A MUSTACHE or SCHNURRBART

Franz's Symbol of Wisdom

THE MUSTACHE or SCHNURRBART

When boys begin to change to men often the first visible sign is the fuzz under the nose that has started to darken. This sign, the beginning of the horn of masculinity, is a young man’s pride. Often it is coaxed to grow by prayer, and often waxed with olive oil to make it darker for a better impression on the girls.

Maybe the reason for a mustache at all, is that our Maker meant it to deter flies. Much like a man’s hair in the ears and eyelashes and brows around the eye.

I’ve had a mustache, or something like a mustache, for a long time. I’ve had a full mustache, one that sits on top of the lip like a wide push broom. I’ve manicured a thin mustache, just above the lip, to emulate Clark Gable’s. I’ve had a mustache that swoops down and up to blend with furry mutton chops. 

I’ve proudly displayed a formation of hair under my nose referred to a handlebar mustache. The maintenance of such a configuration is demanding, and requires frequent self inspection. This self-inspection borders on being feminine. If it wasn’t for the growth, the obvious symbol of masculinity, requiring a man to look at one’s self, carrying a small can of wax the size of snuff in one’s pocket, I would say it is a sissified ritual. 

On one occasion I had run out of mustache wax. After a hot, morning shower a handlebar mustache needs wax! That morning I had to substitute for the wax. I, the ever problem solver, simply chose a dab from the can of brown Kiwi shoe polish. Good choice, until I got to work and sipped on a fresh hot cup of coffee. Let me tell you, melted shoe polish not only tastes horrible, but it tends to stain one’s teeth.

I have grown, trained and shaped a multitude of mustaches, however, I’ve have never sported one like Adolf.

Nowadays they have trimmers and special combs for a guy to primp with. In the olden days a straight razor was used. If you had two bits one could get a mustache trim and a haircut. I hate to think what a gal, fresh out of beauty school, would dowse me with? Also, what contorted stances she’d be in to trim a guy’s source of pride.

I’m not a linguist; especially not in Latin. Schnurrbart is German for mustache. Schnurr simply means to sniff or smell. Bart means beard. To decipher, or find a root word for mustache does not make sense. Mustache = must ache?

A mustache has long been called a soup strainer. Be as it may, I can vouch for it being a  flavor saver. The beauty of a mustache is that it has the much touted ability to supply a lingering aroma of the most recent cuisine a man has enjoyed. I have for hours enjoyed the rich aroma of parmesan cheese, thanks to my mustache. I have savored the scent of barbecue sauce offered to my nose. I have been reminded with the bouquet of garlic and fennel flavors from a lentil soup for hours, until I decided my deodorant had failed. To make sure, I left my company and sniffed myself, washed the growth around the mouth, until I was sure my dabbing and spritzing had not failed.

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Just Saggin

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Franz's Symbol of Wisdom

He goes by the name of “Slam," a wide shouldered fellow, accustomed of getting his way. In high school he proved his manhood on the wrestling mat. From his neck down a tattoo of an eagle sprawls across his back. The bird appears alive when flexing muscles dominate his opponents. The girls swooned.

After high school, Slam, happy with his status in life, doesn’t find the need of a marketable skill important. His high school fame however, gradually diminishes. The challenge shifts to be cool in his neighborhood. Cool now is the very object of his existence. A black spider tattooed on his neck, reaching for Slam's adorned left ear, is cool. A pierced tongue sporting a silver stud is cool. His shirt, silver and black satin, open to his belt line, showing off his glistening oiled chest, is cool. A gold plated chain with a large, black iron cross makes him a dominating, hard cool. 

Slam does not sit at home, but saunters down toward the main drag where he is apt to get the recognition he desires. Earplugs supply rap music adding an imperceptive beat to accompany his slow walk. With every other beat his left foot sags to the sidewalk ever so slightly, while his right shoulder compliments the bop. The dude has swag!

Slam hits the big time, the main drag. The sidewalk widens. Friends in cars, sub-woofers blaring, slow down to make eye contact with one of their kind. Slam the man holds his baggy, sagging jeans with his left hand while the other hand gives an approving signal; finger pointing forward. His stroll has now slowed to the rhythm of every fourth beat. 

Hanging suspenders decorate his hips having been demoted from doing their job. All is cool. Across his lower back his underwear begins to seek freedom. The skivvies pop in the sun like a liberated grader belt. A dog bone print on the fabric becomes obvious. The bones alluding to his masculine prowess.

Pooled at the bottom, his britches drag the ground as frayed strands of strings follow like dried worms. Slam is careful not to obscure his highly prized, over-sized sneakers. He also makes sure the touted brand is visible on the side of his brogans, the status symbol of his overall flare. The loose laces are opposite of black. Laced only through four loops, and gathered in the front. They add to being cool and casually drag the sidewalk, giving an air to the in thing.

Slam hears a long blast from a car horn. He partially turns to acknowledge the supposed recognition by a compadre. Instead he sees a long-legged shepherd pup weaving his way through traffic. The hound finds the neighborhood dude irresistible. He sniffs and playfully jumps on Slam. Slam now, being upstaged by this goofy four-legged pain, smacks at the dog. Not deterred, the playful pup nips at the sagging britches and finds the unravelling result exciting. The dog grabs the suspenders and pulls hard to detach them. At this point Slam is urged to forego the rhythm of his earplugs and begins to free himself from the new attraction on the main drag.

To ward off the playful critter, Slam forgets his styling and realizes his underwear is now in full bloom. When he attempts to make a run for it, he steps on his loose laces causing the shoe to come off. With his pants around his ankles, he loses balance and stumbles to the sidewalk. Frantically he reaches for his prized shoe before the hound finds the smell irresistible. 

The dog however, lets go of the stretched suspenders smacking poor Mr. Cool in the butt.

Slam raises his voice and whops the dog with his sneaker. The lively pup still thinks this is a great game and is convinced the cute bones on the skivvies are for him. Mine, mine! Yum, yum, exclaims the dog as he yanks the underwear into shreds and exposes Mr. Cool’s muscular, untanned full moon. 

Bent over, trying to pull up some cover, Slam notices a school bus stopped at the light. The bright yellow rig, full of the neighborhood’s kids, is not in the hurry. It hangs a while at the light as all its passengers crowd to the windows. Across the street, two people are raising their cell phones to capture the excitement to be shared with the local evening's newscast.

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Speaking Of Jobs

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Now-a-days we hear a lot about real jobs vs government jobs.

This in itself gives me grief just analyzing the difference. On a real job, working for a private company, all people employed have one goal. That goal is to produce a product or service to sell to the consumer, make a profit, re-invest, hire more people, grow the business.

On a government job absolutely nothing is produced to sell, not even one toothpick. (The only thing such jobs produce are votes.) On a government job there is no need to re-coop the cost of salaries and overhead. Why sweat it? If there is nothing to sell, it makes sense not to care how long one stays on an assigned task, or when to finish it.


I recently enjoyed an early lunch at a fast food place. Sitting by the window I watched the traffic, people, and yellow, small truck with warning lights blinking.

As the truck slowly eased my way, down the divided avenue, I noticed two workers lethargically digging and scraping in the grass-covered center isle.

I realized it was the local city's crew. Frequently they observed periods of leaning on shovels, drinking liquid (?), as they gradually, step by agonizing step, worked their way to where I could get a closer look at their duties.

One of these two men dug a hole in the ground, about a five-gallon bucket's worth. Then, after another pause of leaning and drinking, the dude who had dug the hole stepped off ten paces and began to dig the next hole. The second guy, also armed with a shovel, promptly filled in the freshly dug hole. Ten strides later, the same sequence repeated itself.

As I watched, and totally puzzled, I gulped down the rest of my water, left the restaurant, and headed toward the working crew.

"Hey, I watched you guys from the restaurant," I said. "Could you clue me in as to what purpose you fellows have in digging a hole then filling it back in?"

"We are planting trees," one of them said with all sincerity.

"I don't understand," I said. "Where are the trees?"

"Oh," said the helpful fellow, "The guy putting the trees in the hole took the day off."

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Pond Fishing

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Franz's symbol of wisdom

It don't get any better. Fresh air, quiet, and your fishin hat pulled down till the ears stick out.


A steady breeze keeps causing the johnboat to drift into the weed bank. Billy Joe, the fellow working the oars, gets tired of having to quit fishing and row back to the middle of the pond. He drops the anchor, a concrete filled coffee can. 

“That’ll get’er,” he said to Odell. “Don’t like my fishin bothered.”

“Yup,” said Odell.

Spinner baits whisked through the air, and reals hummed. For hours the two enjoyed the quiet, the breeze, the swallows fetching dancing bugs over the water. 

“Odell,” said Billy Joe.

“Yup,” Odell responded.

“I’ve got some pondering to do,” said Billy Joe.

“Yea?”

“Yea I do.” Billy Joe shifted on his seat. “Ida May don’t say much.”

“Hum,” said Odell.

“Never did.”

“Yup never did,” Odell agreed.

“Been married nigh a dozen years now,” said Billy Joe, as he removed a treble hook from his latest catch.

“Nice one.”

“Yup”

The sun hid behind streaked clouds, ready to give up the day. A couple of bullfrogs started to contest for dominance in their claimed cove.

Going back to pondering, Billy Joe went on. “Yup, . . .  Ida May, you know, she don’t say much.”

“I know.”

“Hadn’t said word to me in eight months,” Billy Joe volunteered.

“Ah, hum, eight months,” said Odell.

“Yup, not a word,” said Billy Joe. He switched to a top water lure, gave it a whirl and watched it plop at the edge of the weed bank.

“Thinkin about divorce,” said Billy Joe.

“Why?” asked Odell.

“Well, you know . . . Don’t talk,” mumbled Billy Joe.

“Don't talk. . . So?” said Odell.

“Well, what's your take?” said Billy Joe.

“You know, a woman like Ida May is hard to find," said Odell, settling the matter.

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Methane Gas

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It has been reported that a lot of the problem with the earth's ozone layer is the result of excessive bovine flatulence.

The world peoples, other than the Hindus, eat a tremendous amount of beef. Is it expedient then for mankind to find an alternative food source? Certainly, all warmblooded creatures basically have the same digestive systems, including us. What meat, or other rich protein source should we then put on our backyard grill?

According to the "Save The Earth" people, the answer is none. No more hotdogs at the ballpark. No more burgers on the grill. All dogs and cats need to become vegetarians as well. Carrots and celery sticks would be the feature items at all the fast food chains.

We would be a healthier people, and the ozone would help slow down the melting of your ice cubes in your tea. Isn't that wonderful? No more UV protection needed in you sunscreen.

This year, I once again did my part on Earth Day. I fixed me a large bowl of pinto beans, decorated with an organically grown chopped onion, I sacrificed the usual country ham in my beans in honor of this holiest of environmentalist's day. I started to savor this treat a little after eight in the evening. I watched a program that showed the mistreatment of chickens. (Poor things they really don't have any rights.) All the while washing down my beans and onions with organically squeezed soy milk.

I started this annual ritual late in the evening, because I'm well aware of my body's reaction to legumes. I didn't want to pollute the sacred day by having contributed to the destruction of the ozone before midnight.


Now, methane gas is flammable. Naturally, a natural source of energy. I can very well see a future of sticking a pressurized bottle of methane into ones vehicle and drive off to work. I can also see each homeowner, with their own septic system, utilizing this natural emission to heat their hot water tank. Why not? It is free. Or we could stick a pipe down to the septic tank and light the gas coming off and have an eternal flame to soothe the ozone gods.

I have heard stories of pining engineers at most universities have personally experimented with the combustibility and potential use of methane. I've heard stories of these tests being performed not in the lab, but by sitting around in their skivvies, playing with matches.

Funny or not, we do need to consider our environment. It is our job to protect and preserve what has been entrusted to us.

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UFOs in Bedford VA? Again?

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Just before the lawn got green, a family of unidentified flying objects landed in our front yard.

There were several smaller rings in the yard indicating a round vehicle had landed. Those green grass rings were about eight feet in diameter.

I figure these smaller vehicles were sent by the UFO's fleet commander to test and secure a spot for the command ship to land.

The command ship was much larger as you can see from the photo.

My question is, "Why did the landings cause the grass to grow faster and greener than the rest of the yard?"

What did they eliminate from their flying ships that made the grass grow like crazy?

I know what you're thinking. But why pick our front yard? Maybe the ship got too full of it and had to dump it? . . . It may be I'm too full of it right now.


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Beauty, Depends How You Look At It.

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Like the country song says, "It's hard to stay humble if you get better looking every day."

A workout is good for the proper reasons. I get mighty stiff sitting on my caboose all day. I figured if I walk in and out of my driveway 10 times, I have walked one mile.

For $60 dollars a month my wife and I could join the Y. We did that. It's a ten mile roundtrip. Our car gets 15 mile per gallon. Adding all other costs to run a vehicle, the total, $7.50 to go to the Y.

We tried to go the the Y twice a week, but most often only made it once a week. This amounts to $15.00 every time we stepped into the Y. Add that to the cost of getting there, the total is $22.50 for walking on a treadmill for 18 minutes to walk a mile.

Walking in and out of my driveway ten times is a pretty good deal; cost wise. Not to mention the fresh air I get vs breathing recycled sweat vapors.

That is all I'll say about the health aspect.


What really blows my mind if folks forgo the health part and build their shapes to look pretty, or should I say- . . . you put in the word.  What would be the adjective to describe the pictures below:

Now look at the exquisite forms of the soft and enticing female counter part of looking pretty:

Can you imagine the hours spent looking at yourself. Watching every ripple grow to a defined piece of art to rival the famous Venus DeMilo. . . . GIVE ME A BREAK.


The headless fellow below got his shape by laying in artificial light for two month, with never a grunt, or never breaking a sweat.

Isn't he pretty!!!! Happily flaunting his stuff. Check out them biceps, The proud chest.

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Burp. . . . Soft shell crabs are some of my favorites.




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Bulk, Body and Hair

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BULK.  You can buy in bulk quantities. You can make sure you're getting enough bulk in your diet. You can work-out, huff and puff, strain and groan, until you bulk up. Which by the way, later in life turns to a more flabby bulk.

I'm not going to show a picture of an example of the above analogy. However, if one qualifies for either one of the categories, I suggest they buy a sack of prunes, in bulk, for a cure-all.


BODY.  Of course, as vain as we all are, we think of our figure or shape.
Some men, and women I suppose are Body Builders. The purpose, I do not know. All the time spent watching little ripples grow, looking at yourself in the mirror, hoping for a modeling career, . . . well each to his own.

Then there is a body of water; full, wide, a great expanse, (sounds almost like a description of bulk.)

Then there is a body of believers, or the rank and file of an association.

Then of course, what is the body or core of this yarn I'm spinning? . . . let me get right to it.


HAIR.  My wife recently recommended I use shampoo instead of soap. Okay, before I take a chance of messing up a good thing, such as my crowning joy, I read the label. Other than bragging on the ingredients, such as genuine Norwegian coconut derivatives, it also mentioned an increase in volume and body.

Low and behold, it did wonders for me. More fullness, thickness, bounce and lift!

Look at hair number two, blissfully laying over and actually touching hair number three for the first time in thirty years.



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UFO in Bedford VA?

Around 11pm, Friday the second of September, I was walking our dog. He did his urgent business first, being glad he finally got to uncross his hind legs. Further out in the yard, moving closer to the church cemetery, the pooch started to walk sideways and seemed to have forgotten the purpose of the late night routine.

I too became aware of a certain hum, mixed with a low jumble of chattering. Kind of an eery buzz that affected the few wisps of hair on my head.

About a hundred-and-fifty yards away, just the other side of the gravestones, a lit-up and mysterious object sat on the ground. Being a big time Blogger, I whipped out my ever-present camera, leaned against the dark side of a tree and snapped this photo.

From the strange craft emanated a glow that generated a static charge which travelled along the barbed wire fence around the adjoining pasture. With each step, as I slowly walked closer to dare to investigate, a sparking sound, that of electricity discharging, came from each metal T-post that held the wire.

The dog never did number two, I guess the intrusion of the strange vibes made him pucker up.

I'm afraid to point this out to the pastor, or folks in the church. I don't want the pastor and his children be afraid to enjoy the normally serene nights here at Bunker Hill.

Amazing What Wax Can Do

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A car is an impersonal machine. A vehicle that is practical, useful and needed in rural America.

However, it has never become an idol with me. An idol that would take away time from family and conversation.

In the 56 years in this country, I can count on one hand how many times I've washed a car. I clean out the inside every decade or so, but wash the outside? . . .

Nothing washes the car better than driving the thing during a good down-pour. The rain will clean the underside better than any rented hose at a carwash.

The last time I washed my truck was in 2005 when I drove the thing, at thirty miles an hour, through Elk Creek. The shame of all this is, I couldn't do that again, they built a bridge over the creek. (Shovel ready).

Now here is a worthy saying: WHEN MOMMA AIN'T HAPPY, NOBODY IS HAPPY!

My wife likes a clean car. Good! We got a hose and a bucket. But, sometimes she wants the car REALY clean. Washed, polished, shined, waxed, armor-alled and such. I cringe at the cost, but Mamma must be happy.

$95 later the results are stunning. Frank's Super Shine did a good job. Airplanes flying over had to divert their route because of the glare. People at church only approached with sunglasses. The squirrels in the yard thought an extra terrestrial mobile had landed.

At one point I thought the whole car vanished. To prove it was still there, I took a picture. My theory, an object must be present if you can see yourself in it.

Now, what is the summary of my yarn?

Point one. When Carol picked up the Yukon, and stepped on the running board, she slipped and whacked her head on the door. . . . Good wax job!

Point two. Before the recent rain sprinkled on the new wax-job, it reduced the drag on the vehicle. The astounding result was, we actually got .0004 more miles per gallon.

Point three. The fellows at Super Shine also got rid of six years of petrified smog from the INSIDE of the windshield. I can now discern the difference between a bird bomb and a bug hitting the windshield.

Carol may be sitting a bit taller, smiling, feeling proud. As for me, I hope this venture will not repeat for five years or more. . . .  unless Mamma ain't happy!

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East Of The Mississippi Buffalo Barf

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We think our place in Floyd is pleasing to the eye. So, why does the native Virginia Buffalo think it is gross enough to make them up-chuck?

I do not know what they are eating, but the stuff is all over the mulch.

Good thing it starts to blend with the ground cover in four or five days.

If I didn't know the stuff was whitish, or sometimes yellow before it turns brown, I would accuse the neighbor of letting his cows park their cakes in our flowerbed.

Well, keep the peace they tell me. Smile and go on. Forgive and forget. Mum is the word. It really isn't worth mentioning.

Give me a break, the stuff looks vomitous!

If you folks in Hoboken have a better explanation, please leave me a comment. I'm going for my PHD. (Piled Higher and Deeper), and when I get it, I will know it ALL!

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Banana-Not Ripe Yet!

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You folks do not know what you're missing. A banana shouldn't taste like a persimmon.

What is the matter with you folks? Why does banana bread taste like banana bread??? Because you used ripe bananas!

I'm waiting for this one to get ripe. . . .

When a banana turns black, all God's richness of flavor, aroma and pungency comes to fruition. You then pinch the thing open on one end, gingerly holding it to keep it from flopping over, then spoon, a bite at a time, the fermented delicacy into your mouth.

Ahh . . . the flavor!

Ahh . . . the fizz of a mild liqueur titillating your nostrils. (not enough for hick-ups)

When I was twelve years old, a street vendor would not sell me a ripe banana for four pennies. Four pennies was all I had. He wanted five. As luck would have it, I found the penny needed in a sidewalk window well.
      I purchased my first banana, totally black, with my own money. Good is not the word. Delicious is temporary.  That Black banana was DIVINE!

You can purchase and read the full story, and 129 others in my book. Click here

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Boy They Grow Fast!

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I just put two-hundred bluegills and one-hundred crappies in the new pond two years ago. I knew they'd multiply fast, but grow fast, and how big I couldn't imagine.

Fishing from my deck recently, I hooked into this monster. I tried to play him until he got tired, instead be broke the line and the pole smacked me up the side of my head so hard I saw stars. When I came to, the whitecaps of the wave he generated had washed over the dock and sank the wrought iron lawn chairs in the pond.

They grow them big, I swear!






What's the difference between a tall tale and a lie?
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SASQUATCH

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The shadowy figure comes at night. I believe it is the culprit that swipes my apples from the tree and crosses the mud bar to wash them in the pond.

I've been looking for long, course, black hair to prove my theory. Surely he stands against a deck post and rubs his back.

Maybe I should get night-vision goggles, wait for a full moon.

My momma never did tell me the difference between a lie and a tall tale.
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Do You Ever Stand Out in a Crowd?

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Are you aiming to stand out in a crowd?

What do you want to show off?

Or, do you sometimes feel you want to hide and can't?

 . . . 'em are not eggs from Kroger.  Auch! A little okra for supper would have helped.

Looking at the bright side, most often there is a pleasant ending to odd situations.
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Papa, What Did Henry Do?

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For years now, my grandchildren knowing I can spin a story, have been asking about Henry. Henry is a stuffed doll, about 30 inches high, who has been relegated to stand in the corner. He is hiding his face in shame, ball cap backward on his head, bibbed overalls with bandana or slingshot sticking from its pocket.

Ain't he pitiful?

I've been challenged often when grandchildren enter the house and ask "Papa what did Henry do?" On the spot I have to come up with some yarn that makes them giggle. I have written several little rhymes about the fellow and his sidestepping escapades. Here is one I'm going to share now. Let me know if you want to hear some more.

HENRY IN THE CORNER

Papa, what did Henry do?

Oh, . . . he’s a fellow just like you!

He is a doll you should know,

A puppet that will never grow.

Stuffed with rags––he has no face;

Standing in a corner is his place. 

Papa, tell, what did Henry do?

Well, . . . I hope it wasn’t you!

He made a mess he could not hide,

With puffed-up chest he showed his pride.

He used ketchup like some finger-paint,

Enough on the floor to make you faint.

Papa, Papa, is Henry in big time trouble

Squeezing that tempting ketchup bottle?

Yes! . . . Henry needs a talking to––

So listen up . . . make sure it isn’t you!

If the bottle you’re allowed to squeeze,

Hold it tight and do not sneeze,

Or you’ll have ketchup to your knees.

Papa, did Henry heed your warning––

To be a good boy in the morning?

No! . . . sticky red on hands and chin,

Showed to all where he has been.

He was shooting ketchup with each squirt; 

The same as slinging gobs of sticky dirt,

Up and down his yellow shirt.

Papa, will little Henry ever learn––

So your loving favor he will earn?

Is he on the way of getting hurt?

Why can’t he play with plain old dirt?

Does he dream all night of ketchup,

Then hunts the bottle when he wakes up?

Does he love to wallow in a mess?

Papa, . . . is our Henry kinda hopeless?

Papa, I’m still worried, what did Henry do?

Are now his doings good and true?

Good and true . . . I cannot say,

With ketchup he still likes to play.

The lessons he has not forgotten,

The little boy is spoiled just rotten.

Now he lays in bed on clean white cotton,

Dipping fries in ketchup from his bellybutton!

Papa, you know Henry does confess

Every time he makes a mess.

Standing in the corner he is so sweet,

With worn boots on rag-stuffed feet.

Hiding his face in deep confession,

Being sorry for his wild transgression.

You wouldn’t punish him––you love him so!

Just like me and sister this we know.

Thank you Papa. . .   Look no face!

Ice Fishing In Floyd County Virginia?

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Fourth of July weekend. It is hot!!!

The hot dog shriveled before it hit the grill. The bun toasted even under the table umbrella. The sun-tea boiled in the glass carafe. It was so hot, the styrofoam plates curled up with the potato salad in it. The only use for the black lawn furniture was to brown the tati-tots on them. The field corn quickly dried and started to pop. The cows seeing that phenomenon thought it was snowing, they laid down and froze to death.

Phew, it's hot!

July 4th, a good time to think back to January.

Weeks of way below freezing nights. A nip in the nostrils. Ice on my mustache. Snow up to your caboose. Turkeys scratching to survive. The ice on the pond thick enough for ice fishing. (New England, you aint the only ones!)

It was cold!

Stink Bugs

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According to my grandson, they don't taste as bad as they smell. In a salad, especially with Asian-Seseme dressing, they are delightful. The extra crunch is similar to pine nuts, quite mild, with extra protein of course. If this discovery catches on, says my grandson, he will try to market them. A sandwich bag with a dozen stinkbugs ought to fetch a dollar. Storage should be no problem, since the critters survive the harsh winters and thrive in warm weather. 

No kitting, we're open for business!