Lighthearted stories about everyday things
Dear Readers,
This site will be inactive for a few weeks, but we will return soon with lighthearted stories on faith, friends and the general oddities of the human experience.
We wish you all the best as you begin this new year and return to work, to school and to life in the next week weeks.
Thank you,
Words For The Weary Team
A crowd of African women gathered around my wife as she breastfed our daughter. They giggled. Then one of them reached out and poked my wife in the boob.
We were deep in the African bush. Our Ugandan landlord had invited us to accompany him to his home village. We drove with him in our Jeep for an hour north of the city, then for another hour on a dirt track. We were not in Kansas anymore.
The entire village, perhaps 100 people, gathered to meet us. Our landlord was a big deal. He had “made it” in the city, and he supported most of the children in the village to attend school. He was greeted as a dignitary and we as his honored guests. Without doubt we were the first white people many of the villagers had ever seen.
The village itself consisted of a brick walled school with tin roof, a small church, and a few other mud and brick buildings. Hut were scattered amidst banana and palm trees. Chickens, dogs, and goats roamed freely. The hills around the village were terraced and planted. The air was filled with the sweet smell of wood fires with an occasional taint of livestock and sewage.
Our landlord went to conduct his business. My wife needed to feed our infant daughter, and so retired to the relative privacy of our Jeep. Or so she thought. Soon the women of the village followed her there. They clustered around within inches of my wife, smiling and shy, as she began to breastfeed. That’s when the boob-poking incident took place. The ice was broken. Despite the vast chasm between them, they united in gales of laughter. As she returned from the Jeep, the women took turns carrying our daughter and holding my wife’s hand.
Meanwhile, I was conscripted by the local boys to play soccer (football). The ball was made of banana leaves and twine. I was goalkeeper, following the time honored tradition of putting the fat kid in net. Also, there was no way I could keep up with these boys. They had been playing barefoot soccer since the day they could walk. They moved with the speed of gazelles across the uneven ground. Soon one boy was bearing down on me. He let fly with a strong kick. I reached out to catch the ball.
It turns out that beneath a banana leaf exterior the core of the ball included some mud and cattle dung to give the ball weight. The ball splattered into my hands, spraying dung and mud on to my shirt. Everyone, myself included, erupted into laughter. Another moment of unity in this village from a different world.
Our landlord concluded his business. We said farewell. As we made for the Jeep our landlord explained that the village wanted to slaughter a goat for him (and by extension us) as a gift. This was a great honor and very a big deal. A slaughtered goat was worth half a year’s salary. We knew we could not refuse.
What we did not expect was to find a goat, still very much alive, already lashed to the roof rack of our Jeep. And not at all happy to be up there. …. What happened next will feature in next week’s post: The Goat.
Years ago, my parents had an evening out with two of my dad’s colleagues. It ended in such disaster that the two couples have not really spoken since. I am not sure I blame them.
Both of my parents are warm and open. They love life and people and do not take themselves seriously. At the time, my father was a young professor. He still embodies many characteristics typical of that field: curiosity, impracticality, and woeful time management. My mother is his soul mate in these respects. By contrast, the other couple – both also young professors – takes life, themselves, and their role in academia very seriously. They are fastidiously punctual. They are precise. They are serious. The two couples planned to see an evening production of Shakespeare’s Richard III.
Earlier that day, my sister and I were in the back of the car as my parent’s ran errands. We were quite young. It was hot. One of us (I blame my sister) got sick in the car. My parents, late as usual, raced home. While dad settled details with the babysitter, mom did a hasty cleanup of the back of the car.
My parents then raced over to pick up the other couple, who were impatiently waiting by the curb. They got in the back seat. They went to buckle up. That’s when everyone discovered that the seatbelts, which had been retracted at the time of mom’s hasty car clean, were still covered in vomit. There were profuse apologies. The couple dashed into their home to change their soiled clothes. Mom did a second round of cleaning. There was still just enough time to make it to the play.
The car zoomed off to the theatre, a 30 minute drive away through the country. They had gone halfway there when dad discovered that he had left the tickets at home. So they turned around and roared back to town, got the tickets, and took off again. It was now certain they would be late for the concert. The other couple sat in the back of the car, expressionless.
To save time dad tried “taking the backroads”. This is code for getting lost and driving around blindly in the country. Apparently this is about the time when conversation in the car really “got frosty”. Even dad’s joke that at least they would get there in time to see Richard II went over like a lead balloon.
Finally they arrived. They had indeed missed the first of three acts. In addition, the theatre, assuming they were no-shows, had given away their seats for a sold-out performance.
After some negotiation, the theatre allowed them in to see the next two acts. Since there were no longer any seats, both couples were obliged to sit on steps in the aisle.
They drove home in silence following the performance. A thick fog covered the countryside and they again got lost. Then the fuel light went on in the car. Tensions rose to breaking point.
Thankfully, they managed to coast into town on the last fumes of fuel remaining in the car. The couple got out at their curb without saying a word. My parents limped away, then convulsed in laughter. They have not stopped laughing over that evening for 40 years.
This story is dedicated to mom and dad, with bottomless thanks for your gifts of love, laughter, and for not taking yourselves seriously.
[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]
This particular elementary school concert was the musical equivalent of waterboarding.
The concert, to celebrate Black History Month, was preceded by “Food Fiesta” in the cafeteria. Much of the school was Latino. So “Food Fiesta” was basically code for burritos. They were excellent. Everyone ate way too many. Then we waddled down to the gym like bloated cows on clover to partake in the musical extravaganza.
The teacher in charge of the evening worked the mic like a drunk relative at a wedding who won’t take a hint. Not that I have any experience in that area.
At one point he introduced three 6th graders of modest musical talent. They were to play Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” on their poorly-tuned violins. He then announced they would play the song as a round, noting “those of you who are musically trained may detect that this song was not actually written as a round”. He was right. It sounded like multiple cat claws being dragged across a chalk board for a tortuous eternity. The proud parents swooned and took video.
Interspersed with the music were stirring readings from African American luminaries such as Doctor Martin Luther King, Langston Hughes, and Frederick Douglas. Regrettably, the microphone stand was set at “drunk relative” height, which was far too tall for the children doing the readings. As a result, we could only hear a small percentage of what they actually said. During one such reading of the famous “I have a Dream” speech by Dr. King, our 5 year old leaned over and asked in a rather loud voice, “Daddy, did that boy just say that he’s been to the muffin top?”
When it finally ended we stampeded back to the cafeteria to mop up the leftover burritos.
[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]