Part II - The Dresser Caper

The measure of a man or woman is taken at a very early age. Once set, the course of the journey of life takes an unveering course to it's very end. So it was with . . . . .

Part II - The Dresser Caper

By Victor Epp

It can't be corroborated just what it was that caused the dresser caper. Certainly oatmeal cookies couldn't have been the cause. But given the success of the oatmeal cookie caper, it was inevitable that this would follow. Suffice it to say that once you get the idea that good things are found in high places, then reaching ever higher is bound to be your destiny.

Now you have to understand that we weren't exactly present as observers to all the details of these adventures. It's a good thing too, because otherwise they would never have happened in the first place and who knows, our boy may never have become the achiever he was. On the other hand, we weren't exactly absent either. But how many eyes can you have in your head at once? So in the telling of these stories, the blow-by-blow details come not from eyewitness accounts as much as they do from knowing exactly how his mind worked in putting his body into action. I've proven over and over that my descriptions are absolutely accurate to the last details. It's a mysterious gift that comes from parenthood.

In this case though, his mother was in on the finale, and what a finale it was! Slippery hardwood floors and a flannel diaper avoided a tragedy and made it all the more spectacular.

As I recall we had just bought new furniture for his bedroom. No, that's not right either. Oh I know, I had just painted it all with that new-fangled Flecto paint that had to be applied with a sprayer. It was awful stuff to work with, but once it was on and dried it was indestructible. Besides his bed, there was a dresser and a four-drawer chest. Now to call this a dresser caper is a bit of a misnomer. The summit this time was the top of the chest of drawers.

Again, to capture the picture of the event you have to be able to visualize this blond tousle headed Sir Edmond Hillary with hopeful little blue eyes fixed on discovering the world - the big high world. With that in mind, you can also picture the chest of drawers, not too big, but children's size. I mention that because it didn't have the big heavy drawers like in today's oversized furniture. In other words, it was possible for a pint-sized kid to open drawers, even if only enough to peek inside.

Well, you guessed it. If you start opening drawers from the bottom you can build kind of a staircase to the top. But there's a catch because it can get very tricky; - physics again. See, as you climb up the drawers, the center of gravity changes with the redistribution of weight. This would all be fine if, when you grab on to the top-drawer handle, it didn't slide open.

Well it wasn't fine this time because he did grab it and it did slide open - just as his mother was coming to check up on him. Now try to keep your mind on the action here. Down comes the chest of drawers like a giant tree, our boy hanging on for dear life. The open drawers slow the fall somewhat while his mother stands there paralyzed in absolute terror. There's a loud crash and the kid comes squirting out from under the chest like toothpaste being extruded out of a tube. The slippery hardwood floor sends the chest one way and it's extruded victim the other way.

The bedlam that followed had more to do with hysteria than reason. But I don't want to spoil such a spectacular show with that. Evel Knievel would have been right proud.

Lure of the Highest Mountain

This is the first part in a mini-trilogy that I don't tire of reading. I hope I've painted a picture as vivid as the one in my mind's eye for the reader.

Lure of the Highest Mountain/Oatmeal Cookies

By Victor Epp

Part I - Assault on the Fridge

What causes people to strive for the unachievable - to climb the highest mountain against impossible odds? We gasp in awe at the indomitable spirit that tests every fiber of the human body in the pursuit of higher goals, whatever they may be. Admiration of such achievements inspires us to emulate our heroes, if only we can learn what drives them to their destiny.

That sense of purpose, that ethic of achieving must come from somewhere. These must be very special people, who strive for their goals while the rest of us would rather watch television, or play video games, or spend an enormous amount of time and energy making up excuses for not doing something we were supposed to do. Just where does this insatiable thirst come from anyway?

Oatmeal cookies are the answer, plain and simple. Oh, does that surprise you? You were thinking more along the lines of destiny, a thirst for knowledge or a sense of adventure, perhaps even a desire to challenge difficult tasks. Oh sure, all these lofty ideals contribute to the purpose, but without oatmeal cookies, none of these attributes would ever surface. I can prove it to you too, first hand and hands down.

See, around our house everybody had sort of a sweet tooth. We knew though, that too many sweets were not good for you. What to do? As usual, Grandma had the perfect answer. Oatmeal cookies were tasty and not too sweet. Not only were they a good substitute for candy, but the oatmeal also provided the necessary roughage for a healthy digestive system.

There were three people in our family very fond of oatmeal cookies. Actually there were only three people in our little family at the time so it was a unanimous taste. You can well imagine the number of lively discussions that always started with 'Who ate the last of the oatmeal cookies?' That usually wasn't a question but more of an accusation. I only tell you this to give you an idea of how often these cookies were on our collective minds.

Well, you couldn't just put them in the cupboard or the pantry now could you? I mean, they would just be too obvious and tempting there. Of course the two alleged adults each had their own schemes for blaming somebody else for missing cookies. Finally in fairness to our pint sized other family member, it was decided to put the cookie jar up on top of the fridge. That way he wouldn't be the victim of false accusations by anarchistic cookie looters, nor would he be able to gorge himself into oatmeal heaven. While all that roughage might have been good for his digestive system, you have to remember that all this was before the days of disposable diapers and, well, there was already too much laundry as it was.

Well now, there were just a few little details we had overlooked in selecting a cookie home. Firstly, while we knew there was nothing wrong with his eyesight, we didn't think the kid was really paying attention. Second, the cookies were so far out of reach that it never occurred to us how much he really wanted them. As far as we were concerned, when we said no, there was no other option. In our minds the cookies were safe.

How wrong can you get? I mean, here's a little kid about two feet tall peering way up at this tin can full of oatmeal cookies roughly six feet off the ground. There are no steps leading up to the prize. In fact the only way up is on the slippery fridge door. It's like trying for the peak of Mount Everest. But wait - didn't Edmund Hillary climb Mount Everest? He climbed it with the help of his faithful Sherpa guide Tensing and having done that planted his flag upon the summit. When asked later what drove him to undertake such a treacherous journey he said, ‘because it was there.’ The whole world was in awe of the remarkable feat.

It turns out that we had our own version of Sir Edmund. Not only that, but he had his own Mount Everest – in the embodiment of our refrigerator. Now in order for you to get the whole picture you have to step back a minute and look at it from a one and a half to two year-old's viewpoint. He has no lofty ideals of planting the Canadian flag on the summit of the fridge! And this is no frivolous adventure about 'because it's there' either. Here's this pintsize kid with only one thing on his mind - OATMEAL COOKIES! All that lies between him and his prize is that humungous fridge.

You have to know that a child's brain isn't all cluttered up with bits of useless information. It works kind of like a giant industrial vacuum cleaner, sucking up everything that comes in its path. It notices in an instant that the fridge is tightly placed next to the kitchen cabinets. It also already knows that if you yank on that shiny handle on the cupboard door, it will open and you can enjoy yourself by hauling all the pots and pans out and make interesting banging sounds. Of course most often that's not too good an idea because it always gets mom upset. Well, sometimes it's all right because when mom shows up, you can yell 'COOKIE!' at the top of your lungs. Who knows, you might even get one if you say that 'please' word.

But then the little sponge brain notices that if you grab the other shiny handle on the drawer just above the pots and pans door and step on the bottom shelf, you can get your little eyeballs up to the level of the counter to see what's on it. Naturally, anything that's worthwhile is going to be right at the back of the counter and no matter how far you reach, your little arms are just not quite long enough.

But wait! With the right hand wrapped on the front rim of the sink and a little leverage from the left arm, you can just barely get your little foot on the second cupboard shelf. Unfortunately the laws of physics don't allow for standing in this position and still be able to grab something, but -.

At this point, our little tyke is in a bit of a pickle. The only way down is to let go of everything and whack his head on the floor. This is not an option, even for him. But, looking around, he discovers that the cabinet door is jammed up against the fridge. It's just low enough to get his left foot on and just high enough to boost his center of gravity on to the counter. Go for it, he says to himself!

It turns out that the stuff on the counter isn't nearly as exciting as what's on top of the fridge after all. But then he spots a windfall. Well now, let's be realistic. Even he wouldn't have figured out how to move the breadbox up against the fridge. It just happened to be there. It also happened to be tall enough for the final assault on the summit. And it was just strong enough to support about twenty pounds of ingenuity and raw courage.

And that's where his mother found him stuffing his cheeks with oatmeal cookies, oblivious to the dangers of his perch. Now you'll have to cover your ears while I tell you what his mother had to say. Well, on second thought, I'd better not. In my book his accomplishments that day equaled anything Sir Edmund Hillary ever did, when you factor in the size and age difference.

Author's note

It must be remembered that all this took place before the advent of childproof door locks. The only thing we could do was change the door handles to knobs and secure them with sealer rings. But that only solved the problem in the kitchen. Wait ‘til you hear what the little bugger managed with his bedroom dresser. Well, that’s for another time.

Honest to God and Other Whoppers - Spanky

          They don't teach this stuff in bleeding heart social psychology, but maybe they should. Maybe then they wouldn't be so obsessed with creating enmity between children and their parents. Hmmm. I know a few old-timers well qualified to do the job too. Well, here - you be the judge.

SPANKY

My mom always told us that if we couldn't say something nice about someone, we should say nothing at all. The next six hundred and fifty four blank pages are devoted entirely to Child and Family Services. (Well, she didn't say we couldn't tell whom it was that we wouldn't say anything about). Out of respect for the rain forest I have not included the pages in this manuscript.

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On what seems to be a completely unrelated topic, some veterinary surgeon should figure out a way to stitch the front ends of horses to the already existing horses' behinds that run our various government departments. I was going to say horses' asses but mom didn't allow cussing either. Anyway if somebody could figure that out, they could be harness broke into good working teams and at the same time hungry cattle ranchers could switch from cows to genetically modified horse fronts and start a whole new industry nobody ever thought of before.

Oh now don't you 'tut-tut' me. When you're saying derogatory things about somebody, governments don't count. I mean, just look how they talk about each other. Besides, they got diplomatic immunity or something like that. I wasn't even going to talk about them anyway. Well, I wasn't but it just sort of slipped out before I could stop it.

What with school being out and all in the summer, half the kids under the age of sixteen are regularly grounded for not getting home on time, or staying in their pajamas all day, or not pitching in with the chores. It got me to thinking about my own upbringing and how those situations were dealt with back then. Naturally, the subject of spanking crossed my mind. Well there you go then. We know the government frowns on that sort of stuff. That's how the government and you know who crossed my mind. The question that came up was, is spanking illegal? Is it a criminal offense? It was in my mind that there had been a recent change in legislation, or so I thought.

So I glommed on to the Internet to see what there was to be learned. Wouldn't you know it? Up pops that Ontario case where the (unmentionable) people did (unmentionable) things to some children and their families that caused a whole bunch of them to flee to the United States as refugees. It was an awful uproar. Everybody was so busy dancing around protecting their horses' behinds that they all missed the important roll that spanking or not spanking plays in the drama of life itself. What - have I missed something? Are today's adults too glued to the TV or the Casinos to participate? Are our children too sensitive about their "rights" to give up blowing everything to smithereens in their video games and be part of a family and all it's subtle little intricacies?

How far do we have to get from reality before somebody notices we're lost and want to go home? Shoot, even Shakespeare admitted that 'all the world's a stage' and that we're all players in it. So before this turns into a negative rant filled with another six or seven hundred blank pages, let me tell you about how these sorts of things used to be choreographed in our house. Heck, come to think of it, these little theatrics were better than anything you could hear on Lux Radio Theatre, especially if they were happening to your brother or sister, and not you.

The thing was that there were certain spankable offenses and everybody knew the rules. The biggest one was talking back, especially to your mother. That one was so big that you'd probably go straight to H E double hockey sticks unless it got corrected in a hurry. Almost as bad was the crime of lying. Mind you, there were degrees to this one and it could get pretty complicated. Now an outright, bald-faced lie was one thing. There was no getting around that. Such an offense called for just plain old crime and punishment. But things like 'I didn't know what time it was', which really meant 'I was having too much fun to notice the time' were something else. They had a thing that you-know-who would call wiggle room. Those could be manipulated to a degree unless they became chronic, which was my problem all too often.

Wellsir, my old man was a thespian of the highest order. He could play our little foibles like a Stradivarius. It was uncanny. Of course, he was always ready for us. By the time he got home from work, the scene was set. The minute he walked in the door the radio got turned off.

That was standard procedure. After all the noise that went on at the factory all day long, he needed some peace and quiet. This was a really good time for us to do our homework. He'd wash up and change out of his dirty clothes before lying down for a half-hour nap while mother finished preparing supper.

See what I mean? The father comes home with his ears ringing from the factory noise. He's worked so hard that he needs a nap before he can even eat supper. The mother dutifully prepares his meal and gently wakes him to join the family at the supper table. Now you tell me. Is he the king or what? But wait, that's just the beginning.

See all the events of the day were touched on at the supper table, even the spankable ones. I say touched on because the real discussion didn't come 'til much later. Firstly, the supper table was a place for harmony, not confrontation. Secondly, the place to work out such problems was in front of the throne - that was dad's big easy chair - and then not until he'd finished reading the paper.

Timing - it was all timing. You'd have at least an hour after your indiscretion first surfaced to mull over your fate while doing the dishes and whatever else you could think of to kiss up. Finally, when your hour of judgment arrived, you were pretty well a basket case. See, whatever the misadventure, it wasn't as though you hadn't been warned beforehand. One of the aces dad had up his sleeve was the major guilt trip trick. Every time he had a job for you, or allowed you to do something, there was always a caveat. "Can I rely on you for that?" was attached to just about every activity. Talk about a millstone around your neck. The thing was that when you said it in German, it sounded like a command from Gabriel himself.

The second worst thing about a spankable offense was the lecture. You had to stand in front of the king on his throne and hang on every word. And he always had plenty to say. I never did know anybody who could talk longer about not coming home on time than my old man. I learned the lesson of letting my eyes glaze over after about forty minutes of hearing about how it was well past time that I learned to be responsible. When he caught me drifting, he just started all over. There went another forty minutes.

The absolute worst thing about a spankable offense, if it came to that, was not the spanking itself. Heck, I got more bruises coming home from school every day than I ever got from a spanking. That was nothing. It was the high drama leading up to the spanking that always got me. There was a set script for this whole business. Once a judgment had been handed down, the whole family sprang in to action - even me. Each of us had a specific role to play. Mother would make like this would be just too traumatic for her to concentrate on her work. So she'd wander around the house wringing her hands and groaning. My siblings would disappear around the corner where they could snicker in safety at their idiot brother. And me - well by this time in the scenario, my brain was so addled I could do nothing except follow instructions. Now it was time for the ultimate humiliation.

Dad sat there on his throne, grim faced and told me to go get - the chair. Obediently, I went and got - the chair.

"Put it there," he pointed. I did.

"Not that way. Turn it around sideways." I did.

"Go bring me the strap." Son of a gun if I didn't do that too. Here I was, hauling all my own torture equipment into the living room while he - the king, sat there looking like the reluctant judge and jury. It was like a mini crucifixion with lesser consequences.

The last thing he would say as I numbly parked my target neatly over the chair was, "I wish it didn't have to come to this."

I, in a feeble attempt at defiance would think to myself, 'Yeah, you'll beat me and then I'll die, and then you'll be sorry.' I could almost see them in my mind, mourning over the loss. Whack, whack, whack.

"Go put things away where they belong. Then we can put this behind us." I never did find out whether the reference to the 'behind' was a pun or not.

The curtain had fallen on the final act and the whole performance was a triumph. You could almost hear the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel's Messiah being played. The only thing missing was the standing ovation.

Fortunately for us all, every so often I'd forget my lessons and provide the opportunity for a repeat performance. Dad never lost his talent for what was right and proper either.

I got to thinking that some of these dead people should have met my old man. Well, they're not really dead, but obviously they got no life of their own the way they go sticking their noses into other people's business, so they might just as well be. Maybe if they had got a lesson or two from him in their youth they'd have some idea of how families ought to be run. There sure wouldn't be as many horses' asses (Oops - Sorry mom) behinds around, meddling in things they have absolutely no idea about. Just think - the scriptures could be put back in the bible where they belong instead of being on the front page of the newspaper, and them do-gooder protectionists might actually have time to do some good. They might even try to focus on getting a life of their own, but that's a whole other story. Maybe then a family could get back to the business of being a family without having to look over it's shoulder every ten seconds to see if the family Gestapo is lurking around.

The Eye Within

          Every now and then one comes across a story that doesn't really fit the mould. Yet it gives pause to reflect on it's origin and it's purpose. You do sort af a double take and say - where in the world did that come from? And before you know it, you've read it and go Hmmmmmm. This is one of those.

The Eye Within

By Victor Epp

I have no idea where I came across this little poem, but it’s innocence and vulnerability struck a chord that demanded further examination. Who would write such a thing - certainly not some self-assured mature individual racing along life’s busy highway – certainly not some over - confident acquisitor amassing a hoard of “stuff” – or would they?

At first it seems child-like; something a young person looking for an identity would innocently explore. On the other hand, it could quite easily be someone whose identity has come into question or doubt. How many people do you know who go storming through life like a bull in a china shop and suddenly get stopped cold by clear messages of ‘who do they think they are?’ A message like that will come as such a shock that they might be prompted to question themselves. Well, you have a look. Have you ever contemplated such inner thoughts?

What do you see when you look at me?

Am I ugly as sin ‘neath the skin I’m in?

Or does it hide what’s really inside?

If my shell were to break,

Tell me what you could take

That’s of value to you

If you only knew

What there is to see?

When you look at me.

Well, what do you think? Assuming one were to actually contemplate such a question, it becomes one of the most intriguing puzzles imaginable when we stop to think about it. What makes it even more so is that we ourselves can’t figure it out. Maybe it’s too complex. Maybe we don’t know where to look – or the places we look are not where we are at the moment when we need to find pieces of ourselves.

One of the fundamental failures in modern day society is no ignore learning about the enormity of the human spirit. That something so magnificent and empowering is overlooked is unconscionable! Instead we tend to externalize our inner value for the judgment of others by the way we look and the way we act outwardly. How is it that we focus all our energies on the biodegradable carcass that carries our spirit from beginning to end until it finally turns into dust or ashes? How is it that we imprison the only part of our being that transcends our mortal frailties and just apply another coat of varnish to an aging body for the world to see?

Not too long ago a Dene Elder was heard to say that unless you use a resource, you lose respect for it. He happened to be speaking in the context of hunting the gray whale, but if you consider the principles of careful husbandry these people apply to all of their resources; it is possible to impose the same ethic on the human spirit. That much we can understand. But from here we plunge into the abyss of trying to define the human spirit. The task is daunting to say the least, if not completely impossible.

On a good day the spirit is boundless, as vast as all the stars in all the galaxies. If you've ever lain under the sky on a clear night watching the northern lights dancing across the heavens in spontaneous abandon, you might get some small sense of what goes on within your own spirit, somewhere inside you. In a mere instant it can be plunged into unfathomable depths of despair; not unlike being trapped in a raging gale in the North Atlantic where there is no hope; only desperation. Just as suddenly a warm summer breeze can creep over you like the softest, most delicate blanket only to turn into intransigent defiance without explanation or notice.

What is this thing called the spirit? How can such a kaleidoscopic range of emotion take place in the same body at will without our noticing it? Yet what we see is all we see. The untold richness that lies within our very soul is lost; even to us as we primp and preen our bodies and adorn them with silk and ermine and other finery. We surround ourselves with things to please us and impress our neighbors. It often seems that all our efforts are directed toward accumulating “things” until we're out of breath from the effort. Yet we neglect to take our strength and nourishment from the very spirit within that will give it up so willingly if we but ask.

Pulled to earth by my feet of clay

To plod along in my weary way

Life should offer me so much more

To fly like an eagle - rise and soar

Above the hoards of marching mass

File along their mindless path?

Soar 'til I reach where my spirit is free

Where I can rejoice and really be me.

Somebody once made the comment that inside every big woman was a delicate little china doll. On another occasion, there was a tiny Chinese girl who looked exactly like a China doll, and inside she thought of herself as a raging Amazon. Go figure. So in fact, our eyes lie to us about what there is to see. Some of the biggest women I remember were diminutive in stature. Mother Theresa comes to mind. So does Doctor Lotta Hichmanova who single-handedly wrestled millions and millions of dollars out of the world to found the Humanitarian Service Committee after WW II. Both of these women were about the size of a minute. Yet their spirits moved mountains. How did they do that?

Perhaps we are equipped with another eye - an inner eye that lets us see in another dimension.

It seems the ancient ones knew about such things and made use of them. There is no lack of evidence of the three worlds of the Shaman as a model for the universe. Through his trances he could travel from one world to another and communicate with those spirits who resided there. These machinations for the rest of us are a little extreme in today's world. I suppose the closest we can come to that is through what we call meditation. And how many of us ever indulge ourselves to that extent?

Still, all these parts of our spirit are available to us. If we can claim ownership of our spirit, then we must also be able to own its parts. And therein lies the key. To find that place within where who we really are resides and bring it into consciousness is the beginning of emerging from the maze of outward expectations and into real reality. Like an elaborately tailored wardrobe, we will know instinctively that it fits perfectly. It is then incumbent on us to wear it steadfastly as a garment that never loses its appeal.

Yet, if it's that easy, why is it so elusive a goal to achieve? Think about it. Who has taught you about the infinite number of points of light that is your spirit? Who has encouraged you to reach for those you can identify? Who has opened your mind to welcome those not yet experienced? Who has equipped you to go on a vision quest to find who you really are? Does anyone even know how to do these things anymore? I don't think there are many.

As I said in the beginning, some thoughts enter the mind to make you go ‘Hmmm’. And every now and then, it is an interesting exercise to plumb the depths of such abstract, or perhaps not so abstract thoughts. I felt it worthwhile sharing. You decide.

Mabel and Eunice and the Freakin Freakin Pump

Trouble is like a heat-seeking missle with it's GPS trained on these two. They don't have to go looking for it. It finds them - wherever they are. Oh well - - - the adventures are endless.

Mabel and Eunice and the Freakin Frickin Pump

By Victor Epp

Salt of the earth, these women are. There's a lot of things you could call them. You could call them hard working, and you'd be right. You could call them good mothers and you'd still be right, although when you factor in the fact that between the two of them they were bringing up five teenagers and everyone a real spark plug, maybe it's as much a matter of survival as good mothering. Well, it don't matter anyway. I reckon they're entitled to combat pay, what with music lessons, soccer and dancing, boyfriends and girlfriends and all that. And on top of everything else there's the house in the country to keep. Yep, you could call them women a lot of things all right.

But genteel ain't one of them. They're not the kind to crook their little pinkies having tea, or make pleasant small talk at your lah dee dah social events. Oh, not that they don't have the gift of they gab. They do that all right, but they'd never have made good diplomatic ambassadors to anyone unless it was to somebody like Yasser Arafat or Idi Amin. No, they're just a little too direct for all them fluffy niceties. They like nothing better than to get right down to the heart of whatever it is that's on their minds. Of course I've yet to come across a time when they're on the same page in any of what they call "discussions". What usually starts out to be a difference of opinion on any given topic always turns very quickly into a difference of opinion on who is right. The actual subject under discussion becomes secondary; in fact, down right irrelevant. Oh yeah, and that's another thing you can call those two; assertive. That's a genteel way of saying bull headed plain old stubborn and feisty.

Now don't go getting the wrong idea about these two. There's never any malice in these "discussions". They’re not even about proving the other one wrong as much as they are about proving themselves right. Even winning the argument isn't as important as the argument itself, although it’s a bonus. Presentation counts. Articulation and language counts. It’s like a chess game of words and ideas. As animated and picturesque as the language might get, these contests could easily qualify for an Olympic demonstration sport of endurance and articulation.

All of this brings me to the thing I found myself chuckling about this afternoon. It's all about the well pump. See, in the country you got your own well, your own well pump, and your own set of problems that you just don't get in the city. That's just the way it is. Things are no different at Mabel and Eunice's place. Water pressure. That's what it was all about. There was no freakin' water pressure. Well, at least they could agree on that. The tirade of clear, concise and articulate dialogue that accompanied each morning shower was proof that both of them were right and, believe it or not, on the same page for once. I can't really put on paper what all was said. It wouldn't be right. I heard somewhere once that reading too many cuss words could cause you to develop cataracts and I sure don't want anybody to go blind over anything I ever wrote.

Well, to get to the point; something had to be done about the freakin' pump, but what? Mabel wasn't the sort to fool and fiddle with figuring out and fixing things. If some piece of bleep was acting up, get rid of it and get a new one! That was her way. In fact, it was a perfect excuse to get rid of that bleeping noise every time the pump switched on. They'd drill a deep well, put in a submersible pump and it would be just like bleepin' city water.

"What? Are you out of your cotton pickin' skull woman?" ventured Eunice demurely over a beer one Friday night after the spark plugs had all gone to bed. "We've been bustin' our sorry butts all year so we can go on a decent holiday and you want to blow it all on a hole in the ground just so you don't have to listen to the freakin' pump? Yeah, that sounds like a plan all right." She smiled that smile of hers, inviting Mabel to take her best shot.

Mabel took a long sip on her drink. You'd have to be quick to notice the twinkle in her eye as she took up the challenge and mulled over the opening salvo. "Eunice," she began eloquently, "Eunice, you always have such a way of looking at the dark side of life. You'd as freakin' soon nickel and dime us in to the poorhouse with your band aid patch up remedies for something that was a piece of bleep in the first place rather than do the job right once and for all."

Well, I could sit here and go on and on with every last detail blow by blow, but there wouldn't be any point to it. See I wasn't there so what I put down here is just sort of a made up conversation. Oh it happened all right, no doubt about it and it was about the pump. They told me about it later, but I'm coming to that. I've been in on these discussions before so I know how they go. Chances are that what I wrote was more or less word for word exactly what they said.

This time Eunice held the upper hand. That vacation was pretty important for the two of them, no question about it. They could drill a deep well and put in a freakin' submersible pump and the whole nine yards and sit home all year and listen to nothin' 'cause the freakin' pump would be a hundred and fifty feet under ground and you couldn't hear nothin' that way. Or they could buy a new pump, a good one, not one of them ‘bleep, bleep, bleep’ hundred dollar jobbies. Three, maybe four hundred dollars would get you one that had some real juice. They could install it themselves and still go on a holiday she reckoned.

Well, that was just too much argument for Mabel. She did her level best to turn the tide but finally had to throw in the towel. She wouldn't have been such a lame duck about it either except for that bleepin' holiday they both wanted so bad. She made a mental note just in case something went wrong. One thing you've got to say about both Mabel and Eunice is that once they reach a consensus, by whatever means, they go after what they decided on with the same gusto they go after each other. So they went pump shopping. They gave a wide berth to that Canadian Tire bleep. Schwartz's didn't have what they wanted. Neither did Certified Septic Service. Finally they lucked out at a pump service not too far from their place. They had to have one of them Monarch pumps - a Red something or other. The trenching and backhoe guy told them that's what they should get. So they did.

Buying the best there is that’s one thing. Removing the old piece of bleep and installing the new one is quite another. Can't you just imagine the running dialogue during the whole long process? I mean, here they are proud as peacocks of their new Red Thunder and Lightning freakin' pump in their hot little hands. All that stands between them and a decent shower is that old bleepity bleep piece of bleep. They can hardly contain themselves. You'd think they'd have learned by now, but no, not Mabel - or Eunice for that matter. It's Friday night and they got the whole weekend ahead of them. Now if they could only get the dishes out of the way and enough water for reserve after the spark plugs all have their baths, they could get started.

"Holy Bleep!" says Eunice, standing at the kitchen counter, instructions in one hand and a beer in the other. "This pump even has a brass screw to set your cut off pressure."

"Let me see that," demands Mabel. It's not that she doesn't believe Eunice, but she's got to see everything just because she wants to. Besides, she's itchy to get at it.

"You can just wait 'til I'm finished Mabel, unless you want to stand right here and read along with me."

"Don't start," chuckles Mabel, firmly planted in the big easy chair and playing pool on the video game. "I just want to see for a minute."

Eunice wanders nonchalantly into the living room with her beer and instruction book in hand and waits until Mabel is about to make a shot. "Here!" she yells, making Mabel miss.

Eunice totally ignores the long string of picturesque oratory and kneels beside her friend. "See," she smiles pointing to the page, "that's quite a set up."

Well, they do have a sense of humor right along with a competitive nature and you more or less have to take your amusement where you can get it when you’re as busy as those two.

They hem and haw like that for a couple of hours about tools and clamps and hose sizes until finally Mabel runs out of patience. "You kids got about ten minutes until there's no more water. What's not done has to wait until tomorrow."

Naturally everybody’s been procrastinating and now the whole house is filled with groans and moans and a lot of noisy dishes and pots being filled. That's one thing the spark plugs have learned the hard way. When Mabel says ten minutes, she means ten minutes and that's when she turned off the water.

It was a long night to say the least, what with fittings that wouldn't come off, and hoses that seemed to be welded to the fittings. Stress was quickly mounting.

"Howard," Mabel yells at the end of another long oratory aimed at the whole corroded bleepin' mess, "Howard, go get Ralph!"

"Huh?" It was nearly ten o'clock and Howard had been in bed for at least an hour, though who could sleep with all that ruckus going on? Besides, what did she want with his dad at this hour anyway?

"In the garage," Mabel explains. "The big pipe wrench." That was Mabel's own little inside joke. She'd named the pipe wrench Ralph after her ex because she said they were both pretty good at screwing around. Not that there was any truth to it, but it tickled her fancy. As I said, you had to get your amusement where you could.

"Oh," says Howard and shuffles off to bring back the tool that was big enough to scare any pump into submission.

Mabel's jaw is set. "Now," she says, "well see if this freakin' frickin' piece of bleep is going to get the best of me!"

Eunice notices the determined look in Mabel's eye as the big wrench comes into her hand. "For God's sakes Mabel, be careful. We only got so many spare parts!" There's a touch of panic in her voice.

"I need a drink!" says Mabel. "Alice," she hollers upstairs to number two spark plug. Make me a drink. You know what."

Eunice interrupts. "I'LL make you a drink," she says. "Alice, I'll make the drink. You go out to the beer fridge and get me a cold beer."

Alice goes out to the beer fridge while Eunice pours three fingers of whiskey over ice and adds some coke. "There now," she smiles sweetly at Mabel. "Let's just take a little breather and then we should get it done."

The stress seems to diminish in direct proportion to the amount of whiskey left in the glass. The coke just serves as confirmation of this as a little burp escapes Mabel's mouth. "Alright then dearie," she smiles. "You hold the pump right there and I'll start getting the hoses in place."

About this time, we get a phone call. It's Alice. She's dying to talk to someone with a civil tongue in his or her head. "Where are you?" I ask. I figured she was in the city.

"In the closet," she says quietly.

"What in thunder are you doing on the phone in the closet?"

"Mom said I'd be better off in some place other than where her and Eunice are so I'm hiding in here," she explains with a small giggle.

"Oh." So we chat for a while and then I turn the phone over to her grandma and they do more of the same.

Well, as I said, it was a long night. When it was over, both women were dog-tired, but they felt good about their accomplishment as well they should. They put tools away, swept and vacuumed and dusted, and even hauled that freakin' frickin' piece of bleep out to the garage where nobody, especially them, would ever see it again. Satisfied, they tumbled in to bed, dreaming of a traveling vacation out east.

Wellsir, that was the next time we heard from them, about four days into their holiday. They had already arrived at their destination and were settling in for a good time. We figured they just phoned to let us know they got there safe and sound. Well they did that all right. But there was another thing they wanted to talk about. You guessed it - the pump. The freakin', frickin' new-fangled bleeping' pump. Could I go and have a look to see what the trouble was?

See, they'd never have known about it until they got back except that Lilly, the oldest spark plug had opted to stay home instead of going with them. That was understandable enough. Lilly was fifteen - going on thirty and she'd been holed up with the rest of the annoying crew the whole summer holiday. This was her chance to get some peace and quiet and be grown up all by herself without being pestered to distraction. The phone and the computer were hers to command at will. Her girlfriend could stay over a night or two and who knows, she might even get lucky if her boyfriend got back from his vacation before the rat pack was due home. Then - no water! Suddenly Lilly is just a little kid again with everything crashing down around her.

"Mom!" she whines on the phone. "Mom, there's no water! It's just awful. The cats have no water, the toilet's gross and what should I do?"

This is just what Eunice needs. They just got away on their precious holiday and her whiney brat is on the phone trying to prick a hole in their bubble. Well too bad! She doesn't give a rat's thing-a-me-bob if the house is on fire. They're not coming home until it's time to come home. They might even stay longer if they bleepin' well feel like it. That's what's going through Eunice's mind. Then she feels a moment of panic.

"Lilly, is the pump - oh for God's sake stop you whimpering and pay attention. Is the pump still running? Go look. If it is, shut it off. I'll hold."

While she waits she hollers over her shoulder to Mabel who is sitting on the deck, relaxing. "She says she's got no water."

"Oh bleep," says Mabel.

Lilly comes back on the line. "I turned it off. It was really hot and smoking."

Normally Eunice would have tore into her daughter for not paying attention to things but since they're visiting friends who aren't quite used to her dialogue in that kind of a mood, she thinks better of it. Instead, she tells her to shut up and quit whining. They'll think of something and call her back. That seems to work.

That's when I got the phone call. It was Mabel. Would I go out and look at the pump. There was probably nothing I could do, she opined. The well was probably dry and they'd have to bite the bullet and drill a deep well after all, when they got back. Like they should have done in the first place, she added. She said it loud enough so Eunice could hear who was right the first time. I could call them later and let them know what was what.

By the time I got there, Lilly had regained her composure and at least I didn't have to comfort some whimpering, snotty-nosed teenager. I went right to the pump room. Sure enough there was no water anywhere except in the catchall tray they used in case of a leak somewhere. Even the pump had lost its prime, which was a little strange. I filled the pump from the jug of water I had brought with me and turned on the switch.

The pressure came right up as the big red pump dug into the aquifer. The well was no more dry than the Pacific ocean. For a minute I couldn't figure out what was what. Little jet streams of fine misty spray were coming from just about every fitting and hose joint there was. It was like one of them water fountain displays without the lights. Then I noticed my belly was shaking. I seemed to be laughing. Well, is it any wonder? Watching this mini water ballet I pictured the whole installation procedure in all it's drama being played out in my head. Lilly wondered what the heck was so funny.

"Nothin'," I choked, still visualizing. I turned the pump off. The whole thing was glommed together with them PVC elbows and couplings. And what had I said about that freakin' PVC bleep? Aw jeez, now they had me talking just like them! Well at least I was only cussin' to myself so it didn't really count. Sooner or later they'd figure out that galvanized fittings were the only thing to use if you wanted to do the job right. Well, the long and the short of it was that between Ralph the pipe wrench and me, we pretty well got all the leaks stopped and Lilly was able to go back to being a sophisticated young woman in the luxury of peace and quiet. Mabel and Eunice and the spark plugs could lounge around Ontario and wax poetic about how each of them had been right in the first place.

Well when you think about it, Mabel had been right in that if they had drilled a deep well and had somebody professional put in the pump, they wouldn't have had all that aggravation. She had a point. Eunice on the other hand was right too in that if they hadn't bought that super duper red thunder and lightning freakin' pump they wouldn't be here right now enjoying themselves. Fair enough. So in the long and animated discussion that followed, they came upon the ridiculous conclusion that every time you do one of these new installations, the fittings and clamps and hoses have to seat themselves. Then after a while you have to tighten them up again and Bob's your uncle. Everything is tickety boo.

As for me, I got into this being right a bit myself. Heck, all they had to do was to use galvanized fittings and pipes instead of this cheap PVC bleep and Bob's still your uncle. One thing it taught me though was that being right gives you kind of a boost. If you work at it, everybody can have totally opposing views and still be right - in their own ways of course. It's all a matter of how you define right.

An Open Letter to the Toronto Maple Leafs

Consistence is a virtue the Toronto Maple Leafs can lay claim to. It's about the only virtue left to the once great dynasty when players like the Kennedy brothers, Cyl Apps, Bill Ezinicki and Turk Broda ruled the NHL.

Things could have been different, oh so much different had they only listened. But a creeping intransigence has put a strangle hold on the team's management without them even knowing it. Up to now, no one has taken the initiative to point this out to them, so I have taken it upon myself as my loyal duty to the Toronto Maple Leafs Past, to jolt them into reality. It's time someone did that!

An Open Letter to

The Toronto Maple Leafs Management

From “Vicious” Vic Epp, defenseman

The Weston Memorial Community Club

Bantam B Hockey team of 1949

February 6, 2009

Re: Statue of Limitations

Take Notice:

Awright! This is where the rubber hits the road! An’ don’t act like you don’t know full well what I’m talkin’ about. It’s the rights to my services as a player that youse been hangin’ on to in your gnarly little hands since the winter of forty-nine when I signed up as defenseman an’ no less than assistant captain of the Weston Memorial Community Club Bantam B hockey club.

Our coach told us in no uncertain terms that youse guys had first dibs on us as players, an’ we believed him, cause whatever coach said was absolute gospel. He wouldn’t never lie to us. I even told my mom youse might call anytime an’ to be sure an’ pick up the phone when youse did. I sure as blazes wasn’t goin’ to be the one to miss the call.

Well, a whole sixty years has slipped away somewheres an’ until yesterday I was still waitin’. Well, I wasn’t just only waitin’. While I was doin’ that, I was thinkin’ too. I was thinkin’ of all the reasons I come to the decision that the statue of limitations on your crummy players rights was comin’ down. An, don’t think I don’t know the difference between the statue of limitations and the statute of limitations neither! I know full well what it is that’s comin’ down. There’s no way in H E double hockey sticks your gonna get me to play for youse now – an’ just in case youse all of a sudden get scairt, I’m gonna tell youse right up front just exactly why. I made a list. You’re gonna see that youse guys made a huge big mistake, an’ now you’re gonna have to suffer for it. So here youse are – the bald – faced truth!

1) Youse guys never phoned. Youse knew my number. It was right there on the form I signed – two long and one short. What could be easier than that? My mom would’a answered too. Remember, that was a time when moms still stayed home to look after families. So there’s no excuse, but youse never called.

2) Even if youse wanted to make it official in a letter, Con Smythe was never so poor he couldn’t afford a postage stamp, even when it went up from one cent to two. Youse never sent one.

3) Me an’ Wally Winters practiced regular, except Sundays when I had to go to Sunday School, but I made up for that durin’ the week. An’ we played every game too! We was ready for you, even back then in the golden days of hockey when life magazine was good for things other than just readin’, an Eaton’s catalogues was specially good for goalies. We perfected our wrist shots at a time when slap shots was only for golfers in knickers, an’ guys like Turk Broda would wear brush cuts to make it easier for to stitch up their heads rather than hide behind some sissy pants face mask. We even observed the iron rule of never fightin’ on the ice. We had the common courtesy to save that for the parkin’ lot after the game when the pads was off and skates in the duffel bags had some authority. If youse wanted to beat the snot outta’ them trippers an’ high stickers, that was the honorable way to do it – not with all that new fangled paddin’ meant for sissies! An’ we always – I repeat, always allowed fan participation, just like they done in the Montreal riot when Rocket Richard was ejected from the game. We would never think of denyin’ the public it’s right to get in on the act – even the cops. But, youse never called.

4) All them years we kept ourselves clean an’ pure for you, like sacrificial virgins for the sun god. We never entertained any offers from other teams either an’ just ignored whatever overtures they might have made - or not. We was loyal to our contract. Still, youse never called.

5) Ab MacDonald an’ Cec Hoekstra went an’ jumped ship to join the Montreal Canadians an’ won a bunch of Stanley Cups. We was sure we’d hear from youse then. After all, we’d played with them an’ knew how to shut them down. But youse didn’t call.

6) Still we was loyal, good to our word – loyal, but disappointed an’ gettin’ discouraged. I mean – how many Stanley Cups have youse guys won since the sixties? Tell me that! But did youse call? Youse didn’t call.

7) I don’t know about Wally. We haven’t talked much since them glory days. But together with bein’ disappointed an’ discouraged, me myself personally – I’m also disgusted. That’s right – disgusted! Youse didn’t call.

8) It all comes down to this. It seems youse got just a tad too uppity from your early days when youse actually won a Stanley Cup or two. Youse got respect in them days. Youse got loyal fans in them days too. Youse even got players waitin’ in the wings for to carry youse along the high road. But no, youse wouldn’t call.

9) Youse had it in your hands. Youse coulda been a contender. Youse coulda been somebody! If only youd’a called.

10) Well – it’s too late now. The way youse guys are playin’ these days, youse might as well take the money youse got out’a sellin’ the Maple Leaf Gardens an’ buy a bunch of rowboats. That way, youse can all sit on your butts goin backwards, an’ maybe still win first prize.

So I’m givin’ youse fair notice. Don’t even bother tryin’ the two long an’ one short phone number. Ain’t nobody gonna answer no more. Youse are too late! All yer kissin’ up won’t change nothin’. Youse had yer chance an’ youse blew it, so just suck it up buttercup, an’ consider it a lesson learned.

When the place I’m probly goin’ to in the life after this one freezes over, I’ll know youse actually won another Stanley Cup. But truth be told, I ain’t even gonna bother to take a parka.

Your long sufferin’ potential left defenseman,

“Vicious” Vic Epp

Mabel and Eunice and the Freakin Frickin Skunk

Well, you have to tell it how it is or how it was, and this is more or less how it was.

Mabel and Eunice and the Freakin Frickin Skunk

By Victor Epp

You might think that from what you know about these two that nothing would really buffalo them. Well, that may be the truth of it in pretty well most cases. The appetite they have for devouring the business of just plain living, not much would have the gumption to stand in their way. Well, what would be the point? Whatever it was would just get mowed down anyway; might as well save them the trouble.

Makes sense too, come to think of it. I mean you just have to look at each of their backgrounds to see that you'd have every right to think that way. I mean, Mabel was one of those people when she was younger who would do something just because you said she couldn't. She spent two years in the army when she was a teenager just because somebody said she'd never be able to hack it. Man, there were some miserable times during that period, but she freakin showed somebody. Must not have harmed her any either because she can still shine her shoes better'n anybody I've ever seen.

And Eunice - well Eunice tomcatted around in the country all her life and there wasn't much of anything she wouldn't try to fix if it was broke. It wasn't anything special to see her feet sticking out from underneath that big tub of a station wagon of hers, or her and Howard, that's one of Mabel's brats, chasing down some unsuspecting heron in somebody's stubble field just to get a close up look at the critter.

Well, given all that, it's really no wonder you'd come to that conclusion. But I'm here to tell you that some things are bigger than the both of them put together. There's that thing called extenuating circumstances. When you throw that into the mix there's no telling what might come out the other end. In this case it was Mud.

Now that don't sound right either, but it’s a fact. See Mud isn't just mud. Mud, short for Muddy, is a dog - a big excitable critter that's named for what she gets into more than anything. To look at her you'd think she's just an ordinary cross between lab and shepherd and maybe a couple of other things thrown in. But her brain, such as it is reminds me of something between my curious one year old great grandson and one of them screaming teenagers you see at rock concerts. She gets excited at just about anything, barking so hard that her feet actually leave the ground. About the only way you can calm her down I is wrap a hockey stick around her empty skull a few times.

You'd think I was talking about some ferocious man eating creature the way I say it, but actually the reverse is true. The first clap of thunder that goofy mutt hears and she's trying to get her big bony body under the bed. It's the same thing when some stranger pulls into the driveway. She'll bark and jump as though she'll eat whoever it is and then when they get out of the car, run and hide in the garage. Somehow Mud kind of fits into that household.

Extenuating circumstances is what I said. Wellsir, you take a house in the country, hot, dry weather, one of them concrete front steps attached to the foundation with shrinking soil under it and you've got your extenuating circumstances. I'm describing the exact situation at Mabel and Eunice's place a few summers ago, especially the shrinking soil under the front step. See that's just the sort of thing that makes a right fine cooling off place for some of nature's creatures. You can just crawl in there out of the sun and take yourself a good snooze without anyone ever knowing you're there, unless you happen to be a skunk.

"Holy bleep!" says Mabel, who happens to be sitting in the living room right beside the open front door. "There's a freakin' skunk in the yard!"

First thing Eunice does is check on where Mud is. She's been known to get skunked once or twice without ever learning a lesson. Nope, Mud's in the dog run. Can't be her. She scans the back yard to see if the critter is around somewhere, just passing through. No skunk is to be seen anywhere - front or back. Mabel would have slammed the door shut except it's too hot in the house as it is. Up until now the breeze had provided a bit of relief from the heat. Now it was providing enough skunk aromas to make you think the critter was right there in the house.

Wellsir, it got to be a little too much in a heck of a hurry. Howard and Mavis, the two youngest brats figured they'd go out and find the thing. It didn't take the two of them long to figure out exactly where it was either. Yeah, you guessed it. It was sleeping under the front step. Well, that was a fine freakin' how do you do according to Mabel. Eunice didn't help matters any when she announced that it was probably a female going to have her babies under there and we might as well get used to it unless somebody knew how to get it out of there. For once, Mabel doesn't even challenge Eunice's opinion. She just tells her to shut up and don't say things nobody wants to know about. As I said before, those two have a way with words.

Well, I'm no expert on skunks but as kids we'd flushed enough gophers out of their holes to know that water and burrowing animals don't mix too well. It was worth a shot. I tell Mabel to get the twenty-two while I get the hose to flush the sucker out. Well, it's standard procedure. You drown the critter out of it's burrow and when it emerges you brain it with a board or sling shot or a pellet gun or whatever you have handy. A skunk's skull is thick enough though, that you need a twenty-two as a minimum.

As soon as I start unreeling the hose Mud sees me and knows there's going to be water around. She tries jumping over the top of the run. I pay no attention. My mind is on how fast I can run once the skunk shows its ugly face from under the step. Being skunked is not a whole lot of fun for humans so I'm calculating which way the animal is likely to run and what my escape routes ought to be. Maude, that's Eunice's middle brat, is wandering around wringing her hands and whimpering. She's one of those earth people who wince whenever she has to swat a mosquito. She doesn't want the skunk to be hurt.

We're not sure whether Eunice is trying to comfort Maude or being sarcastic. "We're not going to hurt it dear," she says sweetly. We're going to blow its bleepin brains out. It won't feel a thing."

Then she adds, "Sort of like premeditated murder." Yep, she's being sarcastic all right. Maude starts to out and out bawl and that gets Mud even more excited. Holy bleep! Does everything have to be a three-ring circus around here?

On a more conciliatory note Eunice adds, "Aw, quit your blubberin Maude. If you stunk that bad you'd want to be put out of your misery too, just so you didn't have to smell yourself."

Maude is not consoled.

By now I've got the hose hauled out to the front of the house and over the stair so that the skunk won't trip over it. Alice and Mavis and Howard are hanging around waiting for the action. Maude is pacing up and down the yard blubbering. Lilly is lying on the couch disdainfully. The whole thing is disgusting as far as she's concerned. Mabel is wandering from closet to closet trying to remember where she'd left the twenty-two while Eunice is looking for the shells.

Wellsir once I get into position I take a sprinter's starting stance and turn on the water. It keeps on coming and coming and still no skunk. I have to figure out a different way to stand so as not to collapse when it finally comes out. Another ten minutes or so of hosing and I see a little black snout poking out from under the step. If any more of the critter shows up, I'm ready to clear out, but no, the snout disappears again the way it came. I yell at Mabel to get out here before the thing gets away.

Finally the snout reappears, pauses for a second and is followed by the rest of the body, which is surprisingly big. I had it figured right, She's headed north down the driveway. Perfect!

"Shoot the sucker!" somebody hollers.

"I've got to sight the gun in first," says Mabel excitedly. She's fumbling in her pocket for the shells.

"What?" Here's a woman could hold her own with Annie Oakley any day of the week and she's got to sight her gun in - her own gun at that? She's just making that up, I think.

Just as the skunk sets its course for the driveway, who shows up around the corner of the house but Mud? She's managed to clear the dog run fence and needs to check out all this commotion. When Mud sees the skunk she starts yappin and yippin and hoppin up and down like she's on a pogo stick. She scared the pants off just about everyone including herself.

"For bleep sake Mabel, shoot the freakin' thing!" yells Eunice, exasperated.

Mabel fires a round into the middle of a fence post about a hundred paces away. "Yep, it shoots true," she announces. There's this funny look on her face.

"Mom, Mom! It's getting away!" Howard keeps yelling, waving his arms frantically.

Mud, who's peed all over the lawn and herself in the excitement makes a lunge for the skunk and gets a snoot full. The skunk sees that things are not going too well and changes its mind about the driveway. It wheels right and heads straight toward Mabel's car that she left in front of the open garage door. Naturally, the windows are all down in this heat.

It's all Eunice can do to keep from ripping the twenty-two out of Mabel's hands. "For bleep sake woman," she screams at the top of her lungs, "pull the frickin trigger!"

"I can't!" Mabel screams back just as loud. "I'll hit the freakin car!"

The skunk vanishes.

"Idiot!" mutters Eunice under her breath. Out loud she wonders where the thing went.

"It's in the car and I hope it sprays on every bleepin thing in it!" Maude pipes up defiantly. 'Sprays' isn't exactly the word she used but we'll let it go at that. Good Lord, if she isn't sounding more and more like her mother.

"Alice, you go look," says Mabel.

Normally Alice would happily comply, but not this time. In fact nobody is particularly enthusiastic about the idea. Maybe it doesn't occur to Mabel that she's got two legs too, but she doesn't offer either. It finally gets the best of Howard and Mavis. They're at an age when the chance of an adventure is more important than the consequence.

"Nope," they sing in unison, "not in there."

Maude seems disappointed and I get a sudden hankerin to go look in the garage. See, my car is in the other bay and I don't know if my windows are closed. Thankfully they are but the smell is sure strong in there. Well, it's a big garage but its wide open to see what's what and there's no skunk in there that I can see. Mind, there's the workbench across the back with several shelves under it but still I see nothing. The smell down towards the other end though leaves no doubt about the skunk's whereabouts.

Howard is lying on his belly on the floor with a flashlight shining under the bottom shelf. "I see it!" he announces triumphantly. "I see its beady eyes under the shelf."

It's impossible for a critter that size to get under that shelf through a missing piece of kick plate, but somehow it did.

It seems the adventure isn't over yet. Now we've got to get it out of there somehow. That's going to be even more interesting since the hose won't reach that far. Banging on the shelf with the hammer doesn't do anything either. That skunk is staying put.

First I back my car out and park it down the driveway with the windows shut. The idea is to make as much running room as possible if I flush the thing out. Then I get a couple of the longest sticks I can find and tie them together and start prodding. Mabel and Eunice are standing behind Mabel's car complaining about how everything happens to them.

"Here it comes!" yells Howard at his mom and jumps up out of the way.

"Oh bleep!" says a flustered Mabel. She fumbles with the shells in her pocket, loads the gun and takes another shot at the fence post.

The skunk in the meantime is headed right for her car. At the sound of the shot it takes another turn, fires off a big burst of spray and heads off in the deep grass. Maude is trying to stifle a diabolical snicker. I guess she's figured out that Mabel doesn't really want to hurt the skunk either, but that's not for me to announce to the world.

With sad resignation Eunice breaks out the tomato juice, paper towels and all the paraphernalia the goes with removing skunk odor from cars and dogs. They're smart enough to know better than to bark at each other over this bungled manhunt, so they demurely focus on polishing the car, keeping the conversation to comments on how nice it looks.

There's a footnote to this story that bears mentioning. As you've already seen I always try to be helpful and this time was no different than others. It's just my nature. When the supply of tomato juice was about exhausted, I gave the girls one of them pine tree car deodorizers that I had to spare. It would have to do and maybe it just would.

Extenuating circumstances again intervened. Driving to work in the wee hours of the morning was bearable enough, what with the cool air blowing in the car windows. At that time of day the girls never thought much about closing the windows and locking the car up tight once they got to the parking lot. Well you had to keep everything locked down tight with maybe three or four hundred other cars in the same lot. It was a beautiful clear day, not a breeze in the air. The sun baked everything in site at about ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit. That's how the concoction of skunk juice and pine tree deodorized simmered and slow-cooked all day. When Mabel opened the door at quitting time, she could have sworn she saw all the cars around her shuddering.

All I know is at around supper time there was a great cloud of dust on the gravel road by our place and the car was going so fast it had trouble negotiating the turns in the driveway. It had hardly stopped when Eunice and Mabel came flying out like they'd been shot out of a cannon. Eunice headed straight for the shower and Mabel for the pool. For once there was no freakin frickin dialogue. By the time they finally emerged for their supper about two hours later some of the green in their complexion was starting to fade.

The next morning I did notice that they'd taken Eunice's big tub of a station wagon, leaving Mabel's car at home with the windows wide open. There was a small pile of clothes in the burn barrel too. Nobody's ever talked about the affair since, until I brought it up the other day. Now it seems a whole lot more humorous than it was at the time.