Scrounge

He was a scrounge. That was even his middle name. It started when he was the last of a batch of ten kids and went downhill from there. In those days, they just called him “Young’un.”

He went into the Army and couldn’t march. When you’re a private and can’t march, you’re a walking-talking target. And you’re doing more than your share of k.p. That’s how he became a cook. Just a cook—and not even a short-order cook.

After he mustered out, he went to hashing it out in the worst kind of dump of a diner in a seedy part of a town in the seediest part of the state. You know, the kind of place where they hold rodeos for the roaches. You ride ‘em like some do the bull riding.

He saved up. After five years of bad hash and even worse rooms in the local rooming joint, he had enough for a down payment on a farm. He’d always dreamed of having a farm. He wanted to raise goats. The woman who sold him the goats was named Betty. He married Betty.

Then they headed on out to the farm he’d bought. He’d never actually seen it before. He found it on Ebay, put in his bid, and won. The description had been perfect for what he had in mind. A two bedroom farm house on three acres of land set against the mountains in picturesque Colorado.

They drove out from the town, the newly-weds Betty and Roger. Then they realized that once again he had been taken. He had bought the only piece of desert in the state.

The lawn and the cop

Sometimes they walk in pairs, sometimes they travel alone, and sometimes they just drive around the neighborhood, these Samurai we call policemen, cops. When we don’t need them, we often fear them. When we do, they bring hope, they bring justice, for they ask questions and observe details. They are after the truth, these Jack Webb kind of folks, using the words, “Just the facts, ma’am.”

With all that in mind, why is this cop fellow cruising around my neighborhood in his black and white?

Oh, well, I’ve got to mow the lawn. Why is it that I always wait till mid-afternoon to mow my lawn? I know it’s the hottest time of the day, I know it may rain—maybe it will rain—I know it may take at least two hours and I will be exhausted, dehydrated, drained. After all, this is Florida.

I look at my watch. It is 2:30. Geez, I’d better get going. I repeat several times: “A mowed lawn is a good lawn. A mowed lawn is a good lawn. A mowed lawn is a good lawn.”

Here it is Saturday and I have put off “The Deed” for three days. What will the neighbors think? No particular reason to put it off. I just hate to mow my lawn, or any lawn. Hated it when I was a kid. When I resisted, my mother said that I was lazy. Guess she was right. Because I don’t want to mow this piece of real estate they call mine. Actually it’s the bank’s.

Earlier I looked out the window just to check to see if the lawn needed mowing. Yes, it does, I concluded. As I checked out the grass, I saw the police cruiser ease through the neighborhood. What’s he looking for anyway? Oh, well, at least he’s looking.

First I put on my lawn mowing outfit: hat, gloves, suntan lotion, ragged t-shirt, shorts, socks, beat-up sneakers. Boy, these shoes have been through a lot. I check myself out in the mirror. Man, I’m ready to go. I’m ready for “The Job.”

Now I’m outside and picking up branches and sticks and debris. Fill my garbage bag half full.

I pull out the lawn mower from the shed in my backyard, check the oil, and fill the tank with gas. Set the gas can back in its place and walk back to the mower. Push the choke and pull the starter cord. It’s a bit hard to pull, but the mower doesn’t start.

I look up and there is the cop parked two doors down on the other side of the street. He’s standing by his car and he’s watching me. What’d I do?

Oh, well, if he wanted me, he’d come over and talk to me. He isn’t doing that. At least, not yet anyway. But he’s watching me in that noncommittal stance cops always use when they check things out.

I go back to my work, pull the starter cord again, and miracle of miracles, the mower roars alive. Phew! Two pulls and it started. My last mower took forever to start, if it was going to start. Thank God for new lawn mowers. Got a good one this time.

I push the mower to the edge of my front lawn and off I go. I get through the first bag of grass. I take the bag off the mower and lug it to the compost pile on the edge of my back yard. Time for some water. I go to the kitchen and grab a bottle of water. Back on the back porch, I drink it. I notice that cop still eyeing me from across the street.

Then the cop walks over towards me. Just what the hell does he want?

I walk back out onto the lawn and meet the cop. Cop says to me, “Just want you to know you need to zip your fly. Wouldn’t want to get a sunburn, now would we?.”

A new household product

Here at Uncle Bardie Labs we are thinking of the American consumer and their needs. We’ve scratched our heads and butted those heads against the wall day after day for years. We wanted to come up with a new product that would benefit Mr. and Mrs. America and the little Kiddie Americas. We searched and searched our warehouses. We searched and searched our offices. We searched and searched our filing cabinets. Finally, and I do mean finally, behind those just named cabinets, we found the plans for the perfect consumer product. One that revolutionizes the American home in the one place in need of a revolution.

We dusted off those plans. Believe me there was a lot of dust to shake off. It took us days. We cleaned them up and started to work. Now Uncle Bardie Labs is proud to announce its latest appliance in a long line of great appliances. This appliance lives up to our motto: “We’re not Schears. We not Wallymart. We’re Uncle Bardie’s.”

I’m sure you will agree when you see our brand spanking new sanitation feature. It’s the U B L 1, better known as Uncle Bardie Labs Flusher. This toilet will do everything you expect from a toilet and more.

1.For the first time in human history, this toilet recognizes if you are male or female. The ladies are just going to love this. The toilet seat automatically closes for your time on the throne. For the gentlemen, it raises when said gentlemen stand before the commode, ready for a number one deposit. As you can see, this would cut the divorce rates in half.

2.The Flusher has its own gps. When our customers wake up in the middle of the night, they don’t have to wonder where the bathroom went. Push a button and there will be a soft beep coming from the Flusher to provide a truly open trail to relief.

3.You’ve heard the saying, “Your poop stinks in that old peculiar way.” True relief has come. No longer will your poop stink. The Flusher has a spray which kills the stinko bacteria that stinks up everybody’s poop. Now you will be able to say with a straight face, “My poop don’t stink.”

4.The proud owner of a Flusher never has to worry about pushing that handle again. The Flusher does its own flushing. All the owner has to do is their thing. All the rest is done by this amazing product.

5.When the Flusher flushes, music will rise from it. The owner will have their choice of the music they want. EDM for the dancer. Rap for the “with it”. Rock for the hippie. Country for the down-homer. Classical for the elitist. Blues for the dateless and desperate. Jazz for the cool cat.

6.Another great unique feature is Wizzer. Wizzer? you ask. Wizzer is the Siri for the Flusher. You can easily program it for one of a variety of unique voices: the British butler, the French maid, the Russian Cossack, the Italian romeo and the good old American y’all. While sitting, you can ask Wizzer for the daily news, for the local sales or just some chit-chat. And you will be glad when your teenager comes to you and says, “Wizzer just called me potty mouth. Make her quit.” Your response, of course, will be, “Don’t you know that Wizzer is a lady.”

7.On top of all these great benefits, here’s the topper. The Flusher is self-cleaning. It’s unique system using air pressure to do the work for the customer.

So be the first in your neighborhood to get a Flusher. It’s only $39.95 for 5000 payments. If you order within the next fifteen minutes you get an extra value product absolutely free. A roll of Uncle Bardie’s Toilet Tissue. With it, a little dab’ll do you. Just think you don’t have to use a whole roll. That’s good for the environment. And its soft gentleness is good for the asterisk. Unlike other tissue products that should be renamed sandpaper.

We think you will agree with us here at Uncle Bardie Labs that you will want to go for the gusto. You will want to invite all your neighbors in to show off this latest in bathroom facilities.

This is such a revolutionary product Steven Spielberg is making the first commercial for the Flusher. John Williams is composing a special tune. It is called “Poop Poop Fizz Fizz. Oh, what a relief it is.” That’s how special it is.

You are not going to find the Flusher in any store. It’s a one-time only offer. Just call 1-800-Unc-leby. If you aren’t completely satisfied within thirty seconds of receiving the latest in twenty-first century technology, you can return it for a complete refund. But we think that’s not going to happen. Especially after you get a visit from one of our Men in Black.

The Mail Order Bride

The farm. Well, it’s not a farm really. It’s where we live. My five children and I. My wife died a year ago when she was having Eleazar. We buried her over by the well house behind that small smattering of trees. Esther was twenty-four. We had been married ten years. I thought about leaving and moving to town, but this here farm is our livelihood and our life.

This farm which I inherited from Papa. Papa’s brother, my Uncle Elisha, said that I needed a new bride—a wife for me and a mother for the children, a woman to keep my loins warm.

I found this here Mail Order Bride Catalog at the General Store, looked through it, found myself a good woman—someone who looked like she could hold up through the winter—and I sent for her.

Tomorrow she arrives on the train from St. Louis. Me and the children and Uncle Elisha will hitch up the buggy and go into town and meet the noon train. That will give us enough time to get home before dark.

The Preacher will come and marry us next month. Me and my new wife and the kids and the neighbors will have ourselves a picnic to celebrate.

Next month is planting. She said in one of her letters she was raised on a farm. She knows all about farms. She is sixteen and seems plenty eager for a husband and children.

Before we leave for town, I visit Ruth’s grave as I do every Sunday. I thank her for the life she gave me in this here wilderness and tell her I miss her and tell her that she will never be replaced in my affections by another. She will always be my first love. I tell her of this new woman, how it was Uncle Elisha’s idea, how she will be my bride and the children’s other mother. I tell her that the children need a mother and hope she understands.

Then we hitch up the horse to the buggy and head on in to town.

Hurricaned!

To celebrate the end of hurricane season.

had th Nasa photo found on unsplash.com

Perhaps one day someone will ask me what I did during the fall of  2022. I will tell them that a major hurricane and a half invaded Florida, gobbled her up, had a good chew and spat her out, and I was there. Ian and Nicole had their honeymoon crossing back and forth across Florida and left us with a big gulp in our throats and a thank-you on our lips for not destroying more than they did. We got whopped by Mother Nature not once but twice and almost drowned us out of existence. The only good thing that came out the sound and the fury was that we got to use use those exotic terms in our vocabulary, words we thought we retired like“debris”  and “evacuate,” phrases like “category zilch” and “hunker down.”

Those whoppers gave me a roller coaster ride to plan my weekends around. To check out the storms, I went to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration website. It’s abbreviated NOAA. Pronounced Noah. Last time we heard from that guy, he had wrecked his ark on a mountain. That’s what happens when you use a dove for a gps. Because of all the weather changes predicted for the near future, maybe he’ll start selling arks. According to Nostradamus, the entire Florida peninsula will be underwater soon, and I’m going to need a boat.

If I had lived in ancient times, I might have thought that Jehovah was doing an Old Testament on us sinners. Or that Zeus was in a tiff and hot under the collar because some woman he chased rejected his advances.

Maybe, if we Floridians had sacrificed a virgin or two in the spring, the hurricanes would have gone off to Texas or Louisiana and left us alone. Then we could have played the “I’m sorry you were hit, but I’m glad it wasn’t us” game we’ve played for so many years before. This year they got to play it on us.

Florida was hit by storms so bad that the schools here now use them to teach the kids their math. How many pounds of ice does it take to keep a twelve-pound turkey frozen for six days without electricity? How many grains of sand does it take to keep a condominium from falling into the Atlantic Ocean? How many pontoons will I need to keep my house afloat?

All I have to say is that whoever was doing a rain dance in September, quit it.