past. 

We debated if we had time to stop at the store and decided to take a chance. As we got to the Dollar General, a car in front of us turned into the side street leading to the parking lot. I drove up to the car's bumper and found it was going two miles an hour, and when in a rush, this was the last thing one wants. We could see the white head of the old lady driver as she laboriously turned the wheel and righted her vehicle. Then she put on her blinker, and you guessed it drove up into the parking lot, us bumper to bumper behind her, no way to pass. 

"Get past her to that spot right in front of the door, Gabe," Tonya said, pointing to the empty spot. 

The old lady turned into the parking space we had spied for ourselves right by the door for quick entry and exit. We pulled six cars away from her, a little further from the store door than we'd have liked.

"I bet we make it out of the car before she does," Tonya said, whipping her purse strap over her shoulder and getting out.

Sure enough, we did. The oldster was still in her car, engine running, as she rumaged through her purse. We were in and away. I went to the back of the store for the milk and eggs. Tonya went to the cookie section to pick out the wee one's fav cookie munchies.  As I neared the checkout, this young thing with a toddler stepped out in front of me and got to the counter first. She had a few things, but as you know, by the counter are candy bars, beef sticks, chewing gum, drinks, etc., and yours truly was stopped dead. Tonya joined me within seconds, and there we stood, listening to the young momma ask her kiddo what kind of candy bar he wanted, if he wanted a pop to go with it, and how about some chips? All this she could have gotten in the aisles, but no, it was counter shopping, and of course, the child didn't know what of anything he wanted, just that he wanted something. 

I was near to going up to the counter and picking up a few candy bars and paying for them so they'd move on, but just as I was about to become a pain in the arse, the kid grabbed a Snickers bar out of the tray and pointed at a cola drink. Bob's your uncle; we were in business, except for the chitchat between momma and the counter clerk. He was flirting, and she was giggling, Tonya was sighing heavily, and I was shuffling me feet, and then it dawned on me, the oldster would probably catch up with us and find we were waiting our turn and take the opportunity to yak at me riding her bumper.

I looked around and didn't see her, so I mentioned it to Ton.

"She's probably still getting out of her car," she said, not believing her own words.

And she was! As we finally exited with our purchases, she was still in the car, getting herself together, and the engine was still running! I tell you.

We made it home just as the school bus pulled up, so we gave our charge a ride to the house. Once inside, the ungrateful child asked where a candy bar and a Coke-A-Cola were. He didn't want cookies. Who's idea was cookies? 

Do you know how listening to a complaining 11-year-old can make one want to crawl into a hole and hide for a few weeks? Do you know how quickly they can make a lovely day turn sour? Well, that's what I had going for me. Complain to his mother? Nah, his dad had the day off, which entitles dear old dad to be the chosen one to gripe at. But I was relieved of that when the eldest got home. Yes, he plays 'dad' to the younger ones, much to their annoyance and their mother's horror. 

Yes, he came in just as the wee one crossed his arms over his chest in a snit position. Having the courage to ask what was the matter, the wee one spilled his chargrine at the feet of the eldest, who, then changed from concerned brother into dear old dad! You haven't lived until you witness this change in O'Hare. He has worked at the Boys and Girls Club since high school and has had years of dad experience. Yes, he has. This may work on charges you don't know or are related to, but well, at home, it has the opposite effect. 

I won't go into the gory details of what happened next, but just be apprised it was a lot of yelling and screaming on the wee one's part with the eldest getting his feathers ruffled at his reasoning, which I be sure he thought was sound, sage advice. Yes, he'd used the word "spoiled," which would trigger the wee one. I knew to leave him on his own to figure it all out and not suggest anything reasonable to him unless I wanted me head handed to me, which would end with him banished to his room by his evil mom and me pouring meself a Jameson in the room furthest away from the angry laddie. If left on his own devices within an hour, he'd be right as rain, but try talking him down, nah. And, there is no stopping me eldest from his beloved role of DAD. It gets loud and long-winded when they go at each other. There is no getting a word in, so I admit to giving them the floor and leaving their mother to sort through. Which she does, being an elementary school teacher; she has all those tricks in the bag. The only problem is that she blames me for starting it. No matter how many times I remind her, she is the one who bought the cookies. Yup.

Gabe

Copyright © 2025 All rights reserved

A Day Of Snow, Dental Instruction, And Recipes Without The Correct Ingredients

09 February 2025

Story #1130

R. Linda:

The day started out calmly enough. I was sitting at the kitchen counter sipping coffee with Mam, listening to the lovely sound of O'Hare shovelling the back deck of snow. Nice that it was his young self instead of me. Previously, he complained about shovelling, accusing me of not having a proper shovel. The one I had, you have to put your back into it, and well, according to him, he has this problem where he favours one side of his body to the other, and doctor says (so he tells me) he has one hip muscle up and the other down, which causes back pain. OK. I have the beginnings of sciatica, and when I shovel, I don't come in like a broken wreck, and I am way older than he is. Anyway, he bought a $30 shovel for himself, and he was out there shovelling 18" of the white stuff so I "wouldn't have to."

Secretly, he was getting a certain satisfaction at having his very own shovel he purchased himself. But who am I kidding?

I sat there enjoying the sounds of someone else labouring instead of meself. Meanwhile, Mam's kitten, which isn't a kitten anymore and thinks it's a dog, was being a pest, begging for treats at our feet. It comes running if you call it (something my experience with cats just never happens), it rolls over like a dog, it begs on its hind feet like a dog, and I be sure it thinks it is a dog.  It loves catnip-flavoured Temptations Cat Treats. If one dares go in the kitchen, he expects a treat because Mam spoils his smug self. I was about to throw a few down to El Gato when O'Hare came in, stamping snow off his boots. 

"Oh, I see Maruu is begging for treats. Those things are sweet-tasting." He came in for the gloves he had left on the countertop and then went out.

Mam looked at me, and I looked at her. At the same time, we said, "How does he know that?"

When he came in, we asked him how he knew what the cat treats tasted like. His face reddened as he realised what he had said and now had to explain himself.

"Uhhh, I got a handful of the Valentine's heart candies. The cat heard me and came running, so I got the cat treats in the other hand. I was tired and didn't realise I threw the hearts down for the cat and popped the cat treats in my mouth. As I went up the stairs, I realised they tasted different and had a different texture. I spit the mess out and saw I had popped the cat treats in my mouth. That's how I know."

He looked sheepish. I'm sorry, but we burst into gales of laughter, and he had a sloppy smile on his face, knowing full well how outlandish that was. 

"I taught onlee yer fatha did tings like dat," Mam gawfawed. "Rememba dose banana dog treats, Gabriel?"

The smile was wiped off me face at that. Of course I did. 

"Mus run in da fambly." She said, satisfied she knew the cause of the youngin's faux pax.

Well, look at it this way: now two of us will never live down the fact that we prefer dog and cat treats to human food. 

Can you tell the difference?

The day didn't get better; it was really worse for moi. I had a dental appointment that day. I had chipped a tooth (no, it wasn't from biting into a dog treat) and wanted it fixed. Because it was the tooth next to me insisors, I felt like I looked the hillbilly. The appointment could not come soon enough. 

Because of the snowy roads, it took an hour to get to the dentist both ways when it should have been 30 minutes. I arrived in one piece (the roads were terrible) to find that the dental assistant hadn't made it in, so Doctor pulled in his hygienist to help. She hasn't assisted since the 1980s, so it was a trip. We both learned about updated dental procedures together. Doctor painstakingly explained everything he was doing and showed us both how to bond a tooth and everything that goes with that procedure. The result: tooth fixed, and two of us are a lot smarter than before. She has information she can use, and me, with information useless to me unless I decide to enter the dental profession.

Because Mam and Tonya took the kiddos to the sledding hill (a place where the town gathers to sled down hills and dales on a farm that has set aside a piece of its property for such an activity), I volunteered to make dinner. I know what a good husband I be. The kiddos enjoyed the day off, and Tonya and Mam sipped hot chocolate while watching them. Meanwhile . . . 

When I got home, I found I didn't have the ingredients for meatloaf, so I made meatballs - lots of them. I figured  I'd make a dessert because I was craving sweets; dentist visits always do that to me. I thought I had everything I needed, only to find halfway through the recipe I did not. So I switched to something else, thinking I had everything I needed again, only to find out, NOPE! So I made a disaster cake. I made my own yellow cake mix, which was reduced to using tasteless lard that masquerades as margarine. It seems the butter was used for breakfast by the O'Sullivan army of kiddos. So, God knows what my concoction would taste like. 

To top it off, I thought I had spaghetti sauce, only to find the Gober I married had bought 4 jars of pizza sauce! And I would have made my own sauce, but I don't have the f-- ing ingredients for that. I rang Tonya and told her I needed SAUCE, Spaghetti sauce! And in the background, I hear Mam saying pizza sauce is the same as spaghetti sauce, which then led to a back-and-forth argument between her and I that it wasn't and, yes, it was. To make a long stupid argy-bargy short, Tonya picked up a jar of spaghetti sauce, and all was right with Gabe. Me Mam, not so much. I was so tempted to put pizza sauce on her spaghetti, but that would only keep the excitement going. So I refrained, tempting as it was. 

Well, turns out the dessert was a keeper. Who knew? I threw all kinds of ingredients in a bowl, blended it, made a cream cheesey topping, and Bob's your uncle dessert ala Gabe. It actually was delicious. They all told me to write the recipe down, but damn, I just threw stuff in so I don't know. 

Gabe's Disater Cake - yum, yum, tasty, and who knows what's in it!

Gabe

Copyright © 2025 All rights reserved

Name Calling

11 January 2025

Story #1129

R. Linda:

Here it is, a day before me birthday (don't ask about my age; I don't want to remember). Dragon has zoomed her way up not to celebrate my day but to visit the kiddos, or so she says. I take no offence. Why would her doing anything for me be any different from any other year? Right. 

Tonya and I have found an excellent coffee shop where we buy delicious lattes, ground maple coffee (our favourite), and various maple products. We thought of it as our own place, but like the little red house in the woods where we enjoyed gourmet meals, our maple shop has become Dragon's place to go. Those were two of my favourite places, now invaded by the woman on the broomstick. 

I understand Tonya wanting to share such a wonderful place, but really? This was our place. Now, it's Dragon's place. Am I being petty? Probably, but I want one place to enjoy without the spectre of the Dragon. Is that too much to ask? 

Anyway, we (the three of us) have gone to the maple shop several times for lunch. The breakfast and lunch menus are to die for. Very simple dishes, all made with pure maple syrup, sugar, sauce, you name it. 

One of those times, I was pretty irritated at the Dragon Lady. She was on my last nerve all morning, and it was lunchtime; I was hungry and annoyed at her, and all I wanted was a hot latte and a maple burger. Tonya was no help, taking her mother monster's side, and it seemed no matter where I went in that big shop, one of them would find me and start up on something negative about me. Like: "Gabe, would you please get a handbasket and take these heavy things and help me out, huh," in reference to a "little" shopping the wife was doing. Or: "So this is where you are hiding," said Dragon, whom I'd occasionally find in the same aisle as meself. I was hiding, to be honest. I wanted to be left Dragon-free and handbasket free, just meself looking around. 

We all somehow found each other and decided to order coffee and lunch and then go shopping while waiting for our order. Only when we got to the order counter did the two women spy something and take off, leaving me to take their orders. Well, I gave the orders, and when asked for the name of the person the order was for, I said: "Missy Tonya and Lady Bertie." The name Bertie is a nickname Big Tony (Dragon's hubby) gave her; he is the only one allowed to call her that. 

In a short while, I heard over the speaker, "Order for Gabe, order for Missy Tonya, and order for Lady Bertie is ready."

I got my order while standing near the counter, then flew behind the doughnut display to watch the ladies retrieve their lunches and coffees. 

"I beg your pardon, did you say Bertie?" Dragon confronted the girl behind the counter.

"Yes, Lady Bertie. Is that you?" The unaware but amused young thing asked Ms. Dragon.

Lady Bertie, AKA Dragon, stood there as if she was chewing her cud, unable to answer. She was angry. 

Taking advantage of the silence, her daughter stepped up.

"You have an order for Tonya?" She said.

"Yes, Missy Tonya, is that you?" The young thing brightly asked.

Heaving a sigh, Tonya answered that, yes, it was she.

"Why do I feel deja vu?" Dragon asked Tonya. 

"Because we have been in this situation before, I believe. I can't remember the circumstances, but yes, similar." Tonya mumbled, looking around for yours truly.

I took meself to the little cafe and opened the box containing me juicy maple burger, French fries, and onion rings. I had just taken a sip of me honey latte when I was found. I heard about using the forbidden Bertie name, and if there is one thing the wife does not like to have, it is Missy in front of her name. I was politely humble and apologised for my warped sense of humour. Well, I did, but not really. I mouthed the appropriate sentences but meant none of it in me blackheart, until the next time. After that, I did it again, so each time I offered to order, they fell for it and then had to hear those horrid monickers announced in the store. Especially the Lady part. That got heads to turn, much to the chagrin of the Dragon. That attention alone is a wonderful birthday present for moi.

Gabe

Copyright © 2025 All rights reserved

Too Much Dexter

30 December 2024 

Story #1128

R. Linda:

It's been a holiday and then some! Indeed, my brother-in-law, Bruno, has the distinct honour of being the only person I know who has watched 83 episodes of Dexter in seven days—to this date, 87. Once he started, he lay in bed for three days and nights, watching this eight-part series back to back (Christmas Eve, Christmas, and part of the day after before going whole hog), nearly driving his lovely wife mad. 

On day seven, she came down in the morning to coffee with his family (we were all staying at his parent's house in Cape May, New Jersey, as we do every Christmas until after New Year's). As soon as the sleepy-eyed wife melted into a chair at the kitchen table, her mother-in-law (Dragon) asked, "What's the matter with you? Didn't you sleep last night?"

"No, Mom, I did not." The black circles and bags under her eyes were shocking. "That son of yours has been watching that serial killer series until 3 a.m. for the past three days non-stop, and he isn't finished yet! He's on season eight, episode three, and 83 episodes he has watched without leaving for food, bathroom breaks, nothing!"

"Oh, dear, he must be dehydrated." The Dragon muttered, looking into her steaming cup of coffee as if there were tea leaves with a bad message floating on top.

"Dehydrated? That's the least of his problems! This morning, at 4 a.m. I awoke to this dark shadow standing over the bed. I was frightened; I can tell you that much. I was struggling to sleep while YOUR SON continued watching that awful show, and here I was, suddenly awakened to this grunting, moaning shadow standing above me. Well, you know what I thought, don't ya? I thought Dexter had come to life, and I was his next victim!"

"Oh, my, oh my," Dragon muttered, horrified at her daughter-in-law. The rest of us looked into our cups, trying to act like we weren't hearing any of this.

"It turns out he's stiff from sitting in bed for three days watching that stupid show! I switched the light on, and he stood over me. I said, "What the hell, Bruno?" he said he couldn't move to his left. His neck was also stiff, and he could only look forward and not turn his head in either direction. Did I feel sorry for him? Hell no!"

"Where is he now?" Dragon asked.

"He's upstairs moaning and groaning, but it hasn't stopped him from getting back in bed and watching Season Eight!" 

"Why would he get back in bed if being in bed for three days straight put him out of whack?" Tonya ventured.

"Because he's hooked on that show. Why does he do anything?" The wife threw up her hands, clearly exasperated.

"The good news is I think that's the last of the series," Dragon said brightly, but that got her a dirty look from her put-out daughter-in-law.

"Um, no, I think a new season is coming on January 7th, Mom," Tonya said, seemingly uncomfortable about sharing that news. 

The sound of halting steps coming down the stairs caught our attention. Shuffling stiffly into the kitchen, the subject of conversation emerged. He couldn't sit down for his life; he was so stiff. His mother looked at him disapprovingly.

"Bruno? Are you yourself, or do I need to call emergency services?" Dragon asked, sarcasm dripping from her mouth. 

Bruno struggled for his phone in his back pocket. Once he had it in front of him, he clicked it on and asked his mother for the phone number of their chiropractor.

"It is the holiday. You won't reach him, but here is the number." Dragon clicked on her phone and read it off to him. He punched the number on his phone and made the call despite what she said.

The phone rang and rang, and a message came up. Bruno didn't leave one, just sighed, defeated.

"You don't listen. I told you they weren't there. It's the holiday. Someone would have called you back if you had left a message." 

"And there he is. The man who stood over me at 4 a.m. groaning AUGHHHHHHH and scaring the crap out of me. I thought he was going to murder me." His wife said, looking at him.

"I couldn't move. I was stiff from three days in bed. I didn't realise it until I got up to use the restroom and couldn't move from a standing position. I couldn't move my head, and as it is, I still can't get it to move normally without hurting."

"And, whose fault is this?" The wife snapped.

"Please get me some coffee. I am fine, " he said, addressing his mother, knowing his wife wouldn't do it.

"No, you are not fine!" Dragon said, getting up to pour him a cup. 

He took the cup from her and shuffled off for the stairs, which must have looked like a giant mountain to someone who could hardly move. 

"Where are you going?" Dragon called after him.

"To watch my show!" He yelled back, and then the sad one step at a time could be heard, accompanied by moans and groans as he ascended to the second floor. 

"Good thing we aren't on the third floor," the wife mused with a snide smile. "Take him a month of Sundays to get up those stairs, but you know he would do it. He's obsessed, and that's not healthy."

"Well," Dragon offered, "at least you know where he is."

"What does that mean?" The wife asked, astonished. 

"My husband, sons and sons-in-law are all down the street playing bocce, except for Gabriel here, who Tonya has well-trained."

I was about to say something contrary when I got an elbow from the wife not to. The three other women, one a daughter and the two daughters-in-law, twittered. Not funny to me. 

"Our neighbor's wife had a bocce court put in as her Christmas present to her husband. With you being up in your room for three days, you didn't notice the "boys" were missing. It wasn't from any doings from the wannabe Dexter upstairs; they are all down the street acting like little kids in a candy store where the candy is free!"

"Oh."

"Yes, OH," Dragon said, looking put out. 

"I would prefer Bruno was there and not upstairs. At least I'd get some sleep, and he wouldn't be impersonating a serial killer at 4 a.m."

"All I can offer is for you to go up to the third-floor bedroom where the cat is. You can sleep in that room. Just clear the cat toys off the bed. It is made up and available." Dragon sighed, shaking her head. "Watching that and so much binging of it can't be good for his psyche. He is acting like a zombie."

 "You think?" the wife asked, agreeing. "Every night, I complain, and he says, 'Just one more episode,' but it goes on because he thinks I'm asleep."

"Well, dear, go to the third floor and make yourself comfortable. I'll take care of Dexter."

To my surprise, she took her coffee cup and herself upstairs. I wondered how thrilled the cat would be to share its room. 

"So, what's the plan? Should we unplug the television? Cancel the cable?" Tonya asked her mother.

"Ummm, nooo." Dragon said, "I'm not sure, but I'll think of something."

"But if he's on season eight, he's almost done," I offered.

"Not helpful, Gabriel." Dragon spat at me.

"Why don't we," Tonya pointed to her sister and the two sisters-in-law, go to the garage and get some plastic sheeting and a few saws? Gabe can take them to Bruno's room and dump them on the floor. Ask him, uh... oh, I know, if he wants to practice his new TV skills and you'd like to watch, and ask him who's first."

"Oh, brilliant plan, Tonya," I said, hoping she wasn't serious.

That afternoon, I returned from the errand Dragon had sent me to pick up a gallon of milk and the largest bottle of ketchup I could find. When the ladies saw me leaving the car, they ran out and grabbed the ketchup, taking off laughing. The sound of their laughter told me they were up to no good, and I was right.

As I came into the kitchen, I saw the table covered in a thick sheet of plastic covered in what looked like blood and a few hacksaws laying "bloody" on top of the plastic. Scattered here and there was what looked like flesh and hair. I was appalled, but when I looked closely, I realised I was looking at chicken bones, ground beef and tufts of dog hair. I could hear the slow steps and groaning of Bruno coming down the stairs. I heard giggles under the table and stepped back into the hallway. I wanted no part in that, but I did want to see Bruno's reaction. 

It was an intense moment when he stopped in his tracks. His intake of breath was audible, and his eyes were wide. Then he started blinking like he was seeing things. His mother came up behind him and said, in an accusing tone, "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

He jumped, he did. He tried to turn around but was still too stiff. As he realised he had been had, his momentary fright turned to anger. What gave it away was the burst of laughter from under the table. 

I'd like to say that did it, and Dexter was done, but no, Bruno is a stubborn man. After shaking his fist at the ladies as they emerged from under the table and informing them, "THIS IS NOT FUNNY! Have fun cleaning that UP!"  he turned around and went back up the stairs to watch the rest of the infernal Dexter show, more determined than ever. I tell ya! 

For all I know, he's still up there. I haven't seen him at dinner, breakfast, lunch or any other time. His wife has made an appearance for meals, but for the most part, she has been sleeping with the appreciative cat to catch up with what she lost while her husband was enjoying Dexter Fest. 

Yes, these are me in-laws. They are, I am told, a typical New Jersey family. I thought the prank was excessive but said nothing. The Dexter fan sat beside his forlorn wife at the kitchen table this morning. 

"What's wrong?" Tonya asked. It was apparent that Bruno was depressed.

"It's over. I watched them all. Dexter is finished." Bruno whined.

"Yeah, until the next series starts in January. But it's one episode at a time." His wife smiled brightly. "No binge-watching."

"Yeah, well, time to practice what I learned from binge-watching," Bruno said, sneering at her. 

Yup, and Happy New Year!  

Gabe

Copyright © 2024 All rights reserved

Things That Go "Beep, Beep" In The Dark

31 October 2024

Story #1127

R. Linda:

By pumpkins fat

And witches lean

By coal black cat

With eyes of green

By all the magic

Ever seen

The ghosts will rise

On Halloween

And they did! I visited my friend, Jesse, who just bought a gigantic house. He has always lived in small homes or one-room flats. Having worked his way up, he decided to live in a large house for the first time. He could afford it; it was a lifelong dream, and why not? After many months of looking, he found what he thought would be the perfect fit. A five-bedroom, three-bath home on ten acres of woodland. He wanted to show it to me, and as a homeowner, I might give him some tips. 

I accompanied him to his new abode, an impressive palace for one person. I asked what he would do, knocking about the vast expanse on his lonesome. He said he didn't know yet. I could see he was in heaven, owning a manse. 

He had partially moved in, and I offered to help him move some furniture. At first, he declined, but then said yes, please. We worked most of the day setting things up. I thought having a woman's touch would help because we had difficulty deciding what went where. I finally suggested we call Tonya, and he said he was there for that.

When she arrived, an alarm went off that "beep beeped" in the upper hallway. 

"What is that?" I asked.

"I don't know," Jesse said, looking up toward the upper hallway.

He went up as I let Tonya in. She asked what was the matter as I looked concerned. I told her what had happened, but we didn't know the sound. Well, there is an alarm system that, when someone drives down Jesse's very long driveway, a sensor picks up the motion, and the alarm sounds in the house. He seemed amused but thought it was good, "You know, deliveries and all."

A half-hour later, Tonya had everything in place. Wow, things went fast. She knew what went where and directed us like a general. We had one room left. It was 6:30, and Tonya offered to pick up takeout. When she drove off, the alarm went off. 

"Well, it works," Jesse said, getting plates out.

At 6:49, the alarm went off. Not once, but four times in a row. Jesse looked at me, and I looked at him. It was too soon for Tonya to be back, and this sounded like more than one car. He looked out and saw no one. It was twilight and getting dark, so it was hard to see. He shrugged. 

At 7:30, the beeper went off again several times. We looked out. But it was dark now. Jesse got a flashlight, and we both searched for the beeper. We found it halfway down the driveway. A tiny red light gave it away. One wouldn't notice it because it was so small. He flashed his torch at the woods, but nothing was on either side of the driveway. We walked quietly, and you could hear snaps of branches and falling acorns, but nothing could we see. It was eerie, and it was Halloween night. We went back to the house. 

The sensor

A few minutes later, the beeper went off, but only once, and we could see headlamps coming down the driveway; it was Tonya. 

We told her what had happened while she was gone, and she suggested the sensor's battery might be low. Yet, as Jesse pointed out, it worked when Tonya drove in and out, so why would it malfunction?

We left an hour later, and I told Jesse to call if anything went crosswise. And he did. At about 10:00, I received a text that the beeper had gone off at 9:30 on the dot. He walked outside with his torch but saw nothing. It unnerved him, but he was ok. 

Well, I rang him the next day, and he was fine. He said the beeper went off again several times, and he did not sleep well, though the doors and windows were locked. This went on for a straight week. He had ideas that it was the wind, that it was falling leaves, and that it was an animal, maybe. 

He asked me to come over for an evening and see for myself because he was out of ideas about what was happening. He had put in a new battery and set up a trail camera. It had been set up for two days, and we went and retrieved it. When we looked at the card, there was nothing on it. Notta. All we saw in the photos was the sensor light.

Notice the light at the lower part of the sapling; that's the alert, and the trail camera did not capture anything. 

At 6:49, the beeper went off several times. There was nothing out there. At 7:30 sharp, the beeper sounded again. At 9:30, it went off once more. We stood outside with torches, his and mine. We walked the length of the driveway, and neither of us saw anything. 

It seemed odd that the beeper alerted at the same time every day, and nothing around us could set it off.

A week later, the strangeness stopped dead. The only time the system alerted was when someone real drove down the driveway. 

Then, suddenly, it started again. This sent Jesse to the Town Hall, where he found out a man had died on the property from suicide at this precise time of year. He had hung himself in the woods, not far from the sensor.

Jesse hasn't been able to get much info on the man. The man had his "viewing" in the house. The only information Jesse had was that the man had had a fight with his wife and had committed suicide in the woods.  

Once again, the sensor going off at nothing has stopped. Jesse shared his weird experience with a co-worker who suggested that Jesse purchase a cheap infrared camera and put it out. The trail camera picks up movement but won't show ghostly images like infrared ones. Jesse is tempted, but thinking he might see a ghost freaks him out. 

This is a classic example: Be careful what you wish for. In this case, a big home with lots of ghosts.

Stay tuned.

Postscript: 6:49 the estimated time of suicide, 7:30 discovery of the body, 9:30 body taken away. Spooky, huh?

Gabe

Copyright © 2024 All rights reserved

It's That Time Again

 07, September 2024

Story #1125

R. Linda:

Everything in bucolic New Hampshire has been as it should be before Leaf Peeper Season. The place is lush with verdure, and the trees have a hint of colour. The natives are enjoying the peace of summer's end, but hark! The rattle of political signs has begun to be heard as these posters on wire prongs are pushed into the ground overnight, and the natives awaken to the blight of the highway, political signs! Why can't we enjoy summer's end? Why must we be subject to the red, white, blue and sometimes green signs that seemingly pop up overnight on our road corners like weeds? I ask ya! I know, you'll tell me it's New Hampshire's insistence to be the First in the Nation bullshit and all that, and we have brought this upon ourselves, well maybe. I'll tell you that digging in heels to be first brings these ugly consequences. 

We even have cartoon characters running; see here:

And it's GREEN! Okay, it's spelt differently, but you get the drift

I have complained about this every year, and the signage gets worse every year. There is always more of it, and the worst of it is the sign carriers. Yes, R. Linda, the people who risk life and limb to stand on New Hampshire speedways—I mean highways—where pickup trucks speed by at 100 mph, and somehow, these minions of the political sign blight don't get run over.

I overheard a conversation by one such sign carrier that she was standing on the lip of a concrete curb where vehicles make u-turns. She was tempted to put her toe in the road to see what it felt like to be run over. I was like, WHAT? I find out she's not from here; she's from Massachusetts, and THAT, my dear R. Linda, says a lot. All I could think of was the tedious hours of standing in the hot sun or drenching rain and being mindless.

However, one cowboy in our town has taken this a step further. Yes, this guy decided if we would pollute our lovely scenery with signs, he'd put one in, too. I thought it was genius. Look here:

Yee-ah, one guy with a sense of humour that I can appreciate

Here, take a closer look:

Yup, home-grown non-pol

If you can't beat them, join them! 

Gabe

Copyright © 2024 All rights reserved

UK News vs. Important News

 24 August 2024

Story #1124

R. Linda:

After listening to the Dragon read today's headlines, me correcting her, and the wife getting annoyed that the headlines were what they were (no substance, just a lot of fluff), I thought about it and was inspired to share my frustration with you because I know how much you like shared angst. 

In the past few years, news reporting has lost its unbiased nature and become rather snarky. But nothing beats the UK press, which tends to focus on celebrities instead of what is happening worldwide. Perhaps that is better than worrying if WW3 is around the corner. I, for one, want to know if it is. I don't care if Ed Westwick is married. I don't know the dude and wasn't invited to the wedding. I opened one online UK news source and got the headline story on the Princess of Wales attending church. She's a better "Catholic" than I am; forgive the slur, but then a few hours later, the same story was reworked. For your perusal, here it is:

"Kate Middleton, 42 (in case you forgot her age), appeared in high spirits as she was pictured arriving for Sunday service with her husband, William.

"Also snapped making their way to the Scottish church were King Charles and Queen Camilla, the Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh -- along with their son, and Tim Lawrence. 

"The Princess sported (Yes, sports fans, she sported, not wore, but sported) the same hat she donned last year for a Sunday church service (Oh, the nerve of her to wear that hat twice!)      when she donned a beige tartan Marlborough trench coat from Holland Cooper with a dark brown wool felt fedora with feathers." (I am racking my brains out trying to remember the ensemble, but the good news is that she matched the browns wonderfully, I am sure. However, later, they revamped this paragraph to inform us she was wearing that ensemble today, so which was it? An old reworm outfit or something new?). 

Do we care what she wore a while back? Can we remember all that? Most curiously, is it that important we do? But wait, there is more:

"The stylish hat, from Hicks & Brown, retailed for  £99 and comes in a variety of other colours such as camel, dusky pink and maroon."

I'm so glad the hat is still stylish after a year, but what if it was not? Why must we know where she bought these items and how much they cost? This sounded to me more like a commercial for Hicks & Brown when we actually have the colours the hat comes in a list! Are we all likely to run out and buy one? I think not. Unless we all look as good as Princess Kate in a feathered brown fedora, why bother? And indeed, yours truly would look quite ridiculous in these things.

But this paragraph was rearranged later to read:

"The hat is a favourite of the mother-of-three, who previously wore it almost a year ago to the day  -- at Crathie Kirk with her family."

So, why the correction? So, she wore it a year ago to the same place. What is the secret message in her appearance in the same outfit?  But wait, you males in the audience, here is something for you and me!

"William drove the car, smiling as he chatted with his wife and opting for a navy blue suit for the occasion. 

I'm so glad William can drive a car and chat at the same time. Gees! But the fact that Kate was wearing brown and he was wearing blue, well, . . . that clashes, doesn't it? According to my wife's mother, you never pair the two together unless you wear a bright blue suit with bright brown leathers. Let THAT sink in, why don't you?

"Meanwhile, Charles, 75, and Camilla, 76, made a colourful appearance in Scottish tartan ensembles."

I am so glad to be reminded of the monarchs' ages. I might have forgotten they are older than me, and it is nice to be reminded. I am sure they both appreciate that.

"The Queen opted for a bright green blazer, adorned with red collar detailing and buttons, teamed with a matching hat."

So, we have blue, brown, and now green—the sky, the earth, and . . . Christmas! I was reassured to read that buttons were adorning the blazer, but the red detailing gave me pause; it seems a bit Christmasy, does it not?

"Her husband made a dapper style statement in a kilt, worn with a muted grey jacket."

Ah, now we are talking. He was styling, too! Who knew? I be sure the Scots appreciated that. The "muted grey" of the jacket made him blend in perfectly with all those bright colours. No one would really notice him over the others. 

"Edward and his wife Sophie both appeared to go for chic beige ensembles, perfect for the end of the summer weather."

I can't help snickering up me sleeve at this. Taking a nod at Megan Markle with the beige blending, are we? I wouldn't worry about taking notice away from the grey-clad king for apparent reasons. But "chic"? I dunno about that. How "chic" can one be in beige?

Then, the article went on to talk about Kate's recovery, etc. It was a fluff article, but it was the headline article, and that's what has me. Meanwhile, in the world, Hezbollah and Israel are bombing the hell out of each other, and the situation there is more dire than usual. Do we care that Oasis is set for a £50 million payday amid Noel's £20 million divorce? When thousands are without power as Hurricane Hone continues to pound Hawaii? Do we really need to know what the celebs are doing as the world goes to ruin?

Gabe

Copyright © 2024. All rights reserved

Why Is The Cat Climbing The Walls?

28 July 2024

Story #1123

R. Linda:

What do you do with a wired cat? I mean, a cat that drinks espresso coffee? I noticed strange behaviour yesterday on the cat's part and didn't overthink it because the strangeness was gone by the afternoon. However, it happened again this morning, and I couldn't help but notice. Mam's cat, barely out of kittenhood, is a personality in the house. He jumps at the dog, cat-dances around all arched-backed, then dashes at the dog's legs and runs off. The dog is sweet-tempered and would not dream of hurting the cat. I don't know how he contains that sweet temper because if it were me, I'd be snapping and chasing that cat all over the house. But I digress, and that is not the problem.

When I had Mr. Kits, he had a thing for catnip. That boy would indulge in the stuff anytime and anyplace. If we didn't give him his fix, he'd get it off the shelf and work on it until he had it dumped all over the floor. He'd be zonked for days (see Zoned, Zonked, Out Of It, OR Mr. Kits Has A Hell Of A Night! 14 April 2012). 

This guy, Mr. Indy Jones, whips up on the dog and the people in the house. He uses his tail to whip you with it until you look down and see him looking up at you, waiting for cat treats. Yes, he's a cat-treat junkie. Forget the catnip; he likes it, but those Temptation chicken-flavoured cat treats are the cat's meow, excuse the pun. Well-named, yes, he is. He also thinks he is a dog. He stands on his hind legs to beg for treats, wags his tail when he sees you and rolls on his back so you'll rub his belly. Do you need me to go on? He's a character, he is. If you rub a cat's belly, you will have tooth and claw stuck in your hand, but not Mr. Jones! He rolls around like a dog, and it is all for treats!

But besides that usual behaviour, he started rubbing up against the walls, making little mewing noises to get you to notice him, and if you lean down to pet him, he rolls around on the floor like, "Look at cutey pie me! Now give me a treat!" And if that does nothing, he whips you with his tail, and as soon as you lean down, he's off and running around the room, up the furniture, over the table, down the other side and back again. Made me dizzy just watching him.

I had just taken the last coffee and was in the kitchen where the treats live. I offered a treat, and he smelled it, turned up his nose and looked at me like, "Nope, that's not what I want." Then he zoomed off like he remembered he should be someplace else. I couldn't figure out what he wanted, and in a few moments, he was back. He started cuffing my shins. When that didn't work, he got his tail to whip me in the shins and ankles. When that didn't work, he attacked my ankles with teeth and claws. Not hard, but enough to get me attention, which he already had. I left him for my office and closed the door. He sat outside the glass door, staring at me as I sipped me coffee until he finally gave up and went away. That left me thinking he was deranged, and we were just finding this out.

Just an hour ago, I decided to speak to Mam about this. I went into the kitchen, and she was chatting with Tonya, who was brewing them both macchiatos (yes, Mam got a Nespresso machine, and now you know who I take after). I asked for one too because I am a coffee hound, as you know. Anyway, the cat was under Tonya's feet meowing (I thought for treats), and Ton was having a time sidestepping so as not to step on Mr. Indy. 

She made one coffee and was making another when Mam had taken hers and put it on the hassock in the TV room to cool off a little. Look at this freshly made beauty.

Mam's Macchiato

As we were all at the kitchen counter awaiting the rest of the macchiatos, I noticed that the cat noise had dropped off, and the cat was gone. It took a wee bit to make two more macchiatos, but it was well worth it. Tonya and I adjourned to the TV room to find this with its head in the glass.

It WAS a full cup

 "Ye noe I haf been wonderin' why I seem to haf a cup the size of an espresso. I could swear I had a full cuppa when I poot it doon, an' when I coom back fer it to be cooled, I haf jus' a wee bit."

"Now you know," I said. And Mr. Jones? He just looked at us like he wanted us to leave so he could finish Mam's macchiato.

Doesn't he look insulted? Or, more like he's saying WHAT?

We know why he gets so energised now. He likes the frothy milk and the coffee mixed in with it, too! So now we froth extra milk for him. I know he shouldn't have it, so it be a treat on occasion. I hope he can live with that because Mam wants her full cuppa.

Gabe

Copyright © 2024 All rights reserved

Ducks, Ducks, And More Ducks!

13 July 2024

Story #1122

R. Linda:

We took a holiday in Chatham, Massachusetts, on Cape Cod. As we all had a wonderful time, we did some shopping. Of course, we did. Tonya and Mam never go anywhere; they don't go souvenir shopping. Or is the correct term hunting? 

The shops are all quaint and artsy, but one in particular caught my eye and would have yours as well. It's a shop filled with . . . are you ready? RUBBER DUCKS!

I saw the sign as we were walking towards it.

Sign outside

What could this be? I looked in the window, and sure enough, DUCKS!

Will you look at this!

The window ducks drew us in. There were rows and rows upon rows of rubber ducks! From the front of the store to the back. Every conceivable kind of rubber ducky you could imagine. Look here:

Look at this! Have you ever seen so many besides your own collection?

The kiddos went wild! They wanted one of each, and I tell you, we had a time talking them down to three each. 

The eldest bought Chewy, Duck Vader, and a pirate duck that is not pictured.

The middle child bought Gory Horror Ducks; yes, he did, 3 of them.

The wee one bought Rock N' Roll ducks and one Deliveryman duck - don't ask.

And not to be outdone, Mam bought herself one of these Spidey ducks.

She's a big kid, she is, never will grow up, much like yourself.

I went home duckless and penniless after that excursion into the bizarre. But the kiddos had fun. Every time they saw another duck, they'd laugh and get excited, pointing at this one and that one. It turned out for them, at least, to be the highlight of their holiday. Forget the lovely beach, the dinners out with all that fabulous seafood, the miniature golf and pickleball; It was the duck store that was the highlight of their trip to the Cape. 

If you were with us, you'd still be inside that store. Heck, you'd probably buy the entire shop!

Gabe

Copyright © 2024 All rights reserved

I Literally Jumped Out Of Me 4th of July Chair

05 July 2024

Story #1121

R. Linda:

I was alone in the living room, the telly on and Ken Burn's Civil War playing. I watched for a bit, but the food made me sleepy, so I switched it off to get some kip. I nestled (yes, nestled) in the big comfy armchair, quietly letting a lovely 4th of July dinner digest, eyes heavy with wanting to doze. It was only the dog and me; everyone else went upstairs to play Fortnite. As I drifted into sleep, an explosion of cannon fire suddenly set me right out of my chair to a standing position, blinking in the dim light of the room, looking to duck for cover. The dog's claws scraped on the wood floor as he zoomed out of the room and up the stairs to safety. I glanced at the dark telly to ensure I hadn't shut it off, and it was the programme.

I turned around to the window behind the chair and jumped. I saw sparks and flashing lights and heard metal fragments hitting the tree leaves as they whizzed to the ground. In my digestive daze, my first impression was that the generator had blown up. It was then that I realised it was fireworks. The idiots next door had an arsenal and picked me dozy time to set them off. 

Yup, the view from the window behind the chair. I thought all hell had broken loose

Why not just come over and set them off under me chair for a better reaction?

To be sure my generator hadn't blown up, I ran out and saw it wasn't, but the people next door were setting off a massive amount of fireworks. They usually do this yearly, but I could hear no party sounds this year and assumed there would be no free fireworks show. But, alas, I was wrong. Usually, they post a notice that they are about to set off explosives, and if you have farm animals, beware, it will be a chaotic, noisy, loud night in the barn. 

I could hear the pellets hitting the leaves on the trees and thought the explosives were closer to my property than usual. Well, it all died down; it did. Thinking it was over, I went inside to settle down once again, and it was a good ten minutes before I started to nod off when it happened again. I tell ya!

Not once, but a continuous booming out my window

Yup, it nearly blew me out of the chair. I gave up all hope of sleepy land and went upstairs to find the dog cowering under the bed, but the cat, now that creature, knows no fear. It was sitting in the window with a backdrop of bursting fireworks, looking for all intents and purposes like it was a regular occurrence. It washed its paws like no big deal and stole a look at me to see if I was taking this no fear in. I was. I tried to coax the dog from underneath the bed, but he wasn't having it and didn't seem to care if he looked like a coward to the cat. I decided that once the war outside was over, I'd go to bed. Only as soon as the fireworks concluded, the guns came out. Yes, they have AK47s or whatever those things are called. I could hear them firing rat-a-tat-tat in a continuous stream, and once THAT stopped, they whooped and yelled and did it again. WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? 

I'll tell ya who they are; they are the Southerners from across the border in Massachusetts; that's who they are! They are a wild and crazy bunch of homesteaders with funny accents. If you think mine is nuts, you should hear them. They spout things like "Mah wife is wicked smaaht," and "Ask ya muthah, and pass the chowdah," "Give me moah fah puttn' up wit ya." and crazy talk like that. Some years ago, the Democrats in Massachusetts noticed the Republican population in New Hampshire was rather significant, so they decided to move up to balance out the scales. Lucky me has them next door.

I've had dreams all night of being in the line of fire somewhere in Virginia. I was in the blue uniform of the Federal Government, being fired on by a line of grey-clad whooping rebels from Old Dominion or maybe the invasive Army of Neighbours from Massachusetts! The pellets from the shells whizzed like pounding rain around yours truly. The woods lit up like cannon fire was aimed at me sorry self. It was strange that I'd find meself dressed as an American Civil War soldier when I had no actual knowledge of U.S. history. But all night long, I was trying to find my way through thick, soggy woods to the Appomattox River, and General Sheridan was after me with his sword unsheathed, telling me to get back in line. Right-ho General! And then I woke up just as his black horse came rearing at me, his sword raised, his black eyes ablaze, the explosions mirrored in those eyes, his sword pressing into my chest when suddenly I was back in the here and now. All was quiet on the home front.

My heart was pounding; it was. All was silence around me. I think it was a combination of what I ate, the fireworks scaring the bejesus out of me and the dog, and seeing a smidgen of Ken Burns's Civil War on PBS. But then I saw why my chest seemed heavy: the fearless cat was curled up in a ball on top of me, its eyes glowing with mirth as it raised its head and stared at me as if to say, "Get over yourself, I've got ya, ya big baby."

Gabe

Copyright © 2024 All rights reserved

Slingshot Wizards And Me Da Was One Of Them

26 June 2024

1120

R. Linda:

Maybe you heard that in California, an 81-year-old man was arrested for victimising his neighbours with a slingshot! Seems certain neighbours had their windows smashed by ball bearings that would come whizzing through their homes, and some, their car windscreens and even missiles aimed at themselves. Yikers! This went on for a good decade it did. 

The old man became known as the "serial slingshot shooter" of Azusa, California! Seems the police were called to take care of a "quality of life issue" that had garnered complaints from residents of North Enid Ave. that someone with a slingshot was wreaking havoc on them and their property, and they wanted it stopped. 

The suspected "serial slingshot shooter" was named as one Prince King. With a name like that, no wonder he might be confused and battling royal demons or something just as bizarre . . . like ball bearings. Anyway, a search warrant was issued and found inside the culprit's home were ball bearings and an incriminating SLINGSHOT.

Lt. Jake Bushey of the Azusa Police Department said they had been investigating this nuisance disturbance from the get-go but just found the miscreant recently. Bushey wasn't sure how they found Prince King, but maybe it was the number of ball bearings that came from the direction of Mr. King's backyard. I wonder if the dropped ball bearings scattered about the backyard gave them a clue.

No one knows why Mr. King slingshotted his neighbours but chalked it up to "malicious mischief." Bushy stated the shots weren't random and that he did not know why certain people and homes were targeted. To add insult to injury, the Azusa Police Department's FaceBook page had plenty of commenters complaining they, too, had their windscreens shot out. However, they weren't sure Mr. King was the person who "done it."

Mr. King has a date with the court, as you can imagine. 

All this had me remembering my dear sainted Da and HIS penchant for his slingshot that he named "Molly-Girl." A rather lethal weapon it was, too. Constructed of heavy oak wood, with a thick rubber band about an inch and a half wide, with a leather piece in the centre threaded through the elastic that held a marble really well. When fired, the thing was dangerous . . . and accurate. And, just know he was a marksman firing that thing. Didn't miss, not once that I know of.

Where he had got this weapon for making holes in heads, arms, torsos, legs, etc., I do not know. What happened to "Molly-Girl" I also do not know. I remember her well, though. When we lived with me Grandparents for a short time in Southern Ireland, me Gran had a cherry tree of which she was very proud. This tree gave off the sweetest dark cherries one could have tasted. We looked forward to the fruit every summer, we did. 

She'd hire local men to climb this massive tree and gather cherries in brown paper bags. She'd give them an agreed quantity for the picking, so no monies were exchanged, just fruit. This tree was huge and it was tall, so risking lives for cherries was what these men did. But the fruit was worth it.

Of course, from the road, you could see this heavily laden tree. And, of course, when the pickers took the fruit of their labour home, and others tasted the sweetness, well, many others coveted those cherries.

It wasn't unusual to hear a rustling in the tree at night that signalled Grandma's tree was being pilfered. For some reason, instead of chasing the poachers away, Da would go up to the attic and out the window onto the roof, where he had a good view of the tree below. There, he would sit with his dear "Molly-Girl" and a bag of marbles. 

My bedroom was on the tree side of the house, and I can remember being awakened in the dead of night to shouts and screams and sometimes breaking branches as poachers fell out of that great tree with loud thuds. You'd think these cherry thieves would learn after one such foray, but no, for at least six years, they came and tried every summer harvest, and like clockwork, Molly-Girl appeared to do her combat work. 

Me Mam was never a fan of this behaviour on me Da's part. Me Gran was all about saving that fruit and not happy anyone without her permission would pillage and plunder that tree of hers. I often wonder if that tree is still there. I wonder what happened to that infamous slingshot and what possessed my father to hunt cherry thieves and not call the local constabulary. Knowing him as I did, I think the thrill consumed him. As probably did Prince King. Only me, Da, thought he was protecting our property, and the other guy . . . 

Gabe

Copyright © 2024 All rights reserved