Our Pet, A Member of the Family

The Day We Almost Lost Our Pooch

Our pet dog is a long time member of the family. He is eighteen-and-one-half years old.
Poor guy he can’t see of hear any longer. 

He sleeps a lot and wants to wee often in between to receive his treat.

A few days ago he was resting, sleeping on his side, when suddenly he let out a scream as if something was attacking him. He jerked, his legs stretched out and went stiff. He lay there as if dead. Carol panicked and stroked him on the floor. There was no response. She sobbed. 

The rush to the vet, about three miles from home, provided time for much consternation, kissing the dog, and crying. I kept the peddle pushed.

When we entered the vet’s office the lady behind the counter saw the distress on our faces and came running to our aid. She interrupted her conversation with another customer at the counter and took the dog from Carol’s arms and rushed him to see the doctor.

We sat down to get ourselves ready for the bad news.

The kind folks at the counter tried to give us some comforting words while we waited. 

Soon an elderly couple walked in. The elderly lady carried a black poodle in her arms. It trembled as its tongue loosely hung from the mouth. The elderly man followed her and placed a small cage on the floor of the waiting room. The cage contained a cat. The poor cat laid sprawled and moaned like a small child. The attendant took both to the rear of the clinic.

A large dog on a leash pranced in. He needed his shots. To the owner’s surprise, the dog had also gained ten pounds in the last three month. The sad result, he was put a a diet. Good thing he didn’t understand the conversation.

Another couple came in with one small dog each. The conversation revealed that they were the proud caretakers of five dogs, all rescued from the needle of death at the pound. The frisky little mutt in the man’s lap had on a jacket that said, “Local Bad Boy.” The dog himself only weight five pounds. The lady held her pooch, a female, a diabetic, with a pink cape on her back stating, “Mama’s Baby.” The pet needs two shots a day, she told us. She came in to have her sugar level checked.

Suddenly we heard a jap! . . . Jap . . . Jap jap! Mr. “S” our old warrior had revived, sending a signal throughout the clinic stating that, “I an’t done here yet.” We rejoiced. Our heats soared. 

We agreed to have his blood tested in search of a possible cause. The results were negative. Our guy had a seizure. Not too uncommon at his age.

The old couple, who brought in the poodle and the cat returned. Soon the Veterinarian entered the waiting room with two black, strapped shut satchels. The elderly couple sadly accepted one each. Out the door they stumbled. The doctor watched them go and enter their vehicle. The doctor took a deep breath and said, “I have never gotten used to this.” She stood there a while, obviously distraught, making sure the elderly couple was all right to drive away.

Life goes on, even in the world of pets. 

Relationships

A Point Of View

Being in a relationship could have and does have various meanings.

As I look back just a few decades, I see the secular influence now on our culture. I do not travel, as one would say, in a world where new and crude words are used. I hear enough, however, to make me cringe at the ease of which the media and the younger folks use foul and suggestive language.

Homosexual, lesbian, are proper english words to describe the associated behavior. Why has the country stopped using these descriptive words and substituted the word gay in its place? We all know why. Gay means happy, joyous, carefree, bright and showy. The true meaning has been bastardized to suggest that this lifestyle fulfills all the former meanings of the word. Our culture cannot name a girl Gay any longer. One can still pervert the truth, but can not refer to a person as a pervert.

I'm afraid the word "relationship" has become the new word to cover or hide a more deviant behavior that may be offensive to the older, (narrow-minded) folks.

Children in their early teens are referring to being in a "relationship." To a parent what does that mean? Is it an on-line relationship? Are the kids having sexual relations? A girl does not date a boy any longer, they are in a "relationship." Dating is old fashion. Relationship is now the accepted word for "anything goes."I have nothing against teens dating, hanging out, communicating and enjoying each other's company. I do not like the word "relationship" because of its connotations.

What does the term relationship include? Certainly it includes simple dating. It also includes co-habitating and homosexual experimentation. It is a convenient cover or umbrella, symbolizing inclusion and acceptance in the progressive culture.

Thank God our laws attempt to protect our children by prosecuting child molesters and child rapists. Although some of our States' courts show just a wink and a smile to such vile behavior. "Just part of a relationship."

As the culture progresses toward Hell, I'm sure the term will include group relationships, animal relationships and any other perversion that may creep out of the slime pit.

Tobacco - Fun Stuff?

This short story is from my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making of an Immigrant." This version of the story is expanded and will be published as part of an e-book in the future. The story below takes place in Germany around 1946.

WHAT ABOUT CIGARETTES

Many men rolled their own cigarettes long before the GIs came. Few smoked cigars, I guess they were not readily available. Many smoked pipes. The elders of the town showed off their long hanging meerschaum pipes; the younger men much smaller and sportier ones. Cigar stubs found their way into a pipe and totally used until they turned to ashes. Nobody chewed tobacco or dipped the stuff, between cheek and gum, like they do in the United States. 

Snuff, finely ground tobacco, existed and actually was sniffed up the nose. When the need for a dip came, as Beisser Opa called it, he, with greatly exaggerated and somewhat elegant motion, reached for his silver snuff box, which he kept in his left, inner, jacket pocket. 

After he tapped the box with his knuckles to knock off any snuff stuck to the lid, he’d flip it open. With the precision of an orchestra conductor, he removed a pinch between his thumb and two fingers. He then flipped the lid closed with his pinkie finger. Carefully, he’d return his treasured, little box into his breast pocket. All these theatrics were always evident before the pinch of snuff was placed on the backside of his left hand. With great expectation he slowly raised his hand to his nostrils. His head slightly raised, eyes half closed, he gave one good snort up one nostril taking about half the dip, the other nostril likewise received the rest.

Since a kid couldn’t get hold of any real tobacco, we made our own smoking tools and hunted stuff to smoke. 

We began by making our own pipes. Corncobs we never heard of. No one had ever seen or eaten any corn. Where we lived bamboo or reeds did not grow either, but elderberry bushes did. 

We reamed out the elderberry branches’ pithy center for the stem of our pipe. The pithy stuff of the stem was removed with a wire. We shoved the wire through and pulled it back and forth to increase the hollowness of the stem. 

The bowl of the pipe we carved from the thick branch of the elderberry bush reaming it out with our pocket knife. We then drilled a hole in the side of the bowl with the sharp point of the knife and stuck the two parts together. 

The tobacco substitute we decided on, after experimenting with various dried leaves, was that of the horse chestnut. Some smelled a bit better than others. When we tried to inhale it made our eyeballs almost pop out. None of the stuff we smoked tasted good, and all left you spitting for hours. 

Smoke we did––with spit and tears flying in all directions. 

The closest thing in form to a cigarette, or thin cigar, was what we called Judenstrick or Jewish rope. It is the dried vine of a wild grape. A similar vine here in the States is the Virginia creeper and the possum grape vines. 

The vine grew on banks and in gullies. It grew thick, climbing the trees, and often totally covered small bushes. 

The hollow and shaded underside of these mounds of tangled vines made a perfect hideaway for us boys. One such particular hideout was entered by crawling on our bellies. Once inside, the dark and damp made it very private. We only allowed our closest buddies to a secret fort like that; the ones we trusted to keep their mouths shut. Of course, any clandestine operation done in the vine fort would have warranted a whipping from our parents. Smoking was one of these operations. 

The walls and domed ceiling of the hidden den consisted of years of dead vine; all of it good to smoke. All one had to do was reach out with our pocket knife and whack a smoke. The section between knots in the dried vine made the perfect cigarillo. It was porous, and air could be sucked through it. All we had to do was light up one end and sit back. 

The dry vine stayed lit and even sported a little stub of ashes on the end. Just like a real cigarette. We sat around exhibiting various stances and techniques to hold the weed, imitating the grownups and their cigarets. Some folks held theirs between two fingers. Others held their cigarettes in their mouth all the while dodging the smoke from getting into their eyes. We felt grown and quite in control. 

The trouble however, after one or two smokes, the bitterness and smoke of the vine seemed to dry up the saliva glands. The mouth became parched, and the tongue swelled. After we killed our taste buds, we crawled out into the day. If anyone observed a bunch of boys hanging around the water pump, coughing, spitting, they sure knew what we had been up to.

So, then the GIs came to town. They held their smokes with thumb and two fingers, the lighted end facing in. They flipped their cigarette butts all over and created in us an urge to do some real smoking. All we had to do is circle the squad tents and gather all the cigarette butts without looking like chickens picking beans. You might say we boys were in butt heaven.

We were not the only ones to sheepishly pick up the discarded butts. I believe the older boys and even some grownups did the hunt and gather mode as well. With four of us boys collecting butts, we soon had a small tin can full of loose tobacco. 

Since none of us were allowed to be caught with this taboo substance, we decided to bury the tin can in our secret hideaway. We set a date, a non-school day, for the great Bavarian Smoke In. 

A week or so later, the day of all days arrived. Plenty of the real stuff buried and ready. All the practicing we did finally will be tested. The occasion is surely going to elevate us into the world of manhood. 

I remember sitting in a circle in our secret den, each one of us prepared, with either pipe or roll-your-own paper. Matches were on hand and ready to start the grand experience. We unearthed the tin can and carefully pried open the lid. All eager eyes strained to stay focused on that metal box. The box holding the long sought treasure. The lid popped off. What? . . . A strange, fuzzy haze of light blue and green stared back at us. Our much heralded stash had totally molded––grown a green beard! 

I have never longed for another smoke since that day.

GERMS . . . YOU'VE GOT TO LOVE'EM

FRANZ'S SYMBOL OF WISDOM

Germs

I grew up in a world, at least in our house, where we were not concerned with germs. We didn’t use the word and worry about germs as we do now.
It was a given, and natural instinct, to stay clear of any fecal matter. Although animal dung was mixed with dirt to grow a garden we did not handle it.
We had no refrigeration and knew when food began to grow blue mold it was at a point of no longer eatable.
We had to make a call as to bother washing off maggots or throwing out the meat.
I remember as a child washing off little white eggs green flies had laid on a piece of meat during the day. However, food being boiled or fried always killed what might have hurt us.

Germs are now an obsession in this country. I agree there are many things one should do to lessen the chance of contracting the flu. However, seeing everything as contaminated makes life a dread. One can actually lose the freedom of a simple life worrying about what germ nay be lurking. Nothing is more precious, in my mind, as a simple life. I’d rather get a few ailments, and build up some resistance and immunities, than walk around with plastic gloves on my hands, a white mask over my nose and mouth, stop at all sanitizers, wipe hands on Clorox napkins, shun friends in fear they may breath on you.

On a side note, I caught myself doing a no-no at Walmart. I was in the process of buying tomatoes, pealed off one of the plastic baggies, I could’t open the stupid thing, so I put a little spittle on my fingers, opened it, and commenced to finger a tomato or two with the same fingers. (I was polite enough to place the ones I fingered into the bag.)

Too many of the folks, especially our children, are over sanitized. That is why, I believe, kids get sick every whipstitch. Everything is treated with an antibiotic. Millions of people have overdosed on antibiotics to a point where the drug industry can no longer come up with a pill that works. Germs have outsmarted the antibiotics and are laughing at humanity.
Maybe, just maybe, to get sick, let nature work its wonder, build an immunity to simple sicknesses, is the way life is meant to be.

Going back to germs. If you are one of those paranoid folks, let me help you to get discouraged.
How often do you sanitize your spigot at the sink? Your handle on the drawer that holds you trashcan? Your phone? The handle on the refrigerator? Your armrests on your easy chair? Every door knob in your house? Your countertops? Your steering wheel? Your car  keys? 
You want to be a slave to germs, shrivel up in fear, lose your simple freedom? 
As for me I’m free! I depend on my reasonable good sense and the Good Shepherd, Who has taking care of me to this day. I know He will have the last word on my future whether I fret over a few germs or not, and I will give Him all the glory. 
.

Why Shoes

This short story is from my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making of an Immigrant." This version of the story is expanded and will be published as part of an e-book in the future. The story below takes place in Germany around 1946.

WHY SHOES

Along with scarred and banged-up knees came tough, little bare feet. We wore shoes only in the winter. I never had a pair of boots to wear when sleigh riding or building forts and snowmen. My knitted socks kept me warm only until the snow around the ankles melted, saturating my socks and shoes with freezing water. I had so much fun, but it seemed like I always had to quit the fun stuff early, not because I was tired, but because my feet were about to freeze off. 

My shoes were always either too big or too small. When my shoes were too big, Mom had me stand on cardboard as she traced my feet with a pencil. She then cut out the shape and put the cardboard inside the brogans, sometimes two or three layers, to fill them enough so the laces would tighten. I stuffed wool balls or old rags into the toe area to keep the feet from sliding forward. 

I never had a pair of new shoes. If there was a shoe store in town, I sure did not recall one. Where the used shoes came from was not discussed. As I got a bit older I wore mother’s old ones. If the sole had holes, which was often the case, a piece of stout material was slipped under the cardboard on the inside. As my feet grew and the shoes were still usable, spacers were removed one at a time. 

The Sunday-go-to-church shoes did not wear out. Year after year the same pair was shined and worn to church. Once the toes became cramped, I simply balled them up and walked kind of pigeon-toed until back home when the feet were liberated again. In any case, with Sunday shoes on, you did not and could not do much running.

Summer time was when you got your bare feet in shape. Nothing was hard enough to hurt the bottoms. We took great pride in the toughness of our soles. We tested them on new gravel doing a stationary run and seeing how far we could sling the rocks backward with our feet. 

Another boy-thing we did for fun, was the dirt slide. Sliding down on our backsides of the Lederhose was fun, but taking a running jump and sliding down an almost vertical mud track on your bare feet was tough. For sure, after a good rain, the wet soil really added speed. However, climbing back up the bank on the slippery mud was a bit slower. 

We tested walking on shattered glass, but only when someone dared you to do it.

As always, we waited longingly for the days to grow longer and the snows to be gone from the well-travelled paths. To be bare footed again was a springtime dream. 

Ah, what a welcomed sight, when a couple of boys spotted a horse drawn wagon coming our way. I can still see the beasts laboring up the incline to reach the town’s center. Even while a long way off, we craned our necks to see if a generous pile of horse apples had been left behind. Most often however, such a pile, still steaming with warmth, was left sitting in the center of town; a treat just for the taking. 

We'd run and lovingly step into the warmth, sort of kneading the fluffy droppings with our toes. The juice oozed between our toes and feet as we worked to find the last pockets of warm spots. No wonder we had such growth spurts in the spring. 

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.

.

A Real Christening

This short story is from my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making of an Immigrant." This version of the story is expanded and will be published as part of an e-book in the future. The story below takes place in Germany 1946.

A REAL CHRISTENING

Bavaria is predominantly Catholic. As in most towns of that day and time, the town’s church was the predominant structure. The church’s furnishings, decorations, candle holders and goblets were often centuries old and precious. The town’s church, the center of all religious activities never locked its doors. One could enter its sanctuary at all hours to pray, find shelter and solitude. 

First Communion is a big deal in every young person’s life. I was about six years old. I know Mom had a hard time getting the money together to buy a large, rather ornately carved candle. I carried it during the processional, along with all other young candidates, up the center aisle of the church. The candle with its added white ribbon and drip cup stood about two feet tall. It sure seemed huge to me. 

I got to wear a white shirt and a dark colored suit on First Communion day. Where the suit came from, I haven’t the foggiest. Mom hemmed up the sleeves and pants’ legs and made other modifications that later could be reversed as I grew taller. All starched-up and ironed, fingernails cleaned, hair spiffied-up, shoes shined, I went to church. 

I guess the significance of the whole religious ritual was the celebration and the awareness of a young person’s beginning the age of accountability. From that day forth one could go to confession, tell your misdeeds to a priest, do your multi-prayer penance, and participate in communion. 

All that was good and honorable because it molded me to be a better boy, a boy more aware of other peoples’ feelings and needs. The impetus for me to do better was either the fear of having to tell the priest your sins, or the dread of saying a multitude of Lord’s Prayers and Hail Marys. Whichever it was, I can’t remember. 

Lunch time that memorable day must have been a little late. I took the extra time to dawdle and look at a new baby calf before I went upstairs to our kitchen to shed my Sunday suit. 

Sepperl, the young son of Mr. Beir, our landlord, asked me to follow him through a door which led to the milking stalls. Note, this was not the place where the cows ate out of a manger. I had visited that part of the stall before and even got to touch the cows, scratching them above their noses. He wanted me to step into a small door which led to the rear of the beasts. Obviously, it was where the new calf could get to its mama for a suck. I knew the place was dark in there, and more than just straw covered the floor. 

Knowing the wrath of Mother, I sure did not want to soil the fine get-up I was sporting. So I asked Sepperl to bring the calf out into the open for me to get a good look at it. 

Well, he looped a rope around its neck and coaxed it to the door. This is where the calf stopped; or should I say anchored itself. Apparently, the month-old calf was not yet accustomed to the sunlight. Sepperl stepped back outside onto the cobblestoned wagon yard and began to yank on the rope trying to budge the stubborn, young critter. However, the calf was determined not to step down through the door and out into the open. 

Plan two. The rope was long enough to get another pair of hands on it. I could’t just stand and watch, I had to give him a hand. Both of us pulled and kept the pressure on, our feet braced against the wall and doorsill. The calf, its head down and stiff legged, refused to comply with such useless shenanigans. Being of the dominant species we, two intelligent boys, stayed determined and braced for the duration. 

Then suddenly, totally without warning, the calf jumped toward the two of us and sent us sprawling. I stumbled backward, unable to right myself, I banged into a wheelbarrow. 

I had seen that wheelbarrow before and smelled it often. It was encrusted with years of manure which had been pitchforked into it while cleaning out the cow stalls. That day, you guessed it, it proudly boasted not the dried but the tenderly soft and wet stuff. When I quit stumbling and had come to rest and was sprawled in the wheelbarrow as if soaking in a tub. 

Well, the starched shirt and the ironed pant creases lasted long enough to get through Holy Communion plus another surprise and memorable christening.