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The Dinner Cruise

We were adrift on a hippo-infested lake at sundown, helplessly floating towards the Congo.

Our years in Africa were drawing to a close and we were on our final safari. My wife, daughter, mother-in-law and I had treated ourselves to a dinner cruise on the lake. The boat was a small  pontoon with an outboard motor. The table was set in the middle of the pontoon, with the “kitchen” off to the side. There was a canister of cooking gas and a little camp stove and a cooler full of beverages.

As we approached the dock, all of my radar went off. Years of dealing with logistical challenges in Africa had conditioned me to spot things that were likely not to work. The scene before me included many warning signs.

There were no life jackets, no paddles, and no lights on the boat. We stepped aboard and I said quietly to my wife “They need to start the motor before we cast off”. This did not happen. Instead we cast off. A very pleasant African waiter served us soup and uncorked a bottle of wine while we drifted ever further from shore. Only then did he try to start the motor.

Nothing. He tried and tried. Nothing. At this point it was pretty clear that we were moving far away from shore with no way to get back in. We could hear the nighttime animal life, including the swishing and grunting of hippos, in the water around us.

When it became clear that we were adrift with no real options, the pleasant African waiter did an amazing thing. He stripped down to his underwear. Ignoring our pleas not to, he then dove overboard into the water. He clenched the boat rope in his teeth and began to swim through the hippo-infested water back to shore.

The guests and staff at the lodge came out to cheer this fellow on. But nobody came down to the water to help him. We landed without incident and were escorted up to the lodge restaurant and seated at a table. It was all as if nothing had happened. We felt confused, bewildered, colonial.

Moments later a waiter arrived at our table. It was the very same fellow who had just swum us back to shore. He had thrown his clothes back on, still wet. His hair was dripping on his shoes. He smiled and, as if nothing at all had happened, simply asked “And what may I get you for drinks to begin your evening?”

[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.]

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Summer Victory

I coached a little league baseball team that was Bad News Bears bad. But we won a classic victory over the forces of evil during the final game of the summer season.

I really did have a special team. Kids who had no running shoes. Kids who had never once before worn a baseball glove. Brothers with physical and mental challenges, plus my son and a couple of other regular kids. Our team had not won a game all season. I would say to the other coaches before each game, “I am teaching these guys the very basics, so would you be OK if we keep it all slow and simple?”

Every other coach in the league had responded to this request as you would expect. They happily worked around us. Not this coach. His team had not lost a game all season and this was the end of their year. “OK.” He grunted resentfully. “But if you guys start to win we’re gonna steal bases. It’s the league rules and we’re going to abide by them.” Yay! Little league spirit!

One of my special needs kids always played first base, a position that does not demand a lot of running.  I coached him: foot on base, turn to the field, raise glove, catch ball. Each time he would go through this mental checklist. Except he never got past “foot on base”. By the time he got that far he usually had gotten a ball in the face. He never used his glove. He was Ball-in-Face. And he insisted on playing first.

So the game began. And my boys just rained baseball. They were slugging the ball, fielding well. Ball-in-Face was making out after painful out. It was magic to see the delight on the faces of the boys. The other team came up to bat. Their first hit and they stole a base. My boys went crazy. So I called time out and explained how it worked. I told them not to worry about it. Lets just get the outs and have fun.

The next time we got up to bat, up to plate walks Ball-in-Face. He was our worst hitter and he ran like Forest Gump in leg braces. In came the pitch. He hit a little dribble up the third base line.

After admiring his little hit for a moment, he remembered to run and began to lumber towards first. He would never beat the throw. But the other team was so surprised he had hit the ball that they were late with the throw, which sailed over the first baseman’s head. Ball-in-Face thundered around first and headed to second. I screamed at him not to do so. He was s sitting duck out there.  But the same thing happened at every base:  the other team would overthrow, coaches would yell for him to stop, Ball-in-Face would keep running. And damned if he didn’t score.

Every parent and every team mate leapt from the stands to meet him as he crossed home. This was the first time he had ever scored, perhaps in any game, in any sport, anywhere. I also knew it would be his last: he was already playing down two years because of his disabilities. The league would not let him play again next year. But he had gotten his run!

As we regained our composure I did a quick mental consolidation. “Ump”, I said. “Can I confirm that we are past minimum time, both teams have had equal at bats, I am the home team, and that I have the right to call the game if I want, correct?”

“Correct.” Said the Ump.

“Then may I ask you please: what is the score?” He checked. We were up by one run. I called the game.

Pandemonium. In that moment my team of beautiful losers had won the Superbowl, the Stanley Cup, The World Cup, and every other combined cup, all at the same time. They were leaping, hugging, screaming.

The other coach stormed over to where I was thanking the ump for the game. “You can’t do that!”, he said. “There’s plenty of time to play ball and my guys want more at bats”.  I looked at him and said, “It’s the league rules and we’re going to abide by them”. Victory complete.

[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 story is dedicated to our hosts from Arkansas, the best baseball family we know.

 

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Clark Kent

“Yep, that woman was tied to the bed without a stitch of clothing on. And the feller was unconscious on the floor, dressed up in a Superman suit. Damndest thing.”

Bob made this pronouncement in the lunch room of the university where I had a summer job cutting grass. Bob was my boss and a legend among the summer workers. The other full time employees were rude and insecure. Bob was humble and at peace with himself. The other men were vulgar; Bob was a gentleman. The other men never bothered to know your name; Bob made a point to know everyone.

He was also a legend because of his many quirks. He always clenched a pipe in his teeth, but he never smoked it. He hummed a distinctive three bar tune that he had made up. It went: hiiiiiii, hiiiiiii, hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii… It was in a minor chord and totally infectious. Most of us hummed that tune by summer’s end. And Bob only mowed grass in top gear. As he approached a tree at warp speed, his eyes would widen like headlights. Clamping down on the pipe, he would screech into a corner with the mower, barely avoiding catastrophe.

Bob had simple interests. He had been cutting grass at the university for 40 years. We took him for milkshakes on his birthday and you would have thought he won the lottery. He was devoted to his mother and to his childhood best friend, Nelson, who still lived on his street. He spent his evenings with Nelson on the front porch, eating Hostess cupcakes.

It was precisely from this location one evening that Bob and Nelson heard a woman screaming for help from somewhere on their street. They got up to investigate. When they located the house from which the screams were coming, it was locked. Bob got a ladder and he and Nelson went up through an upstairs window. They entered the bedroom and there was indeed a naked woman tied to a bed and an unconscious man in a superman suit.

Nelson covered the woman with a blanket and went about loosening her bindings. Bob called an ambulance. Apparently, as Clark Kent had leapt from the dresser to rescue Lois Lane he had misjudged the ceiling height and knocked himself out cold.

Bob finished his story. No embellishment. No sense of irony. The entire lunch room sat in silent awe. “Yup” said Bob, “Damndest thing. Well let’s get to ‘er”. He stood up, ground the pipe into his mouth, and headed out to his riding mower humming hiiiiiii, hiiiiiii, hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii…

[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.]

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The Catastrophe

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.]

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The Wedding

My most memorable wedding experience (other than my own) included the following epic ingredients: a beautiful lakeside terrace battered by gale force winds; the groom’s hippy friends smoking pre-nuptial weed in the corner;  a cultural disconnect between the bride’s estranged East Indian and Jewish family members; and strafing helicopters.

The Jewish grandmother kicked things off with a rendition of “Sunrise, Sunset” from Fiddler on the Roof. She was accompanied by an East Indian teenager on electric guitar. But with the wind absolutely ripping off the lake they could not actually hear one another. So she sang mournfully while he played unrelated minor chords, completely out of time with her. They finished the song about 20 seconds apart.

The Jewish family members nodded in cultural solidarity. The East Indian contingent was respectful, but wary. The hippies gazed into space, fully baked and lost in the deep meaning of the song.

Then came the wedding vows. The bride first shared some thoughtful verses, barely audible above the wind. Then the groom produced a piece of paper and read the following:

“Wherever I am, there’s always Pooh,
There’s always Pooh and Me.
Whatever I do, he wants to do,
“Where are you going today?” says Pooh:
“Well, that’s very odd ‘cos I was too.
Let’s go together,” says Pooh, says he.
“Let’s go together,” says Pooh.”

The Jewish contingent sat in shocked disbelief. The baffled East Indians mouthed the words “Pooh?” to one another in a futile attempt to understand what was being said. Several hippies wept, moved by the timeless wisdom of Winnie the Pooh and by the effect of narcotics.

Several helicopters from the nearby festival grounds then began to buzz the terrace like a scene from Apocalypse Now. Chairs were scattered. The wedding officiant had to yell above the roar as they passed overhead. The men holding the corner poles of the Jewish wedding canopy hung on for dear life.  Finally, the rings were exchanged and love won the day.

It was later discovered that the young ring bearer had head lice, which he passed on to the entire wedding party.

This story is dedicated to Glen and Mark, whom we met last week at a lovely family wedding.

[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.]

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Uni Year 1: The British Student

Guest Post, written by the site curator, Eloise. 

After Year 1, I am ready to present my findings on the creature that is the first year university student in the UK. Putting this into several categories, I’d like to share the amazing things I have learnt about the people who live in the country of my birth after infiltrating their ranks.

First: Issues of Health

University means moving to a new place, with new people and new DISEASES. The first week of Uni is ‘freshers week’, and is followed by ‘freshers flu’. To some, this is a code for a particularly horrific hangover that hangs over you like a ghost for over 48 hours. Like a mix of jetlag, a migraine and a fever, the stricken students do not attend the first few days of class (which teachers note with amusement). For the rest of us, freshers flu means the flu – but the worst version of it. A slow building disease that you watch take out your house mates one-by-one, awaiting your fate. My neighbour had it a week before me, and I used him to gauge how badly I would be hit. I was optimistic, seeing as he seemed mostly okay.

I was not okay. In a flat of 8 people, 3 of us were coughing so hard we coughed up blood. It was horrific. But did any of us go to hospital? No. We lay around, pitied ourselves and enjoyed the first few weeks of our 6 months of free Amazon Prime TV (free to Uni students, that is). I quickly learnt that the health system in the UK is somewhat broken, and students are also a little too lazy to go and get help – we’d rather google the symptoms, discern we probably aren’t dying, and then lie around and complain for the next 7 weeks. After that, you go home to your family who will once again feed you a balanced diet, and the symptoms finally relent.

 

Second: Drinking Culture

Coming from Switzerland, where 16 year olds are allowed beer, wine and cider, I was already used to alcohol. Or so I thought. British Uni culture is so involved with alcohol that kitchens in student flats boast a ‘chunder chart’ – a wobbly record of who has made themselves sick the most. I was amazed at the superhuman liver of the boy who managed to get over 40 points on this chart in 9 weeks. Similarly, I marvelled at the stupidity of my best friend who thought that downing three bottles of wine within 20 minutes would go well – 20 minutes after that, he saw how wrong he was. But I was amazed at how much people enjoyed drinking with the intention to black out. Having never done this – and intending never to do so as well – it is somewhat amusing to watch, yet also tragic. I do enjoy blasting Taylor Swift’s catchiest songs outside their rooms the morning after though, just so they have the right anthem to begin their miserable, hungover days with.

 

Finally: Cooking

Nothing quite beats the absolute hilarity of trundling down from my third floor room to first floor to find a plastic colander having been melted into a saucepan. The white plastic had created a once-molten-now-solid lump at the bottom of the now ruined pan, whilst weird tendrils of thin, partially melted plastic linked it to the original skeleton of the colander. I was in a catered accommodation block, where we only had to cook for ourselves on weekends. It appeared that even that limited requirement of selfcare had surpassed the abilities of one student. My flatmates weren’t much better. One – studying chemistry – was surprised when he poured water into a hot pan and it evaporated instantly (Repeat: He is studying CHEMISTRY). Another just constantly ordered take away food. I, however, perfected scrambled eggs, scrambled eggs with cheese, omelettes, fried eggs, and various types of pasta. I did make pancakes once, which my flatmates all ate, and then told me that they were the worst things they had ever eaten and never to cook them again. None of us are perfect.

 

Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed my first year and couldn’t have wished for a better one. I look forwards to having to cook eggs in more interesting ways next year and avoiding freshers flu as it sweeps through campus and most of all, reading hundreds of books for my course of English Lit. (which I did not mention at all, which sort of shows where priorities are at in first year).

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The Border

Crossing the border between Canada and the US used to be pretty easy. That’s to be expected between the best of neighbo(u)rs.

Take for instance the time I crossed from rural Maine into rural-er New Brunswick. To reach the border I foolishly took a minor road through the heart of Maine. Don’t ever do this. When eventually I hit the border, the crossing booth looked like a glorified port-a-potty. There were two female Canadian border patrol members squished into its cedar-lined interior. I expect they saw fewer than 20 cars a day.

I rolled down to the window and handed them my passport.

The guard looked into the window of my car. “Sir”, she said. “It looks like you have a car packed for a family. But I don’t see a family. Is there a family in there? You didn’t forget them, did you? That is generally considered bad for the marriage.”

I explained that my wife and children had flown to Halifax. It was only me doing the 1,000 mile drive because we needed a car once we got out there. I was solo, but would soon meet the family in Halifax.

“Sooooooooo”, she said with faux chastisement, “No family. That would explain the beef jerky and cigars at 10:30 in the morning”.

Indeed. That morning on the way out of Bangor, Maine, I happened upon a shop that sold beef jerky, whisky, and cigars: the holy trinity of road trips. Of course I hadn’t had (much) whisky since I was driving, but I was happily nurturing a cigar and chomping on beef jerky as I rolled up to the border.

I confessed. Mea culpa. Guilty as charged. Then I asked her not to judge me since Maine is – truly – an exceedingly boring state through which to drive. She agreed. Then she added: “Looks like we got another liberated husband here. Enjoy your time in Canada”.

That was it. Not a single question about where I was staying, for how long, what I was bringing in. Nothing. I was clearly not an existential threat to the legal or sovereign interests of Canada.  That’s to be expected between the best of neighbo(u)rs.

[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.]

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The 4th of July

My extended family gathers on the Mississippi River each 4th of July to celebrate with fun and gluttony. These gatherings are the source of many of my favorite memories.

Anchoring the weekend is the keg – sometimes two kegs – of Miller Lite. In recent years this has been supplemented by margaritas and single malt whisky.

As the morning sun sparkles on the mighty river the breakfast pizza awaits – topped with bacon, ham, eggs, sausage. Or for the weight conscious, perhaps just a bowl of ice cream and left over Cheetos. My wife became an official member of the family one year when she came downstairs holding an ice cream bar and wine cooler at 9:30 AM. She had officially joined the dark side. There was wild cheering.

Lunch usually includes deviled eggs and ham salad – a dish that consists of neither ham, nor salad. It is ground bologna and mayonnaise with chives thrown in for roughage. You slather it on Wonderbread. An hour after ingesting this, the cottage septic system takes one vicious beating after another.

Evening favorites include fried catfish or “tacos in a bag”. The latter involves each family member with their own personal bag of Doritos. The bag is flattened, opened, and then ground beef, cheese, and tomatoes (veggies, so important) are scooped in and mixed around with the crushed Doritos. Then you just dig into the bag with a spoon. No messy cleanup!

After this we waddle to the campfire for S’mores with a side of diabetes. The campfire is the site of legendary family bonding: inappropriate fireside skits, inappropriate song and dance, inappropriate amounts of liquor. And so much 4th of July explosives that it leaves ashes in your drink.

Nearby is a small town which hosts our favorite 4th of July Parade. One year as the parade rolled past, a young lady waved from the back of a pick-up truck proudly wearing a sash that read “Clayton County Beef Queen”. Twenty minutes later the exact same girl rolled past a second time sporting a different sash that read “Clayton County Pork Queen”.  Here was true 4th of July Iowa royalty.

So too are my three lovely aunts who make the family celebration possible each year. This story is dedicated to you, with all my love and thanks. HAPPY 4TH OF JULY everyone!

 

[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.]

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The Nuns of St-Loup

Deep joy flows from them like a breaking wave. It surges through withered hands as they greet you. It twinkles in eyes gleaming behind thick spectacles. It spills over in easy laughter.

They are only a remnant now. Perhaps 30 or so remain from an original strength of hundreds. For over a century they ran The St-Loup hospital located on the Via Francigena, a 1,000 mile footpath connecting Canterbury England to Rome. But they are too old and too few now to run a pilgrim hospital. So instead they care for the infirm at the nearby hospice, and they welcome modern pilgrims to their retreat house.

Our retreat group is invited to join their mid-day meal. We file silently into the simple dining room. We are shown to long tables. The center seats at each table are reserved for a nun, one facing another across the table. These two sisters pass the food, always counterclockwise, in simple tin serving plates. The nuns take their portion last. This ritual is orderly, meticulous, and a source of obvious delight.

When everyone is served one nun sings the first line of grace in French. The chorus then joins her in rich, four-part harmony. The hair on my neck tingles as they sing. The woman seated beside me weeps quietly from the beauty of it. I pass her my napkin. I won’t need it: my shirt usually becomes my napkin.

The meal is taken in silence. It consists of simple vegetables from their garden, polenta, and overcooked pork chops. The nun at our table is well over 70 and weighs perhaps 90 pounds. She whistles through her nose when she breathes and she eats more than I do. Each time we make eye contact she stifles a giggle. I suspect it is from the food slopped on my shirt. Dessert is homemade yoghurt with honey, the best I have ever eaten. The dessert spoon is silver.

The cleanup is equally choreographed. Cutlery is collected in red plastic sandbox pails wrapped in wicker. The aged nuns then shuffle out to bring light into the world and to wheel the infirm around the flower garden.

The wifi password at the retreat center is “Proverbes4:23” – Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.

[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.]image002

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The Boxer

The most awkward dinner party scenario ever. There is no other way to describe it.

My colleague’s husband had just received a promotion. His new boss invited my friend and her husband for dinner. He asked them to bring their new Boxer puppy.

My friend panicked. Like all puppies, the Boxer was cute, rambunctious, and totally untrained. She could see this going badly at the home of her husband’s new boss, who had a young child of two. But the boss insisted they bring the dog. So they did.

The dinner was going fine. The adults hung out as the young child and the puppy played happily. The child and the dog eventually wandered upstairs as the adults lost track of them. Then the child screamed.

My friend thought the worst. She was sure the puppy had bitten the child. She raced upstairs, only to find the child and the puppy happily playing tug of war over a sock. Relieved, my colleague turned to go back downstairs. Then she tripped at the top of the stairs.

She describes it as going “ass over teakettle” down the stairs, hitting the landing with a thunderous crash, then rolling down the final stairs. She lay there, winded and embarrassed (but thankfully unhurt) in the dining room. The boss, her husband, and the other dinner party guests stared at her in horror.

As she lay there looking at the ceiling, my colleague heard the carefree “click-clicking” of the puppy claws coming down the stairs. The puppy’s face leaned over and looked happily down into her own face.

Then the puppy spit out a mouthful of tampons that he had taken from the bathroom cupboard.

My colleague and her husband have yet to be invited back to dinner.

[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.]