Settle in, grab a cup of coffee and enjoy your stay here at Shelly's. The pie is great, the coffee pot is always on and soon you will find this to be the best place in town. SOON TO BE AMERICA'S MOST READ BLOG

Saturday, December 30, 2006

A HOLIDAY GREETING FROM AUNT SARAH AND UNCLE WILLY


Some of our new readers may not know Aunt Sarah. She has been a faithful reader for many years but has sadly gotten busy and ignored us for a while. Her wit and husbands down home political insight has always amazed us



Dear Friens


I shur be haten to admit that it ben quite a long tim since I writ folks at Scrappleville and after the poleece came nockin on our door here bout a few weeks ago lookin for Ms, well I be thinkin just how we lost tuch with yall.

We spent a little time on the telerphone with the Edwards family talkin bout politics and such, beein pa knows bout much as any man here in Hindsville. They have a son Carter ya heard Shelly tell bout him at her cafe. It suddenly like hit me that Edwards folks had a son named Carter and we had a good kick bout that. Thing is the Edwards we know ain't got near as much hair and Carter doesnt know Israel from a peanut. But that is just like the other Carter to.

I keep readin bout that boy at the cafe place and figured a trip to Arkysaw wood do him a rat bit of good but the train don't run by here and I reckon he ain't got no car ta make it no wear nears. Pa sed we sure could use a place like Shellys here bouts, git some good yarnen goin for sure

So what me and pa been doin all these here days since? I be delited to tell ya now that pa been crowin all bout town. We sold the back 10 acers to a goverment experimenten place that studies a thing called glober warmering. Seemed like Clinton owed some money or somptin to Al Gore and insteed got him a grant to build this building full of imsterments of doo dads and sence they didnt want no onlookers starin about we sold them the only rode back thar.

Seence that day bout a yeer now pa had his hands full pullin gags and messen with them folks by paintin there windows with cyclone clouds, putting chicken droppins near there methain chekers and one day he set an ol dead mule with the bloat roun back where they check on air cwality here in Arkysaw.

One goverment man sed if things don't git better that chicken farmin will hafe ta go and Walmarts will buy up everthin insted and bein the folks here bout depens on chickens to pay thar rent we decided the mule had ta go.

We sold the Studebaker pikup to Jake Wildahan down in Gypsum Furnace last fall since parts were hard ta come by and be'en broken down ment no visitin and for pa, worse yet no goen ta Interational House of Pancakes. Pa found himself an old Dodge pickup over in Myrtle Ridge and though it were just a 65 model the tars all match up pretty well. My daughter that works for Arkysaw Bell, you know the one that got a job as a call girl, came by one day to drop off our granchild and pa put her back on the bus and sent her back to Little Rock. He didn like the childs big city ways cuz the kid was 12 and had no idear bout gettin wedded up anytam soon. Pa sed he didn wanna be supportin any old maids

We got a Christmas card from New York City. Seems since we own all this goverment area property all them politishuns thinks we are sumptin speshal. Hillary and that husbnd of hers sed they were wishin us the best and thinking bout us. Pa didn sleep for a week sittin on top of his Dodge waiten fer Bill but I finnly convinced him that probably at lest a hunderd others got that same card.

We got a new roof fer our house with the goberment money but pa really wanted a double wide but I told him I just couldnt move out of the old place since all are memries are here. We been thinkin hard bout pulling the barn back up from the slu also. Been down thar since the big flood 2 years back.

Well that's bout all ceptin our last visit up ta Fayetteville last wek to the Interational House of Cakes. Pa had his try at the latest speshal though I warned him better. It was called the New Deal Deal. Seems like it were to be steak and eggs but all we saw was pork and the more ya paid fer the less ya got. Pa were fit ta be tied and the waitress as uzual had a good laugh but filled him up with Buckwheat cakes now pa is rat happy.

He stopped over cross the street to se if theys were any of them highly polished educators hanging at the university but theys all home for Christmas. He brout home a protestor a few weeks back who sed things were deplorabe in Iraq but after stayin here a few days he sorta changed his mind and thought maybe things over there might be a bit better than here. Pa laughed and sed it worked evertime.

With all our love from wonderfull Arkysaw
Aunt Sarah and Uncle Willie

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

Welcome To The 2006 Eating Olympics

Oh my dear readers, so many holiday stories that never made it to the pages of Shelly's. I may need to do catch-up way into January. sigh. But here we go--up and at 'em


Did I hear the word "misery," emanate from one's vocabulary? Ah yes, welcome to the 2006 Eating Olympics where contestants from all across America once again gather in homes to show the world we are not gastronomical wimps. This year's kick off started November and will end somewhere after the Orthodox Christmas in January.


Many of you who entered the Holiday Open with little or no training for this event are probably lying on the floor this morning holding your cramping stomachs wishing you had not partaken in the final 5 Meter Table Relays. That leg of turkey, hunk of ham, plate of cranberries, piece of pie, dish of applesauce and other multiple culinary delights our grubby little hands could grab onto has now separated the professionals from the amateurs.

The first sitting at the Thanksgiving table would have sufficed for most wanna-be contestants. The second helping, well, heck, it was a food orientated holiday, but those who made the round for the third time, guess you just thought you had would it took, huh. Come on folks, admit it, you surpassed last's years record so far by 135 grams of fat plus an additional 45 grams of sodium. For goodness sake, what where you thinking of. If you are going for the Holiday Gold, you better whip yourself into shape first.

Sure, there are some of you readers in Eating Olympic denial and can call out carb numbers like batting averages, but just look at your shopping list–sugar, chocolate chips, pecans, whipped topping, Crisco™, potato chips, sugar sprinkles, deep frying oil, butter, ham, pie filling, peanuts, cashews, corn syrup, wine, beer, Fluff™, pretzels with extra salt, more butter and oh yes, make that a 25 pound bag of sugar. Oh, and don't forget the caramels and while you are at it grab another pound of butter, just in case.

Walking through the store I notice the "novice," participant buying fresh fruit and veggies to camouflage calorie laden necessities. My advice to you weenies is this–if you are going to be a winner, look like a winner. Strut your stuff and don't be intimidated. Lift that bag of sugar, heave them hams and load up that cart with a sense of pride and purpose. Go for the taco chips, after all, you are an American, by God.

Yes folks, the 2006 Eating Olympics have begun and the Food Network is signed on for the World Finals. Truck load after truck load of work out supplies have been dropped off at favorite supermarkets and big case stores near you. Just like those dangerous fat robbing gyms, your local purveyor of calories has Muzak to better psych your mind. Songs like, "Tis the season to pack the pounds on, fa la la la la la la, will glide you through the toughest of obstacles.

For those who never made the grade in previous events here are a few secrets. First, it is not just the food. We have other means to hit our goal on the Holiday Plunge to the Pounds, like television entertainment. You got it, all our favorites return to the new exciting world of digital High-Def. Now how many times have you seen, "It's a Wonderful Life?" One more time will never hurt our training regimen–as a matter of fact, it will fit right in. So grab another bowl of buttered popcorn and sink down into that oh so, comfy couch. And hey aren't all the bowl games about to be aired! Tired of television, then go to the theater for all the new Christmas releases.

All right, you say, I'm hip to the waistline expansion program. So you run to the movies and hit the video stores with stacks of your all time favorites like Home Alone and Christmas Story, but you start sweating with horrid thoughts of mall shopping. True, it can be a calorie burner with all that walking. Give yourself a break. It is safer than you think. Just find the Otis Cookie counter, wash it down with a Coffee Castle double whipped café Ole and just watch your timing so you can hit the Double Cheeseburger Court before you are tempted to go home and nibble baked chicken and steamed broccoli.

Be judicious at this point. Fatigue can easily set in, so watch for that multiplex theater near the mall. You know there has to be at least one more movie you haven't seen, plus you been meaning to get that gift card for Uncle Seymour anyhow. Remember, the extra large barrel of popcorn has free refills and that salt, man how it makes us thirsty. You see, a good workout is really quite simple.

Alright, so you have been following my advice so far and you're one of a million Americans that keeps Alka Seltzer™ on tap. I bet there are more opportunities you have overlooked to set a new personal best. Have you looked at your Day Runner? Count them, one, two, three, ah five Christmas parties and those are just the office bashes. You can't forget the family get together and if you are married you can multiply that by two. Oh, feel that waist line begin to tighten–ya baby, you can do it!

Just remember this gastronomic event is the decathlon. If you are not ready, stay with the 40 calorie sprint or the low fat hurdles until you reach peak performance. For optimum results insert words like stationary and stagnant into your conversation. A little prep will eliminate the morning stomach cramps so focus, focus, focus. You are never alone. Find a work out partner and go for the Gold!!!

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF CARTER EDWARDS: PART DEUX-- CARTER BECOMES A BUSINESS TYCOON



Part Deux


The clock struck high noon at the McComb County Courthouse as Carter steered his water-logged Buick into Bruford. After locating what seemed to be an ideal spot to start a poultry business, he parked the Carter's Fresh Turkeys, Inc vehicle, set up a paste board sign announcing fresh turkeys for sale and waited for customers to, excuse the wording, flock to his market

The crisp morning air soon gave away to autumn warmth as the sun poked through the valley fog. The afternoon temperatures climbed into the 60's, causing the crushed ice in the back seat to melt faster than Carter anticipated. The murky water flowed out the door, onto the warm pavement, then slowly formed a stream heading towards town square. A large swarm of flies found sudden delight in the crimson creek.

Carter sold two turkeys right off the bat. This he thought, had to be the big payoff he waited for all his life. Sixteen more sales and he could return to the poultry plant and repeat this transaction until every soul in Bruford had their Thanksgiving turkey–not just a turkey but a genuine Carter Edwards' Inc. Fresh Turkey. Within the hour he sold three more turkeys and the Crosby Diner, the home of his wayward-one-time–hoped-for girlfriend, bought four. Nine more to go, Carter thought, with a comforting sigh, as the warm afternoon sun made his eyes feel a little heavy. Nine more to go.

Carter jerked when he suddenly heard steps walking up from behind. There was a familiar sound to those steps, worse yet, a recognizable voice complaining about some jerk who parked a foul smellin' car on the street causing his Blue Tick hound to have nasaler type fits. That voice caused fear to run through his blood. He jumped from the seat of the Buick to confirm his suspicions. There stood gramps, leaning on his old hickory cane, eye to eye with Carter. Gramps greeted his grandson with an unmerciful whack across the legs. Carter fell to the ground in tormented pain.

"You stupid moron," Gramps yelled in his quaking elderly voice. "Why you ain't no smarter than your no account pa. Look at this mess you're a makin'. And where in tarnation did ya git that barge your drivin, what makes ya think ya got money ‘nuff to own the likes of that–why your probably breakin' your ma's heart actin like this."

"Well gee," Carter responded, "I only tried...."

"Shut up," Gramps yelled, as he took another swing at his grandson and hit the door of the Buick, causing it to fly open, allowing a deluge of water to cascade out. "Now get off the ground and stand up. Act like an Edwards, not like some kinda weasel. Stand up I said."

Carter grabbed the half-opened car door and pulled himself up, though he swore both legs were broke.

Gramps looked about at the mess. "Now the way I sees things, you must ah spent a king's ransom on these turkeys. Where did ya git that kind of money," he asked squinting at Carter through one eye and still threatening to wallop him with the hickory cane.

Before Carter could answer a crowd gathered about, taunting him to clobber the old man. A circus atmosphere surrounded the area as town folks placed bets on who was going to win this fight. Suddenly Eb Victor pushed into the throng and asked what in the world the commotion was about. Eb held the pastorate at the Bruford Church of Attempted Redemption.

Gramps took over the conversation. "I'm jist tryin' to beat some sense into this youngen', why jist look at this here mess he's ah makin. And besides, he ain't tellin' where he got the money to be buyin' all these turkeys.".

Eb looked at Carter with compassion. "Why he's just trying to make something out of his worthless existence here on earth. All God's children deserve at least once chance. Who knows, maybe selling turkeys will give this poor lost dreg at least a half of a chance of making it out of his miserable existence. Go ahead son, tell your poor confused old grandpa how you earned the money to invest in poultry futures."

"Come on son, git a talkin and tell me now where ya got the money and this better be good or I'll wail on ya until ya see stars," Gramps yelled, as he took another swing at Carter with his cane.

"Well," Carter spoke with his eyes looking to the ground. "I, I, well, I pawned off your Studebaker. But I'm gonna pay it back as soon."

"You what," yelled Gramps. "You pawned off my pickup. Why you no account son of a......"

Gramps lifted his cane to administer the coup' de grace when Pastor Eb wrestled it from his wiry old arms.

"Please, please now," Eb said. I'll show you compassion, as the angry clergyman set out to beat Carter within an inch of his life.

"Steal your poor ol' grandpa's Studebaker will ya. I take back all my kind words you wicked heathen, now take that."

One could hear the wind being sucked behind the blow of the hickory cane as Carter jumped up and took flight down the main street of Bruford. Onlookers grabbed rocks, cans or anything else they could find and started pelting him. It became obvious that Carters Fresh Turkeys, Inc was all washed up. Looters claimed the remaining nine turkeys then rolled his Buick Electra over and torched it. Sirens could be heard from all corners of town as emergency vehicles came roaring to the scene.


The angry destruction of his life started looking like a black and white James Cagney movie, complete with thugs, villains, cops and police cruisers. Carter now found himself backed into a dead-end alley. Officer Thompson of the Bruford Police Department threw him to the ground and handcuffed him. Carter now started to convulse and thrash himself around as Officer Thompson kept shaking him harder and harder.

"Wake up Carter, hey wake up buddy. Man what's wrong with you"

Carter flew out of the seat of his car screaming. Sweat poured off his forehead.

"Gosh, I must have fallen asleep. Where's Gramps?"

"Who?"

Gramps, he was just here, I what, I mean he was just here beating on me, wasn't he?"

"Now look here Carter, I don't know anything about your grandpa but you can't be sellin' these turkeys without a health license and I'm sure you don't have one," Officer Thompson said. "Besides look at the mess you're making with all these bloody flies, now scram."

Carter jumped into his water soaked Buick and drove to the edge of town and turned the pasteboard sign around and scribbled, "Turkeys half price, must sell quickly." Curious drivers pulled over and soon he sold the rest of his inventory for what he had into it, except the last three where he took a rather bad beating because all the local dogs came sniffing around and it was time to sell and get it.

As the story winds down we find Carter at Honest Jake's Swap Shop paying back his debts and quickly stuffing the title to gramp's Studebaker truck into his jacket. After a hard day of selling and beating off his imaginary nemesis (or was it imaginary) he came out with ten dollars which he used for gas.


As Carter pulled down into his driveway his car coughed and died. Hard to say if the gas tank was empty or the engine seized up, but for the moment the huge Buick Electra had given up the ghost. Carter slammed the door, went into the house to get the family shotgun and find the turkey that started the whole mess.

As for the car, it sat there for quite a long spell, which is okay because in Carter's world, nobody is going nowhere anyhow.


Happy Thanksgiving.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF CARTER EDWARDS: CHAPTER ONE CARTER BECOMES A BUSINESS TYCOON

I hope you, the reading audience remember Carter Edwards, our young man who seems to lose every battle his life encounters. Other Carter stories are in the files on 6/18 and 8/13.

For a young man whose name would never be found amongst the pages of "Who's Who Of Lucky People," Carter Edwards seemed to be on a roll. A month had passed since he acquired the giant hulk of a ‘72 Buick Electra from Webster McCarver. Much to everyone's dismay the enormous barge still ran. Carter, it seemed, never owned a car with a life expectancy over three or four days. With this Buick he discovered his own personal Nirvana.

The term "running" to folks about town had implications of exaggerations, but for Carter, making it up the driveway meant the car held promise–case closed. As of this day an inventory of missing parts from the date of purchase included one half of an exhaust system, a vent window, one headlight and a wheel cover. Whereas the car came equipped with dual exhaust, the Buick was only half as deafening as it could be. Other parts mysteriously seemed to come and go with no logical explanation.

Carter soon discovered owning a 455 cubic inch premium gas guzzling battleship came with a price–one he could scarcely afford. If this car continued to crawl up the driveway then Carter would have to undertake a new outlook on his life and find secure employment. Jobs were scarce in McComb county and the cards were stacked against him. You see, in order to stay regularly employed at the town's only good paying job at the Avalon Mill, one would work until huntin' season came about at which time he would lend his job to a kin, then after the season was over, the kin left and one would take his job back. This rollover continued throughout the year.

Folks like the Edwards never had relatives take employment serious, so chanceS of finding work was about as slim as a dime. Gramps once had a job Jeronsville keeping the schools furnace stoked, but early one morning he stoked a little to hard and burned the school down. The village never rebuilt the school. Fortunately the Mason jar containing his beverage went up with the flames and gramps never again held another legal job.

Pa too had a job in his late teens drivin' hootch for a bootlegger. That's how he made enough money to acquire the Edwards' homestead. After his ‘52 Ford coupe ran into Elmer Klauss's chicken truck around the notorious sharp bend on the North Highway, breaking pa's leg and messing up his shootin' arm, he never ran the Mason Jar Highway again. Ma had about 12 kids best she could recall, so a job never crossed her mind. So as you can see, gainful employment is a word never brought up in conversation around the Edwards' household.

With no scrap metal left to sell, Carter started to contemplate ways to keep gas in his Buick. Selling Gramp's Studebaker pickup came to mind, but rumors over in Bruford said Gramps had been spotted at the Sheriff station trying to convince them his blue-tick hound had been abducted by aliens. Pa thought someday the family oughta go see if they could go find gramps around town, but nobody really took the initiative to do so.

Carter sat on the front steps of their small shack that chilly November morning watching a few brave squirrels who overstepped the safety of the woods. His mind remained out of commision towards solving the mystery of landing a job. Carter could only process four steps in his mind–car, gas, job and girls, all three were needed and soon.

As he sat there plunking rocks off the tin roof of the wood shed, a wild turkey flew up from the thick brush surrounding their homestead. Carter bolted for the door to get the family shotgun when he suddenly stopped in his tracks as smitten by divine lightning.

"Turkeys, he thought. "It's purteneer turkey eatin' time, dagnabit. I know town folks will be wantin turkeys. I'll run over to Jaronsville and buy me a load of them turkeys, sell ‘em, take the money and buy me some more until I get everyone sold with turkeys."

With inspiration bitting at his heels, Carter ran over to gramp's tool shed, grabbed a can of red paint and carefully wrote out "Carters Fresh Turkeys, Inc,. on both doors of his Buick. He had no idea what Inc meant, but the Avalon Mill trucks had it on their door and by gosh, he to would have it.

In order to scratch up a little operating capital, Carter scrounged up everything of value he could find in gramp's tool shed plus a few treasures of his own and made a journey to Honest Jakes Pawn Shop in Bruford. Once there he laid down a hand saw, two chisels, his own transistor radio, an eight track player, a complete collection of Gene Pitney albums plus three Civil War heros carved from Ash wood. To complete his exchange he bravely laid down the title to his grandpas' Studebaker truck.

"Are you sure you want to pawn your grandpa's truck, young Mr Edwards," Jake asked cautiously. "You know what a beatin he will give yo if he ever found ought don't cha." Truth be known, Jake was afraid of gramps as much as his own grandson was.

Carter nervously took the crisp $100 bill plus the two fifties and headed for Jeronsville to invest gramps' Studebaker in his future and present business venture. Even the Buick seemed to run smoother than ever. Yes, Carter had a dream and the dream was coming into sight rather quickly.

A smell akin to rotten sweat socks from the 150,00 or so turkeys residing in or around Jeronsville reminded travelers this was turkey country. To Carter the retched odor smelled like money. He pulled into the ButterBody Turkey number 16 plant, walked up to the office with his wad of cash in hand and told the secretary he wanted as much Turkey as this money will buy.

The secretary looked at Carter who by now had the continence of a ghost. She took the money from his shaking hand, counted it out and asked if he wanted fresh, frozen, smoked, turkey hams, breasts or gourmet flavored.

"Well you know, Thanksgiving turkeys," Carter said.

"Yes sir," she retorted. "Fresh or frozen?"

"Which is cheaper?"

"Fresh"

"Then that's what I want."

About five minutes later a man with a blood splattered apron brought out 18 turkeys in cardboard cases.

"Where you all want these, Bubba?"

Carter looked in amazement. "What only 18 turkeys?"

"Well you should have only gotten 10 turkeys, but since you are such a high rollin' customer we threw in a free case," the worker said sarcastically. "Now where you want them son."

"In the Buick back yonder, put them in the back."

"Y'all got ice for these guys. Ya got to ice ‘em down ya know."

Carter shook his head no. The worker gave out a loud whistle and a short, rather stout worker came out with a cart of chipped ice. The worker then grabbed his shovel and proceeded to throw ice in Carter's back seat.

"Hey what are you doing," Carter yelled.

"It's the law kid. Y'all don't like it, tell the governor."

After filling up the back seat, the little stout worker turned around and wheeled the cart away. Carter jumped in his ‘72 Buick Electra business coupe and headed for Bruford. He was now in the poultry business.


TO BE CONTINUED

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

PELOSI CALLS ON THE WORLD TO PRACTICE PEACE SAN FRANCISCO STYLE


With just a few hours after the announcement of the Democrats taking both House and Senate in a surprising victory that stunned both the nation and the world, death and destruction continues.


Nancy Pelosi, speaker-wanna-be, announced in a press conference today, complete with gaiety, from her podium hidden somewhere below the Golden Gate, there will be no more death due to American influence anywhere on the globe or in outer space.

An aide to Ms Pelosi, Benji Dogma and Sprinkles Sunshine McBeemer, who are the same person with split personalities, have been commissioned to create peace where no peace has existed by using positive American influences.

"We live in a world where America has long created home schooled terrorist because we want to change cultures," Pelosi said. "If Moslems want Burkas, then we should start a Burka For Peace program, instead of sending troops and creating an atmosphere for insurgents to blow us up."

Pelosi went on to explain that San Francisco has much to offer the Eastern cultures like chocolate, coffee and male pornography.

"Hey, if they try what we can offer them then we can show them how to make money on theaters, show tunes, museums and bath houses, and forget about oil which has been something the Bushies just love to go to war over," Pelosi added.

San Francisco is the worlds largest exporter of All American Girlie Boy material second only to darn tough women, which the Bay Area desires not to elevate at this time.

"The days of bad karma, angry terrorists and world domination by America is finished as the beautiful people showed us yesterday at the voting booths. Kiss, kiss and you know you're gonna love me." Pelosi said, as she made her grand wide-eyed exit of the stage.

Meanwhile, Hamas leaders vowed to retaliate with force against a deadly Israeli strike which killed at least 18 Palestinian civilians in the Gaza Strip this morning, a suicide bomber killed at least 35 soldiers at an army base in northwest Pakistan on Wednesday in an attack officials said was likely revenge for a missile strike against an al-Qaeda training camp, and Sri Lankan forces bombarded rebels with artillery on Wednesday hit a school where scores of civilians had taken refuge from the fighting, killing at least 45 Tamils and wounding 125 others in the country's east.

It is also likely North Korea has missiles pointed towards the U.S. and Cleveland, governed by Democrats, as of today, is the poorest and one of the most dangerous city in America.

Sunday, November 05, 2006

HOMELAND SECURITY DECLARES NO ELECTION RESULTS UNTIL THURSDAY OR LATER


President George Bush announced today from the snow covered White House Rose Garden that an emergency overnight congressional session was held this weekend to pass a law delaying election results until calm prevails across the nation.


Election officials from nearly all 50 states agreed the televised ads have created a hostile and unsafe environment for voters and booth workers alike.

"It is sad to see what the other party has created over the last few weeks and we are nearly in the rungs of civil war, therefore, by the War Powers Act and Homeland Security Act, I have taken necessary action to ensure a safe and peaceful Tuesday," President Bush said earlier today..

Scattered reports from across the nation have poured into local police stations of pillaging, overturning of cars in backyards of Appalachian states, teenagers shoplifting in malls, pot smoking, angry mothers hoarding milk and baby food plus other physical crimes such as televisions being tossed from windows of houses and passing cars.

The president urged Americans to get up, vote early and take the children to McDonalds and forget the escalating violence being perpetrated across the nation by mobs of angry politicians.

"These people (Democrats) have organized themselves rather well with hostile words and November surprises of mass destruction and we have seen Emergency Rooms across our lands becoming overwhelmed, where many have died from lack of oxygen due to uncontrollable shouting and refusing to take time to inhale," said Evans Jibbersly, spokesman for the Northern Ohio Chapter of Political Relaxation.

"Everything will have a chance to cool down if we just take a few days to think about what we did at the polls and be proud of it," Jibbersly said. You will feel better, your neighbor will feel better and America will feel better. Think of it as a group hug.

As the president was ready to step away from the podium he parted with a quote from Abraham Lincoln,

"Fellow-citizens, we cannot escape history. We of this Congress and this administration, will be remembered in spite of ourselves. No personal significance, or insignificance, can spare one or another of us. The fiery trial through which we pass, will light us down, in honor or dishonor, to the latest generation."


"Smile, be happy and vote. God bless you all," Bush said, as a flurry of reporters yelled at the president as he withdrew to the White House

Thursday, November 02, 2006

SENATOR KERRY FIGHTING HOOF AND MOUTH DISEASE


Officials within Senator John Kerry's (D-Mass) organization announced today following his political guffaw this week, that caused a major chasm to be carved into the Democratic party, that the wounded political leader opted for rehab.


Kerry's sokesperson, Angus Bullflinger, confirmed rumors the senator followed the lead of several other unnamed political and religious figures who fell from grace and saw rehab as a quick fix.

Reports had been flying about Boston that Kerry secretly entered the Rodney Dangerfield Hospital for Disorientated Joke Tellers at the now famous Dangerfield's on First Avenue in Manhattan yesterday morning.

Because of the privacy act, his treatment plan has remained undisclosed but pamphlets found lying about in the nightclub state the idea behind Hospital is, "To offer idiots, slow thinkers and other people with the knack of disrespecting the general public, a 24 hour crash course of quick wit, smart thinking and a general hope idiots can be transformed into decent citizens."

"We know Kerry's stoic personality has often caused people to misunderstand his deep thoughts, but in truth he is a barrel of laughs once you get to know him," Bullflinger told reporters. "What this is all about is cracking the egg shell veneer that encrusts the senator."

Kerry's office expects him to be released sometime today.


UPDATE: NOVEMBER 2, 10:06 a.m. NEW YORK


John Kerry was released early this morning from The Rodney Dangerfield Hospital for Disorientated Joke Tellers, smiling at fans and supporters as he entered his official "New Man Car," which resembles a 1960 Fiat that clowns once used in circus acts.

This amazing change in personality has stunned his fans who had grown accustom to his dry wit and high minded thinking.

Reporters on site say the tall, handsome figure raised the pitch of his voice four octaves and now sounds like a teenager inhaling helium.

After returning to his office at his Cape Cod home, Kerry gave a quick interview which the Senator started out saying, "I never get any respect. My wife asked me to take her someplace new where she's never been before and I took her to the kitchen," at which time his partner in life, Teresa Heinz, pushed a large bookshelf on top of his now limp body.

No word has been released from his office on whether or not Kerry shall re-enter rehab.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

HELLO DARLING, I'M HOME

The rescuing of my priceless manuscripts has taken four days, but I, at long last, have put all of Shelly's Cafe articles in a safe hiding place. After Possumtrot's harrowing article about losing all of his hard work to Google's takeover, I knew the clock may have been ticking away.

I must admit it was a pleasant stroll down memory lane, quickly scanning 76 articles and stories, and hopefully the cheap entertainment will continue. Right now, and not to mimic Michael J Fox, my MS is kicking butt and hopefully, soon, the evil lurker will be re-contained.

January 23 of this year the first article was put on Shelly's and what had the most reader's response? Much to my surprise it was the "I Will Kill Bambi II" article, where I threatened to eat the little critter (and even published a recipe) if my readership did not increase.

Not being a person who tends to resort to violence, I quickly had to devour the poor darling in the privacy of my home since I did not reach the desired 50 readers. Then there were the followers of some Judo style group who disliked my use of their name in a satire.

All in all there has been a fairly good split in stories and satire. Will this all continue? Well only your Google can tell

Hope to see you all back soon.

Monday, October 09, 2006

SPACE SHIPS AND HOT MINNESOTA NIGHTS

As I strive towards the 100 stories by December I am oft' reminded that my body and mind soes not always synch well. I think this is number 76, written before my days in the hospital, but just today edited. I'm heading for my goal.. See you there.

My calling cards once held a quote from an old favorite western, "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence." At the end of the movie Jimmy Stewart makes no apologies over revealing how Liberty died. Maxwell Scott (Carleton Young) said "This is the west, Sir. When the legend becomes fact, print the legend." Well dear friends, I must confess my family's involvement in UFO hysteria and crop circles is also rather legendary. This is the story and I'm sticking to it.


August of ‘63 proved to be a mixed bag of blessings for my Uncles Lars up in Twin Hills, Minnesota. Nature provided the right amount of rainfall combined with a mild summer that blissful year. This rather unique weather pattern blessed my uncle with a bumper crop of barely and wheat--but the abundance of grain fell upon friend and foe alike, so farm help was hard to come by.

The previous winter, Lars' brother, Donald, sold his share of the family farm under orders from a higher power in order to move his wife and kids to St. Paul. His oldest son, Eric, just turned seventeen when they moved away in early summer, just the age to work like a dang fool and that is exactly what Lars needed–a working fool.

Everyone saw the handwriting on the wall when Don's, wife Jackie started in about the lack of culture for her children on this God-forsaken prairie.

"This great expanse of desolation will turn the kids into another generation of hardheaded sod busters like the rest of you snuff chewing bunch of Swedes," she always argued, with fingers wagging in front of Donald's face.

My uncle advised Donald against falling for the cunning deceit of a French girl. He fell over dead for his wife
during his Naval tour of duty in Europe at Cafe Marly, which, as he described in broken Minnesota French, was located on the very scenic rue de Rivoli, Cour Napoléon du Louvre. My family never understood which view took him in, since she was a rather ravenous beauty with a glowing complexion and coal black hair. Still, everyone knew full well he would never keep such a contemptuous gal on the farm.

As the two brothers sat about the kitchen pulling hairs and attempting to find a decent settlement there seemed to be little conversation about holding the family farm together. The old gas stove coffee pot had put in overtime as the rest of the interested parties gave up and went off to bed.

"I honestly don't know what else to do," Donald told Lars, as he signed off the family deed. "I took her to Fargo at least once a month and persuaded the bookmobile to pass her on a regular basis, the movie theater has a double feature every Saturday and still she says she needs civilized folks for the kids upbringin. No, there ain't much to do but pack up and move."

"Ya," Lars said, with a deep sigh, grabbing the pen and reluctantly signing Donald off the farm that had been in his family for nearly 78 years. "But just you just keep an eye on Eric. Girls are kinda fast in the city and he ain't use to them kind."

The culture of city life started to show its effects on Eric quite rapidly. The first sign came during supper when he announced that his mom said it was all right if he grew a goatee and he also had plans on joining an acting troupe when they moved to the cities. Lars knew he had to rescue his nephew and get him back on the farm before he fell into certain ways where no man could retrieve him.

After Lars evaluated the crops toward the end of July, he got on the phone and convinced my aunt to allow Eric to come up and help get the harvest in during August. He pleaded with her that if he didn't get help, the barley crop would be lost. Against her better judgement my aunt caved in. With the clock now ticking, Lars had four weeks to save Eric and make a good Scandianian boy out of him and, most of all, restore the family name

Two hundred acres of barley waited to be gathered. That meant around the clock work for the harvest team. Lars would jump aboard the massive John Deere combine and slowly cover the field from early morning until evening while Eric drove the grain truck between the Hittlandel Coop Grain Elevator and the farm. After supper they switched jobs until three in the morning.

Nearly a week later Eric started to weaken under the pressure of sleep depravation and Lars knew the time had come to move quickly. As planned, Jim Kravenough, who signed on to help bring in the barley crop, dropped by the field with a cooler full of R.C. Cola's and Grain Belt beer.

About midnight my Uncle Lars told Eric to shut down for a break, have a few sandwiches, a can of pop and cool off. The two men, and one boy soon to enter manhood, sat and talked about the weather, next year's crop and boxing. Jim asked Eric how he was holding out

"Man, it feels good to be back on the farm but I'm beat," Eric said, beating the itchy barely dust off his jeans with his hat.

Jim reached into his back pocket where a can of Copenhagen left a permanent rim in his Levi's and handed the tobacco to Eric. "Put a little pinch of this in your cheek and you will be combining all night."

With a pile of wax paper and tin cans piled about, the cooler lid was closed and Eric had orders to finish the final forty acres on the back side of the property. The bait had been set because two cans of beer were left behind. About three in the morning Eric dumped a load of barley into the grain truck and walked to the cooler to grab another cola, but instead saw the two beers.

A multitude of thoughts raced through his tired mind. Eric felt he was old enough since his eighteenth birthday was only a week away, and darn, if he was aloud to stay awake and work all night then why not. He then had second thoughts because he knew his uncle would remember he left two cans behind. The long hours behind the combine and the pinch of Copenhagen ruled over sanity and down went the two beers.


About fifteen minutes later Eric began combining in a new field and since he struggled to keep a straight line he drove directly to the center of the field, began combining in a tight circle, then another and finally in a rather apparent zig-zag motion, he dozed off and drove the combine into the Wild Rice River. He spent the next two hours trying to get the combine back out of the shallow river.

Fortunately, not a lot of damage was done to the combine. Fear and hard work brought Eric back to his senses and he knew he had best drive the green monster of the dark back to the truck, unload and call it a night. Tomorrow he would deal with his punishment.

Lar's farm was on the landing approach to the Grand Forks Air Base and the way I understand the story, a couple of pilots noticed strange circles and zig-zags in a barley field near Twin Valley. That morning a military crew had been sent out to investigate. Of course neither Lars nor Jim would admit to leaving a few cold ones out for a 17 year-old boy to drink, no matter how desperate the situation.

When the military investigator approached the local residents, most admitted to hearing a lot of strange noises about three in the morning. One neighbor said it sounded like a grinding, whirling type of sound with lights going straight up in the air, sort of like a combine had been turned on end and swallowed up into the earth. As the day progressed the phone lines started humming and the gruesome episode of UFO attacks became more bizarre.

By afternoon camera trucks started showing up from Fargo, the Twin Cities and Grand Forks. Reporters from every newspaper in a three hundred-mile range pulled into town along with military trucks of every shape and size.

Experts were traipsing all about the fields measuring the circles, looking for radioactive readings and examining the muddy hole along the side of the river bank. After a few hours the military men left, while the reporters either beat on the doors of the Air Force cars or scoured the fields for their own evidence. By days end most of the reporters left completely baffled by what they had seen. A few reporters stayed back to watch the night sky.

Whether the Air Force took serious on what they saw that day or not, nobody knows. Every so often the story about the Minnesota crop circles reappears on late-night cable programs trying to convince skeptics on the reality of UFO's. The residents who are still alive will dog-gone-well adhere to the fact their town was visited by aliens, some will even swear seeing Martians walking the streets of Twin Hills that night oh so long ago back in 1963.

My Cousin Eric? He returned to the Twin Cities to finish his senior year but never hooked up with the troupe of actors. Actually his life remained rather mundane until he returned back to Twin Hills about ten years ago and retold the story about the crop circles and how it really happened. The local folks ran him out of town.

Remember my dear friends, "When the legend becomes fact, print the legend."

Thursday, September 21, 2006

THE BEET AND I


All of the spinach poisoning as of late has caused me to lie awake at night in fear of killer vegetables that once roamed the earth in yon days of Cushman Scooters and Packard Clippers. As a point of truth, if one was to play Franky Avalon backwards on their Sears & Roebucks hi-fi set they would have heard the insufferable prophetic words–"I will return in the next millennium as the Anti-Vegetable to destroy mankind."


Once again returning to the facts, my produce phobia started many, many years ago in a land called puberty where my parents spent way too much time trying to get me to eat nourishing vegetables. My mother would had better luck trying to teach a duck to sing opera.

Fortunately my parents were carnivorous Lutherans. Our family consumed pot roasts nearly as often as we bathed. Chicken, burgers, steaks, hot dogs and other assorted animal parts enthroned our table along with, of course, a plate of Wonder Bread and oleo. Meat, whether cooked on the G.E. oven or over the coals in the backyard, sustained my little body. If it mooed, cackled or oinked we ate it. And yes we had vegetables, gardens full of them.

Although we had the forbidden spinach patch, spinach never unnerved me as much as one vegetable–the beet. Those hideous ruby red globes were known to strip wallpaper if you cooked large quantities in an open kettle. Never in any biological studies had man considered the little head-in-the dirt vegetable poisonous, unlike the tomato which had been cursed throughout the Victorian age as a lethal dish.

My father took great delight in his homegrown beets. I can assure you his sensory depravation came from a Scandahovian upbringing. Quite often a Swedish table is set with all sorts of obnoxious sea foods of which spinach may or may not be part of, but I am sure beets are a national treasure. Dad's fondness towards the little red creatures caused him to grow what seemed to be acres and acres of Beta vulgaris, and my dear sweet mother canned them by the truckload.

I could always tell when my mother had the urge to kill me. In the early autumn, when the sounds of geese could be heard heading south, and the chill of the surrendered summer air had set in with the shorter days of October, a musky-dank odor crept over the neighborhood. Children in my classroom refused to sit near me because foulness permeated all of my clothing.

Year after year the story never changed for the those who were in charge of fostering and nourishing my tender youth–can beets, gag their daughter and nearly strike the death blow while she existed in a weakened condition, then never be arrested for their cruel and unusual punishment. Oh yes, I threatened to run away but where, I plead would a little waif like myself run too.

I knew if the vegetable police captured me the wardens would force me to ingest immense portions of beets for all three meals. Raw bets, cooked beets, curried beets, beet borsch and worse of all, fried green beets, would be shoved under my vaulted prison door. If I refused surely a large-bosomed matron would tie me down and force said vegetable down my throat.

My retaliation for beets climaxed one foggy December afternoon when my mother placed a huge bowl of the red devils on the table. My siblings harbored no ill feelings toward the ruby killer, yet it was known all across the family table that if I so much as touched the red blood to my tongue I would explode into a gastric eruption of Biblical proportions.

The problem is, and this has been proven in laboratory experiments, beets cannot be cut up into tasteless bits and covered with mashed potatoes and gravy in hopes of killing the taste. Another truism–all the ketchup in Toledo could not mask the moldy taste.

The innocent December day began when we, as a family unit, piled into my father's Rambler station wagon in order to shop for our annual Christmas tree. There was an air of excitement this day, though the sun chose to hide behind the gloomy clouds of Northeastern Ohio. All of our town seemed to be walking about in a festive holiday mood so prevalent in the days before the malls.

After the tree had been selected, we spent the rest of the afternoon at a company-sponsored Christmas program. Yes, it was the holidays and all we needed to do was wait for that long slide toward December 25th. Childhood was so divine.

When we arrived home the aroma of pot roast and baked bread filled our home. After supper we would put up decorations, dress the windows with stencils and Glass Wax™ and best of all hang the ornaments on the tree. There was just one thing between me and the tree–beets. The orders were given, clean your plate or there will be no tree decorating.

I pulled out all the stops. It became a showdown between mother and I. As long as those beets remained there would be no Christmas decorating. Child abuse comes no more contemptible than this. From around the corner my brother taunted me, "We are almost done. You better hurry or there will be no more room for you to decorate."

I became a desperate child. Could I consume the retched plate of beets staring back at me? "We are almost finished," returned the voice of my brother. "Oh, there it is, the angel, we almost have it to the top."

Mom had no intention of giving in. The clock ticked away. Without secret x-ray vision I had no idea how much truth my brother was dispensing. Calculations were running through my fevered mind–365 days before we decorated again. Ten little bites and the beets would be gone. Three huge bites and the plate would be clean. I opted for the three big bites and a large glass of Kool-Aid as a chaser.

With ferocity never known to my little body I chugged beets and ran to the livingroom. A bare tree sat in the corner. I'd been had. Next thing I knew a tremor developed deep within my stomach and before I knew it, the livingroom rug, the box of decorations and half the tree had been coated with a substance recently devoured in the three big bites.

Mother never argued with me over the consumption of beets again. The red stains on the carpet, although faded, remained embedded in the fibers, always serving as a permanent reminder of one girl's struggle with the sinister beet.

As a grown woman I have learned to eat my vegetables. I am my own boss. I cook my meals, buy my own groceries. At Christmas I decorate my own tree. But, this one thing I can guarantee you-there are no red stains on my carpeting

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

GRANDPA'S DEADLY TOBACCY

Some years ago a research group with highly stuffed pockets and somewhat less density in their brain department spewed out some worthless information about tobacco. Forgive me as the time has eroded from my mind the exact numbers and pertinent statistical information needed to make this a scholarly presentation. In a huge pile of some medical lectures this was their conclusion; " A whole bunch of children ate cigarettes during a certain time span. Some of those nicotine-munchers got sick, a few gagged and few more deposited their lunch in inappropriate places."

Now tell me, my good readers, just who kept track of children-eating-cigarettes, or should I say children who eat/ate said cancer sticks, coffin nails, or Kentucky Gold, and why is a wide-eyed raving consumer group sucking up my tax money keeping tallies on, well, oh the heck with it--you know a story is coming, so allow me if you will to tell you about my Grandpa's Copenhagen Jone's

Now for all you well-traveled readers who may have "Googled" Denmark, houses of ill-repute or little mermaid statues, nay, thou hast come to the wrong place. The Copenhagen of my narrative is a slimy fermented sewage-like compost that my dear ol' Grandpa stuffed into his cheek on a regular basis.

An important factor needs to be mentioned here. I come from a multi-cultural family. On one side we have the Nordics, of which my name implies, then we have the Celtics to whom my sister mistakenly claims to be the predominant blood transfusing through our veins. But when I think of her unstable thinking process, perhaps she is right unto herself.

Back to Copenhagen. This story is from the part of my family that comes from Kentucky. That's right, tobacco-chewin', slow talkin', white-sock-wearin', front-porch-rockin,' Kentucky. I long ago veered away from my hayseed family tree, keeping a love for bluegrass and a hankerin' for storytellin'.

My sister's make believe world assumes they, our family, hold roots in Ireland, but go back three generations in Kentucky and the lineage gets a bit fuzzy, so I would be hard pressed to figure out exactly where my dear old gramps came from. I am certain a UFO fits in this story somewhere but finding the spot to insert the well-worn reference has me befuddled. Besides my theory is my mother's clan came from Scotland

In the wee years of my developing life my grandmother's sleeping arrangement had me confused. Gramps slept clear at the other end of my grandma's boarding house in his own little sanctuary where he seemed quite content to sit and listen to the old box radio that sat on the dresser next to his worn suspenders. Under the bed he kept an old peach can used for the ‘baccy spit.

One day when my age caught up with reasoning, grandmother sat me down and gave me a stern look while she rolled a little lace handkerchief nervously between her fingers. Her words cut into my soul as she said, "Never kiss a man who insists on putting horse droppings in his mouth." Now the clouds rolled back and darned if Copenhagen wasn't the culprit. The dark juices rolling from gramp's cheeks killed grandmas libido.

In my eighth year grandpa beckoned me to come to his side. I innocently took the two well-worn quarters he placed in my palm and scurried off to fulfill his orders by heading to the corner store in order to fetch him a couple of cans of Copenhagen. I had not a clue that soon a savage right of hillbilly childhood was about to be inflicted upon me.

I straightaway returned with the two cans of rotten silage. Grandpa opened one of the cans and with his two aging brownish fingers lifted a scrap heap of the canned substance into his mouth then sat back in his cane rocker and comfortably stared into space. The shredded sludge foamed as he masticated the rotten substance. Soon little streams of blackish brown substance began to trickle down his gray stubbled chin. After a good soaking atop his dingy yellow long johns. He reached for the peach can, spit out the hazardous waste, waited a spell then repeated the same process. My grandpa was in red-neck heaven.

For whatever reason I had never before watched the whole process and found myself mysteriously fascinated by the whole scene. After he regained consciousness gramps offered me a pinch of the devil weed. I placed the most minute amount of the tobacco in my mouth that I could get away with. In a matter of seconds death was imminent. My face first turned red, then two shades whiter than the painted Victorian porch where I sat. I started hallucinating. Giant rivers of foul-smelling brown sewage flowed through my fevered mind.

When grandma heard my merciless screams she came running with a tin pail of water to flush my mouth out. Normally, according to early medical journals, it took at least two gallons of fresh water to dilute the toxicity of Copenhagen, but sadly she was too late. Sweet Grandma, who once warned me about biting into the poison brown apple, proceeded to take a lawn rake and beat my grandpa with strength only read about in hero comics.

Alas, it was too late. My DNA code degenerated into a radically different ancestry. I quit school in the third grade, threw away my shoes and started sitting in trees playing a banjo. Because of the times, I am certain no statistics were ever recorded of my ingesting the counterpart of three bottles of Jack Daniels in one nibble of venomous horse manure. Without the great university study, I was just one of a thousand other kids who consumed a substance known to cause a total neurological shut-down.

Thank you grandma for your down-home wisdom. Although I never heeded your warning about consuming vile substances, I can honestly say–I never kissed a man who chewed. Now, if only I could wear shoes again.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

COWS FOR MILKIN' AND COWS FOR RHYMIN'

Several years ago, or quite a few, depending just how one judges time, I took an afternoon trip to a quaint town bordering between Amish country and rolling hills that offers great enthusiasm for hikers and canoeists alike as the tranquil rivers gently roll through the gentle countryside. As I walked the streets of this historic Ohio town, I happened upon a privately owned bookstore. Not expecting as much excitement as, let us say Borders, I rapidly scanned the shelves. My mind sadly took second place to my stomach which sensed the corner bakery where the cinnamon rolls are worth giving up your life for.

After scanning the shelves of somewhat dull books the time allotted for hunger pains to climax into death ran its course so an exit for the bakery had to be now or never. Charging for the door, my eyes caught the cover of a book by an author I had met more than a few times. The old cowboy bard, Baxter Black it seems had published a new book so I laid down a pocketful of shillings and decided his cowboy philosophy along with a hot cup of coffee and that darn warm cinnamon roll were foreordained to share my table at the corner bakery.

As some of my reading audience may recall, I dabbled in the cowboy poet circles for a few years as both a beginning versifier/storyteller and journalist. I sauntered along side of all the big fellers who could shoot off a cowpoke tale, or verse of prose faster than John Wayne could swagger in a hula hoop contest. Baxter Black, as luck would have it, was one of my first interviewees and after a few minutes of listening to him I had no choice but to fall in line with the other men and women who told tales of better places far away from the big city bravado.

It is often said, and likely is the truth, my adult years were mainly spent in the vast upper regions of Minnesota, just a stone throw from that odd river that flows the wrong direction, The Red River Valley of the North, where my travels often took me through a municipality where a large sign read, "The West Starts Here." Far as I can see that pertnear made me a cowgirl.

Now it is only forthright to admit a lapse of common sense overcame me when I failed to live out certain ethnic duties and traveled from Minnesota to Kansas, then off to California. Like a female version of Will Rogers, I hung tight to straight-shootin' midwest wisdom. In other words, I was a rube, a square peg in a very oblong society--so in the circle of Cowboy Poets I found a group of people that had nearly as much sense as myself.

It did not take long for a fire to start smoldering in my solar plexus, not lethal chuck wagon-chilli-fire, but the very flames of life itself. The troop of word weavers spoke smoother than fine whiskey, a substance never having the opportunity to touch my sacred lips. Listening to such lyrics made me want to grab a chance to get on stage and wax eloquent.

The First Annual Newhall (California) Cowboy Poetry Festival presented the opportunity. With a pen and reporter's notebook in hand I interviewed many of the legends of western poetry and music. I absorbed the rhyme and rhythm of their parlance and went home to create my own epic. Two days hence forth, with wobbly legs, I walked up to the stage. The glare of stage lights nearly mesmerized me as I chanted poetry of my days along the backward flowing Red River where, according to the sign on Highway 10, the West began.

Sadly my stab at cowgirl poetry did not quite reflect the romantic wild west image Remington painted on canvases. I finished my 30 minutes of fame with a yarn, not the rhythmic canter of the popular cowboys. I started out proper, but my tale of serenity and closeness to God got lost in the uppity-urban setting I lived which in turn set off cowboy alarms. It was a greenhorn's mistake. Flat out storytellin' broke the firm tradition planted by the gun totten', lasso swingin', rodeo ridin' cowboy poets. My finish was salsa from New York City.

In a moment of crazed thinking caused by grabbing a branding iron and engraving "loser," across my forehead, a savior from out the crowd came to my rescue. A gentleman from Poland informed me my stage presence was the first thing he understood all weekend. "You my friend," he said in a Eastern European inflection, "are a storyteller, not a poet."

I smiled and finally figured out my life's calling. I ran around hither and yon for numerous months with the likes of poets like Baxter but I warned all listeners before hand I come under a separate calling, that is I am a tall-tale-storyteller not a poet laureate.

I sort of yearn for the days of cowboy poet festivals. Baxter's publication caused a cloud of loneliness to fall over me. There is a shortage of cowboy ways in these parts. To even discuss my feelings about the serenity of territories such as Montana causes my Ohio friends to break out in a scalp rash since they sit about and scratch their heads. Yup, cowboy poetry makes our locals a bit confused so I attempted to start a replacement. There has to be some place here bouts for regional rural poetry.

Having roots in the great corn state of Iowa and being of Midwest stock, the thought of a Pig Farmer Poetry Festival came to mind. One could rhapsodize the melodic words of riding a John Deere tractor across the endless rolling black soil hills, or the heartbreak of a failed corn harvest. And if one was so inclined, you can speak poems of moving northward to North Dakota to plant taters.

But friends I moved a little too far east. Just about as fer east as anyone should move, I dare say. Sure we have agriculture here, but it is different and what there is, is quickly being turned into housing–houses way too big for families to live in. The fields don't fall off into the horizon and the cattle are well, diary cows. Never are cowpokes seen ridin' the fence line being the fences here are electrified wires.

I need your input. Could Ohio accept a Dairy Farmers Poet Festival? What would rhyme with barn cleaner? Does our muddy Tuscarawas River have the same illusion as the mighty Rio Grande. Does seeing a ground hog hold one spell bound as happening upon a 700-pound grizzly bear? I just cannot close my eyes and envision this.

If you, my dear readers, know a little about cowboy poetry and have a yearnin' to create something new, scrawl me a few lines of Dairy Farmer Poetry and I will ponder this event for a moment or two. Who knows, maybe you have poets blood flowing through your veins?

Ol' Bess and me
sure know the way.
Wake up every mornin'
and work for little pay

Our jobs are bout the same
she gives the milk
I clean the barn
even tho my bod is lame

If'n any of us had a lick of sense
we'd both start walkin
lock the gate on the fence
and git paid jus fer talkin'

Monday, September 11, 2006

REMEMBERING EILEEN MARSHA GREENSTEIN


















Today, six years hence liberals are still arguing about the war. How many of us have forgotten. I haven't. I still cry and as I am putting this up once again I weep. So we never forget I shall repost the woman I was picked to honor


As often is the case we awaken every morning, rub the sleep from our eyes and gulp down that cup of coffee as we head for the front door and move on to our assigned duties. For some, this is driving to classes at the nearby college, running off to the gym for a workout then stopping at Starbucks for a mid-day break with friends and associates.


For others it is off to the daily grind. Office workers, waitresses, bus boys, sales personnel, cab drivers, it makes little difference, the big city takes in the whole brigade that keeps America running–twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year. Men and women alike go to the big city and the city purrs like a warm kitten.

September 1, 2001 the city quit purring. New York City was attacked by Islamic fundamentalist who had a two part objective–to kill innocent civilians, and bring our nation's economy to a crawl. The Twin Towers, an art work of glass, steel and beauty, fell to a heap of dust and bent steel before the eyes of shocked onlookers, taking with it approximately 2,996 victims.

Eileen is not forgotten. This much I can tell you, Ms Greenstein was a resident a Morris Plains N.J. I can assure readers of Shelly's Cafe her memory, especially today, is held closely in many people's heart.

We can never understand the thought patterns of a terrorist. Hate is a sin born in the depths of Hell and civilized nations do not cower in the gutter of human depravity. God gives us a heart of love and compassion. Today, we as Americans, once again took time to remember the many, whatever their walk of life may have been, who gave their life five years ago. God bless you and your family Eileen.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

BAIT HOOK & SWITCH PART II

At long last the final chapter has arived. It is a little longer than the first but hope you enjoy this romantic thriller. MAJ

"If there is anything you are looking for, maybe I can save you from digging through that stuff. Most of it has been in the barn for years."

"Oh, I'm just looking for pieces of art."

Ed shook his head in disbelief, lifted his seed corn hat, scratched his head for a moment and replied, You won't find any art work there, that's just barn stuff–you know, old tractor parts, a few old bailer gears, maybe an old milker or tow, but we never did milk ya know."

"That's just it sweetheart, pieces of life, a little soul here, a little light there, maybe a tear or two with sweat of hard life of course," she said wiping the grease on here tie-dyed coveralls. "You find these unique things, weave them together with paint from the rainbow and you have art. Now you see why they call me Prism."

During the ensuing conversation Cassandra also known as Prism, accumulated half a pickup load of twine, gears, metal shrouds and other assorted barn junk. Piece by piece she carefully examined the treasures and placed the gems gently in the bed of her rusted out International.

"You got any more pieces of art laying around," Cassandra asked laughingly.

At first Ed was somewhat stunned by the question. He thought a moment about the two pictures hanging on the living room wall. His wife bought the pair of at a booth during the Iowa State Fair about 25 years ago. The picture was made with strips of birch bark and little bunches of moss gently placed against a painted scene of blue skies with a meandering brook.

"Oh, I got tons of it, but tell me what are you going to do with, well for instance, that sprocket gear."

"Oh this", she asked, looking down through her sun glasses. "This will make a cool hanger for my story glasses."

Edwin pulled of his cap again, not knowing if he should ask any more questions. He just totaled up her collection of items once having a purpose about the farm but now, as the day came to an end found a new purpose in some flower lady's art collection.

"Well it looks like the total comes to nearly fifty-five dollars," Edwin said.

Cassandra dug through her macrame purse and took out a crumbled fifty dollar bill. "I still owe you five but I will run home and get it."

"Nah, just give me a twenty and call it even," Edwin said, shaking his head. Yesterday the pile of worn out machinery and other farm clutter didn't have a plug nickels worth of value and today it was high price art.

"You are such a sweet old Iowa farmer."

Before Edwin knew it, Cassandra gave him a big hug and a peck on the cheek. She jumped in the rickety International, slammed the truck door and drove down the dusty township road. He stood by the hay rack for about 10 minutes until Scrunchers came along. A whirlwind of confusion raced through his head. Suddenly more than ever he missed his wife. Edwin recalled how a simple hug from his wife would give him such a peace of mind. He noticed his eyes were a bit misty he reached down, grabbed the old tom cat and walked back to the house.

"Do you know what a dream catcher is, ol' boy?"

Edwin didn't have a clue about Cassandra or half of what she talked about. Prisms, auras, story glasses. Whatever those things were, the whole mess had him baffled, besides he had to throw the rest of his chicken in the oven. That evening as he wiped the supper dish's dry he still was thinking about that strange female and wondered how many people like that lived in Iowa. St. Paul perhaps, but here in Iowa?

He leaned back in the recliner browsing through the latest Farm Journal and fantasizing about the humongous 4- wheel drive tractors now available. A tractor like that would be nice, he thought, but was he really serious about next year's corn crop. He had about 50 acres on a slope and a tractor like that sure would be a dream.

As the evening news came to an end, Edwin put away his magazine and filled up the coffee pot with water. Cassandra, or Prism or whatever she wanted to be called and her dream catching auras, or whatever they were called, still rattled around in his mind. Edwin could not put a finger on this emotion. Could it be, well you know, infatuation. Nah, she was just a strange gal and that is all there was to it.

The next morning Edwin arose early, shaved, put on a pair of jeans his wife bought him, which he hated, made breakfast and went over to an old combine and disassembled it for more parts to put on the wagon. He grabbed his coffee cup and sat on the yard chair and waited. Three hours passed by and he decided nothing was going to happen, so he went out to the pasture to straighten out some old fence posts, then drove into town for more coffee and lunch with his cronies.

As he pulled into the driveway, he noticed a large note on the hayrack fluttering in the afternoon breeze. It simply read nice stuff--will return Friday to pay for them, Love Cassandra. The name Prism was spelled in even larger print.

Edwin felt a lump in his stomach when he read the word l.o.v.e. He never said words like that around his wife, why should he, after all they both loved each other and now he knew Cassandra, or Prism, or who ever she was had touched him in a very lonely part of his heart.

"I know what I will do, find that book we had around the house with all those poems in it and write a special letter to her. That's ‘bout the best I can do for myself."

All through the evening Edwin carefully read through the poetry book, looking for something, anything he could put into his own words. He closed the tattered hard covered book when his eyes grew tired. He awoke at 4 in the morning with the book lying on the floor and the cat in his lap. He slowly moved himself from the recliner and walked over to the bed. He once again thought about that woman, until sleep overtook him. He knew poetry could never come from his pen. There had to be a better way.

The sun was barely high enough to burn the dew off the grass when the sound of a car door slammed shut out front. It couldn't be her, the vehicle was much to quiet, he thought. Grabbing a dish towel to wipe his hands, Edwin went outside and there stood Cassandra with a middle-aged man wearing a seed corn hat and behind him walked an "older woman."

"Hi Edwin, Cassandra said, "Thought I would introduce you to some special people. This is my husband Jake and my mother Inez."

"Husband, uh gee, well I didn't think you were, you know,"

"Nah, nobody ever thinks I'm married. Jake always stays about the place. Farm boy ya know. Doesn't know an aura from a dust storm."

Jake shook Edwin's hand and said, "I know this place, always thought it had the best layout in the county. Ever think of selling."

"Well I had thought about putting it on the market," Edwin said, looking back at Cassandra who had already headed for the hayrack. "The idea of wintering in Arizona has been on my mind for some time, but if I sell I won't have a place to come back too, ya understand."

Suddenly Inez looked up from her sunglasses. "You like Arizona?"

"Thinking about it quite a bit here lately."

"What's your wife say about it?"

"She died a little over a year ago. Yup, we talked about it all the time. She left way to early and we never had the chance to go."

"Oh, I'm deeply sorry, Inez said, reaching out for his hand. "Irwin and I bought a lot in Sun City and put a double wide on it, but he too died, so now I go there by myself every winter. You know, the kids got a life of their own and all."

Edwin took it all in but he was still stunned by the news and to imagine her husband was a farmer. He looked at Cassandra's mother. "You do know that you are way too young to be Cassandra's mother. Do you drink coffee"

They returned to the house Neither one payed any attention to the younger couple. Edwin put on a fresh pot and rummaged through the cupboard hoping to find the nice cups his wife used when company stopped by. Hours rolled by as the two shared conversation and for the first time in weeks, Edwin understood every word a woman had to say.

A knock came on the door hours later. Cassandra and Jake walked over to the table where Inez and Edwin were deep in conversation about Arizona. The younger two had just finished walking the corn and bean fields. After she found the creek and Jake inspected the immaculate out buildings they had something to say.

"Mr. Johnson, the two of us have been looking for a piece of land like this for a long time. If you ever think of selling it, will you give me first dibs on it."

"For sure," Cassandra said. "The creek has a lot of energy in it and the workshop would make a beautiful art gallery. Jake, well he's all beans and corn."

"Well you better think fast because Inez and I are thinking pretty darn serious about going to Arizona when the corn gets put away," Edwin said. "She might even decide to get a butterfly tatoo just like yours, Miss Prism." He felt so much alive and thanked God he didn't play out his foolishness by writing poetry to a married woman young enough to be his daughter.

He thought they, Inez and himself, could always summer out on the farm and perhaps keep his heard of Angus if the place was kept in the family so to speak.

"Oh ya, girl, your mother explained to me about those dream catching things and I figure we got enough room to haul them to Arizona and open a dream whatchama call it store."

"Cool," said Cassandra. "The energy is flowing in the right direction."

Monday, August 28, 2006

BAIT HOOK & CATCH---PART ONE

Sorry guys, this is not a fishing story. Today's tale takes me a little further south where farmers are farmers, pigs are pigs and in a way, we hope the two have nothing in common


Edwin Johnson woke up feeling as if his mind and heart could no longer sustain his body. He has been feeling that way quite a bit lately. Ed knew the problem, but the solution had him bewildered. Life unknown path left him a widower at 67. The woman he so dearly loved after 48 years lost her earthly fight a year ago and every day seemed a bit tougher than the one before. His imperturbable upbringing told him the time had come to shake off the past and move forward.


One mode of survival meant cleaning up the farmstead. Folks from all about the county used to drive by and comment on the immaculately painted buildings, the manicured lawn and Betty's abundance of flowers. No more. Even the implements started to look neglected and no longer cared for.

Most mornings Edwin sat with his old cat, Scrunchers and thought about Betty. The years they shared together tilling the dark Iowa soil, building up the heard of prime beef cattle and traveling to the lakes in their Winnebago had crumbled to a pile of photos left on the kitchen table.

Edwin and Betty shared dreams about selling off the heard, jumping in the motor home and becoming nomads, free wheeling snow birds, drifting off to winter in Arizona. Memories, all Edwin had to live for, kept him bound and reclusive.


"Scrunchers, " Edwin said, "I think we need to go feed the cattle and perhaps think about cleaning out the barn." Scrunchers flicked his tail twice and walked uninterestedly to the door. An old cat who has heard the same story before seen barn mice as a better alternative than sorrow.

"No, today we clean, I mean it. There is no reason to sit here and wallow any longer," Edwin said to the departing cat. "Betty would have no part of this mess." He put his coffee cup in the dish pan and headed for the feed lot with a wagon load of grain.

This day Edwin decided to rejuvenate himself once more. He pushed back his thinning gray hair, put the seed corn cap, took a quick survey about the farm and decided to clear off the hay wagon. As he backed the green Oliver up to the hitch, he repeatedly had to remind himself this is what Betty would have him do today, so he pulled the wagon into the barn, took a deep sigh and started throwing junk out of his way.


"Yup, Betty sure wouldn't like the way things look around here. Guess one should start cleaning this place up," Edwin said, realizing he was talking to himself.

The July sun fell behind a stand of locust trees when Edwin tossed the last piece of unused equipment, parts and cans of odds and ends on the hayrack. Tomorrow he would pull the wagon to the front yard, put up a yard sale sign and be done with it. He walked back to the yellow frame farm house that he and Betty built so many years back.

When Edwin sat down at the table waiting for the frozen dinner to heat up in the microwave, thoughts once again of heading to Arizona come winter entered his mind. "Maybe I'm not so old that I couldn't sell out and move there permanently," he mused.

The next morning Ed awoke with a little more expectation from life. It was as though the junk laden hay wagon held the golden ring of life he so dearly reached for, yet always dangling within an inch from the hand. He couldn't explain the feeling. Life had to change. After his coffee and a bowl of Corn Flakes, Edwin unconsciously reached for a new seed corn hat. Half realizing he made a fresh step in life, he shrugged and pounded the yard sale signs into the dry Iowa soil.

Cliff Jensen stopped by first. He was returning from the feed store and knew as sure as gold if he returned home there would be work to do, soon an hour whittled away as the two men stood with one foot on the hitch of the hayrack talking hog prices, the Minnesota Twins and the broken flywheel on the Moline that needed repaired before the next hay cutting. He bought nothing. A few neighbors came by, picked up one or two cans of parts, kicked around on the soil, and complained about the current governmental leaders. They too left empty handed

Doris Jensen stopped by to see if her husband happened to be lounging around killing time. She bought a tractor seat, a bucket with a Guernsey cow painted on the front advertising some product or another and three five gallon pickle jars with wire handles, then left to find Cliff. By noon Ed only made a paltry fifteen dollars and a huge pile of farm junk still remained.

Right after Paul Harvey signed off with his "good day," tag, Ed heard a horrible racket coming from the front yard that sounded like a train derailment. He looked out the screen door and there sat a red International pickup rumbling from a rusted out muffler. The passenger door had a foot of electrical wire holding it shut. Some sort of racket was emanating from the radio that may have been music. Ed thought this could only mean trouble so he stashed his wallet under the sofa, walked out and expected the worse.


From behind the pile of old tractor parts a figure emerged. A forty-something petite woman with a butterfly tattooed on her slender forearm. She reached out to introduce herself. "Names Cassandra, but friends call me Prism."

Edwin just stood there as if every word he ever learned had been sucked right out of him.

"Do you have a name" she asked jokingly, raising her eyes up from under a pair of rose-colored-sunglasses.

"Oh, um, sure, name is Edwin but most folks here abouts call me Ed," he laughed, nervously wiping his hands on his overalls before reaching out to shake hers. "Um, that is sure some kind of truck ya got there."

"Yup, that's Sun Dog."

"Who?"

"You know, Sun Dog, the Indian who chases the sun and never catches it . . . is that English?"

"What?"

"Edwin?"

"No mam, I'm part Swedish, part Iowan, and mostly old farmer."

Cassandra laughed. "Why you're a jokester, I can see it in your aura." Edwin did not ask her what it was she saw.

Friday, August 25, 2006

THAT FISHY LITTLE THING CALLED LOVE--PART II

Sunday morning Ollie was trying to beat the clock hoping to catch the ever elusive trophy walleye before the festival ended. The first set of mushers could be seen coming down the hill and onto the glistening lake. The dogs started to finish the last leg of the race across Wolf Lake as the spectators frantically began jumping and cheering their favorite teams on. Ollie's fish house door flew open and he blasted off into a rage--yelling to the spectators something about the "mother of all walleyes," being scared off with all their carrying on.

Elsie McDermot, who never saw eye to eye with Ollie, told him to go soak his head and get back in his stupid ol' fish house before she belts him with her cane and just as she turned around, she lost her footing in the slippery warm snow and in the process knocks over The Lutheran Women's coffee table sending nearly $500 blowing into the blustery wind.

The chase was on. The fine folks of Tamarack Falls took off after the money. The weekly paper described what soon took place as, "an ugly mess of people, dog sleds and dollar bills." To top everything off, the ice suddenly cracked, shooting a dull thud across the lake, ending at the northern edge, allowing the rusted Desoto carcass to fall to an early grave.

In a panic driven moment the dog sled team from Winnipeg crashed into Ollie's fish house, leaving nothing but a pile of lumber and fiber board. The Team Duluth dogs ran towards town and several other sleds crossed paths and wrecked what was left of the grandstands, judges booths and remaining fish houses. From that point on, nobody had a clue who won the dog race.

Ollie knew the prize walleye was history. In despair he tossed his pole into the pile of lumber and thought seriously about torching the whole mess, instead he turned and walked back to the cafe. All in all, it was a wise decision not to hang around for the sled dog awards since the judges had no choice but to draw names for the winner. Straight forth another fight broke out when a team from Chicago took home the honors. Big city dogs had no right being in the winners' circle.

After a period of disgusting muffled grumbling, Ollie, Swen, Eric and Oscar and the other remaining few duffers decided to walk back down to the lake to see who won the fishing boat. Although the awards were not to be announced until five-thirty, they pretty much knew their guess of early April didn't make finals.

Most of the old guys figured the misfit, Christen Asbjørnsen, likely had the chinook all figured out with his slide rule mumble jumbo and was already loading up the boat, making their journey back to the lake even harder but Swen hoped his guess of March 20 had a chance. Unlike horseshoes, close counted in the auto guessing game.

Just as they arrived, the ugliest fish house winner's name was announced. Swen, with his pile of scrap building materials now piled in a heap, took home the prize. He accepted the $25 gift certificate from The House of Minnow's Bait and Tackle, but knew Monday morning there was hell to be paid for his prize.

As the sun set into the pines of this, once tranquil community, it finally came time to announce the grand prize winner of the 14 foot Alumacraft boat and motor. After the judges carefully narrowed down the contestant with the closest guess to the surprised exit of the Desoto, Mayor Carlson and the new Norske Queen, Evelyn Toegras, climbed onto what was left of the stage and announced the winner of the boat and motor--Erma Peterson.

Swen got up and left. "What in tarnation did a 72 year-old woman want with a fishing boat anyhow," he grumbled as he walked back home. The rest of the evening he sat in front of his black and white Philco with Folgers, his aging dog, trying to figure life out.

As Ollie pulled off his boots, hung up his long johns and crept into bed, he could only think of all the destroyed fishing houses, Swen's lucky win from the bait shop, the walleye that got away and, of all things, Irma Peterson winning the aluminum fishing boat.

As he closed his eyes, thinking about all the crazy things that took place, he thought maybe, just maybe, 72 wasn't too old to get married after all. He was hoping for a good night's sleep, after all, he had a phone call to make in the morning.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

THAT FISHY LITTLE THING CALLED LOVE--PART ONE

After a few weeks of southern tales we take our focus off Carter Edwards (he will return) and head north to a land I still call home for an engaging two part story concerning a couple of bachelors and their fight for freedom

Some call it love, others, well they say it's just infatuation. Ollie's stand on the subject of romance and the like-- it's all just plain stupid. He ought to know, holding the honor of being the oldest bachelor in town.

His favorite fishing partner and best friend Swen, thought he had life figured out. For the price of a cup of coffee over at the Loon Lake Cafe he would be obliged to explain just how marriage will drive a man under. Due to the fact that he was a logger nearly all of his life, he had every opportunity to stay clear of women with hungry looks in their eye.

"It'll ruin everything from good fishin' to enjoying a peaceful sittin' with a fine bowl of pipe tobacco," Swen often reminded half-interested listeners at the cafe's back table. "Besides, who needs some woman sneakin a beer out of the icebox when ya got friends that'll do that."

Now Ollie never talked much about falling in love--fishing and politics were his strong arguing points amongst the guys who nursed a cup of coffee long enough to make breakfast fade off into lunch. But lately Irma Peterson has made a shameless attempt to show up at his house with fresh baked goods and even went so far as shoveling his porch and sidewalk as to be able to make her accidental twice weekly meeting. This created an environment for endless jesting from the old duffers around the table. Ollie had it, at 72 he felt secure that no woman was going to snag him–end of conversation.

February was exceptionally harsh that year. Most of the men would normally be down at Wolf Lake ice fishing for northerns or, with a bit of luck, a walleye or two, but this was proving to be the coldest winter since ‘48, or ‘37 depending on who was telling the story.

Cabin fever started to set in and the menfolk were getting a bit edgy and hard to live with, especially the married ones. It was to cold to sit out in the fish house and after a couple of hours of coffee drinking the conversation became heated to the point where someone would slam their fist to the table in rage. A person could only drink so much coffee and a true fisherman could only handle so much nagging at home.

The fever spread throughout the town. Gladys, Loon Lake's most dedicated waitress, had it with the old guys at the back table and their ceaseless appetite for coffee. She put up with their twenty-five cent tips long enough and one more rotten joke from them and Gladys said the cafe would be torched and burned to the ground and she would gladly dance on the ashes.

Yes, it was February and a miserable one at that. The official thermometer at the Lief Erickson Memorial Airport had not crawled above the zero mark in 27 days and no relief from the meteorologist was in sight. Swen said he saw a flock of penguins flying south that morning. That set Gladys off and it took six stitches to close his wound from the broken coffee cup

To make matters worse a rumor had been set in motion about town that the annual Snow Snake Fishing Festival may be canceled due to the fact the lake had frozen clear to the bottom in some spots. Ollie slammed down his coffee cup when Albert Jensen broke the news. Every year Ollie made a solemnly sworn promise to win the walleye fishing competition. Alas, every year that promise failed to come true.

The Snow Snake Festival celebrated many time honored traditions such as The Ugliest Fish House contest, The Great Northern Sled Dog Race, the crowning of the Norske Queen and by far the most popular–Dump The Desoto In The Lake raffle.

Christen Asbjørnsen, a scrawny slightly bent over man whose wardrobe consisted exclusively of khaki pants and flannel shirts, for the past ten years guessed, within reason, the day and month the Desoto would take its plunge to the miry depths of the northern corner of Wolf Lake. Before he left Norway in 1938, he held the position of district census taker. After years of climbing up and down hills and through fjords to number the people, he started guessing, by ways of early Viking mathematics, how many people lived in his area. Now he studied the wind, moon and temperatures and then calculated by the position of the earth when the ice would melt enough to allow the shell of the car to plunge.

This year the raffle became the talk about town because the winner would take home a prized 14 foot Alumacraft fishing boat complete with a 15 horsepower motor. It wasn't every year that such a prize found its way to the Desoto drop, but being the 25th anniversary of the Snow Snake Festival, a local boat dealer sweetened the pot considerably.

Many of the seat warmers over at The Loon Lake Cafe wanted to keep the boat the best kept secret for fear of outsiders buying tickets. The big sled dog race brought mushers and visitors in from a wide area so their hopes of a small number of entrants had a slim chance.

It was February and a cold one at that. The Desoto normally fell through the lake around mid to late March, but the tickets were no longer sold after the festival so late comers could not have better odds. Still there was an air of nervousness in fear the weekend celebration may be canceled.

Saturday morning a strong western breeze blew in bringing the temperature up to a scorching 49 degrees and in those cold war days long before global warming had ever been conceived, the coffee cup philosophers down at the cafe laid blame on the sudden weather changes to the communist exploding nuclear bombs in Siberia.

Saturday arrived and the festival remained on schedule despite the sudden chinook. The Lutheran's Women Guild cashed in on coffee and doughnut sales since the 50 degree weather brought record crowds to town. Folks here about thought summer had arrived a bit early and took advantage of God's solar blessing.

Sunday morning Ollie was trying to beat the clock hoping to catch the ever elusive trophy walleye..............................................