Humor Columnist Blog

Beetle Mania

Posted on October 31, 2018 by Sheila Moss

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

“We are infested with ladybugs, thousands, all over the house outside, coming in through every crack!”

It was a text message from my daughter. Naturally, it was at a time when I was so busy at the office I could not spare a second for anything, much less bugs.

“I got the vacuum out. I’ve killed over a hundred inside. They are everywhere.”

I’ve never heard of such a thing — bees, maybe, termites, maybe, “Are you sure they are ladybugs?”

“Yes, swarms of them I have probably 200 on my window. The garage is full of them.”

And so began, a full-fledged episode of beetle mania. I felt like my head was going to explode. I could not deal with one more thing. The kitchen floor is missing thanks to a leaky refrigerator, the bathroom toilet has been broken, I lost my car keys… and now THIS?

When the plumber came to fix the toilet, he had cheerfully told me that bad things happen in threes. Not at my house. At my house they happen in swarms.

“Call the exterminator. What is the name of that one that came when we had termites?”

Later, another text came. “He can’t come until tomorrow. They have hundreds of calls. They have called in extra people and are working double shifts.”

Ladybugs are supposed to be cute and harmless. Children’s toys often look like ladybugs. I have jewelry that looks like ladybugs. Ladybugs are supposed to bring good luck.

“Okay, keep vacuuming.”

When I got home, I found out she was not exaggerating. In the garage, bugs were crawling up the wall and all over the ceiling like a scene from a horror movie. On the outside of the house, they crawled all over the house, especially the windows.

I found a half-full bottle of insecticide in the garage and went to work spraying around windows and doors. My son sprayed the garage.

Ladybugs may be cute when there are only a few, but no insect is cute when there are a thousand of them. Besides, these ladybugs were weird-looking. They were orange instead of red. I found out later that they were not local ladybugs. These were Japanese beetles, sometimes called Halloween beetles because that is the time of the year they appear. These were right on schedule.

“Weather is getting cooler and they are looking for a warm place to spend the winter. They are harmless, just leave them be and they will go away on their own,” advised an article on the internet. Obviously, their house was not swarming with hundreds of them.

The most aggravating part about the whole thing was when I found that the government released them as a natural enemy of aphids, which are tiny bugs that infest fruit trees. A large crop of tasty aphids and perfect weather conditions had made them fat and sassy.

They have no natural enemies here and can do as they please. Apparently, what pleases them is to reproduce. I guess the goverment guys didn’t notice they have WINGS and won’t stay where they are released.

I only hope this is not some biological warfare experiment and next thing they are releasing is killer bees or fire ants.

On the news that evening, there was a segment about the ladybug invasion. Apparently it is not just me. They do not carry disease, infest your food, or gnaw the house down. They do bite if aggravated.

The next day the exterminator finally showed up. Even after he sprayed, I still see a few. I can deal with a one or two walking across the ceiling upside down, just not hundreds of them.

Good grief, there is a ladybug walking across the computer screen now while I’m trying to type. How brazen can you get?

If ladybugs bring luck, I must be the luckiest person in town.

Copyright 2013 Sheila Moss

Posted in Creatures, Environment, Humor | Tagged Aphids, Bugs, Exterminator, Halloween beetles, Insects, Japanese beetles, Ladybugs, Luck, Orange ladybugs, Swarms | Leave a comment

Munich, Germany

Posted on October 27, 2018 by Sheila Moss

I have recently started a new travel blog about a trip to Europe. I hope you will check it out when you have time. https://bluedanbueblog.wordpress.com

Blogging the Blue Danube

Where to begin? Germany is very modern and at the same time very traditional. The people are friendly and cultured. Much of Munich was destroyed in World War II, but has been restored.

We are divided into three groups by the tour director, blue, red and orange. Our blue group was first to leave early in the morning so we were supposed to eat and be ready. However, this didn’t go over well, so the tour director, with the soon to become familiar lack of planning, told everyone to go ahead and eat early if they wanted. This meant the groups leaving hours later crowded the lines at the buffet almost preventing us from meeting the deadline to leave.

After breakfast, we went on another hour-long bus ride getting back to Munich. Then we toured the city by bus. The local tour guide was knowledgeable and pointed out sites, most…

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Musical Rooms

Posted on October 26, 2018 by Sheila Moss

david-becker-676857-unsplash

We are playing “musical rooms” at my house. This is similar to the children’s game of “musical chairs” in which everyone switches chairs while the music plays. I made the “brilliant” decision about a month ago to change my house around. The living room was the largest room in the house, but seldom used at all, so I decided to change that situation.

I always really hate the musical chairs game as a child because someone was left with no chair when the music stopped, and that child was out of the game. I’m finding that playing musical rooms is almost the same thing as playing musical chairs.

Let the games begin.

The office will become my daughter’s bedroom. Her bedroom will become my grandson’s bedroom. The living room will become the media room. But, just like in musical chairs, we seem to be one room short. When the music stopped, I no longer had a living room — unless you consider the attic the living room since that is where all my furniture is, except the hutch, which is now in the kitchen, one end of which has become the dining room.

I knew moving rooms around was going to be bad, but I didn’t realize just how bad. It is almost like moving from one home to another except I’m packing and unpacking all at the same time. Nothing is in the same place and a new place has to be found for almost everything. I spent the evening yesterday figuring out what to do with all the leftover items, and tripping over topsy-turvy computer cables in an upside-down house.

Furthermore, my house is full of strangers. The TV people came on Saturday to move the television connections. The phone company came yesterday to put in a new phone jack. The cable company came to move the Internet connection. I still have to get movers to move some of the heavy things to the attic that we can’t budge and probably a handy man. The pictures are all the wrong places. That means patching the nail holes and touching up the paint.

My grandson’s room is hopeless. It will have to be repainted. He has selected orange as the color choice he wants. Never ask an eight-year-old what color to paint a room. I feel like I’m living in a Dr. Suess story. Mr. Brown is upside down and everything else too.

Is the ceiling fan on the floor? We didn’t move the bathroom, did we? Thank goodness the refrigerator is still in the same place, And the furniture for my grandson’s room, which is now in the attic, can stay there until the movers come.

It is hard trying to carry on with normal life in the middle of all the chaos. People have to eat, sleep, take a shower once in a while, and go to work. The normal tasks are hard to do because we are too busy dealing with the abnormal ones.

At least it is only temporary. Actually, the living… er … media room didn’t look too bad this morning. It will just take some getting used to. I still feel as if I am living in someone else’s house, though. I’m trying hard not to think about it right now as I might loose my sanity completely. I’m already having nightmares about the Cat in the Hat.

Please, stop the music while paint I the bedroom orange.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss

Posted in Home, Humor | Tagged Changing bedrooms, Chaos, Leftover items, Media Room, Moving, Musical Chairs, Packing & Unpacking, Rearanging furniture, Repainting, Service people | Leave a comment

Eat Your Spinach

Posted on October 23, 2018 by Sheila Moss

spinach

“Stop! Don’t eat that spinach!” These words are music to kid’s ears everywhere — words they thought they would never hear.

Ever since adults were brainwashed by a cartoon character named Popeye, kids have been victims of vegetable abuse. Adults were convinced that to grow up big and strong and have muscle power like Popeye, a kid should be vegging out on spinach.

Nutritionists have long proclaimed the virtues of green leafy vegetables, spinach in particular, because it contains a large concentration of vitamins and nutrients said to be “good for you,” a virtual “powerhouse of nutrition.” Somehow, kids were just never quite convinced that something that tasted so bad could possibly be good.

Kids got a temporary reprieve from vegetables back when it became public that the President back then didn’t like nutritional green stuff either and refused to eat his broccoli. If the President of the U.S. didn’t eat green vegetables, surely kids shouldn’t have to eat them either. But, alas, Presidents move on and vegetables stay around and continue to plague kids by being good for them.

In the mind of a kid, the only good vegetables are French fries and ketchup. The rest of that stuff may be good for you, but it sure doesn’t taste like it. Adults secretly know that kids are right since they were once kids too. Generations have shunned the slimy pots of greens that were once a dinner mainstay, especially in the South. The trend now is raw or nearly raw “steamed” vegetables, which are said to retain the vitamin content that could be lost in cooking.

The hip new generation of adults likes salads, and baby spinach has become the vitamin-laden darling of the salad bar generation. If you couldn’t quite disguise the awful taste of spinach, you could always slip a few leaves into a cellophane package with other more palatable greens and market it with a perky name like “spring salad mix.”

And so, spinach has remained king and retained its lucrative market power even as the sodium-laden canned vegetables of past generations lost their allure. Fresh vegetables have become more popular and more readily available at the supermarket. “Eat your spinach” is more likely to refer to a bowl of salad these days than to a bowl of droopy greens cooked all day until a vitamin could not possibly survive.

Trouble is, kids don’t especially like salad either. Finger foods, such as baby carrots that can be dipped into ranch dressing, might slip through for a while, but the only really good vegetable is a vegetable that you don’t have to eat. So, kids continued to hide steamed broccoli in their milk and pass up the salad for Jell-o.

Once upon a time spinach turned up in the news with the deadly E. coli virus, kids everywhere were delighted to know that they were right. After all, television said so and media everywhere broadcasted the potential deadly result of eating raw spinach. Mom trashed the green salad in the fridge and salad bars scrambled to find replacements for the sick vegetable.

It seems that the deadly virus was inside the spinach and could not be washed or rinsed away. Only cooking could kill it. Therefore, Popeye’s canned spinach was safe from the contamination that plagued the popular fresh variety. Popeye, no doubt, is still squeezing cans and popping spinach to give him super strength, if he is still young enough to do so.

If kids can only convince adults not to return to the green slime of yesteryear, they will be safe from the virtues of spinach for at least a while longer. Now, if kids can only figure out a way to get rid of broccoli, the second most detested green vegetable, they will be home free.

Pass the ketchup, kids.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss
Previously published as
“It’s NOT Good for You

Posted in Food, Health, Humor | Tagged Broccoli, E.coli, Eat your spinach, greens, Nutrition, Nutritionists, Popeye, Salads, Spinach, Spring Salad Mix, Vegetables | 2 Comments

Hamster Dance

Posted on October 20, 2018 by Sheila Moss

hamster

Ever since he was been old enough to walk, my grandson has wanted a hamster. He was drawn to the hamster cages in pet stores like a moth to the light. We had to pry him loose with promises.

“When you are old enough to take care of it, you can have one.”

The other day the topic of small animal pets came up again. I don’t remember why now — probably my brain is trying to block out the memory. “When he is old enough…” I began. Then I remembered that he was nearly eight years old.

He was old enough.

Some preliminary checking on the Internet revealed that cages had changed a lot since I was last in the hamster market. They are no longer simple wire cages with exercise wheels. They are colorful multi-level habitats with towers and tunnels for the hamster to play in — in other words, rodent condos.

We decided to let my grandson pick out the hamster he wanted. Of course, he was thrilled when he got the news. We had to wait until after dinner to tell him as we knew he wouldn’t eat otherwise.

“I can have a hamster? For real?” he squealed. “I’ve always wanted a hamster!”

We knew that.

I remember the first hamster that my kids had for a pet, Squeaky. Shortly after bringing it home, it had three babies. I will be sure to get a male this time.

At the pet store there were dozens of hamsters. His mother somewhat favored a small gray longhaired one. However, my grandson wanted the very active, brown and white shorthair. I had forgotten how much they look like rats. It was too late to back out now, though.

The Internet promised that hamsters are inexpensive pets after the initial investment. My grandson chose a habitat. By the time we added litter, food, an exercise wheel, an igloo to sleep in, vitamins and chew sticks, the bill was more than I care to think about, especially when buying a rodent.

Was it only last year that I was trying to trap mouse rodents in the garage? Of course, I didn’t mention that out loud. “Besides, this is not a mouse,” I keep telling myself. I’m thankful that he didn’t want a gerbil. Talk about looking like a rat! At least hamsters don’t have long creepy tails.

And so, we have a new member of the household now. The new addition is named “Buddy.” He seems to be adjusting well to the new environment, climbing up and down the tunnels of his habitat and running for hours in his exercise ball, which is about all a hamster knows how to do. He loves lettuce and stuffs it in his pouches like a squirrel.

I remember that hamsters are escape artists and can learn to open a cage. One pet we had even learned to roll its plastic exercise ball against the furniture until it would pop open.

Buddy has already cracked out of his habitat twice. I don’t know how he managed to unlock the door, but he apparently spent the night in the heat vent and came out the next morning tired and thirsty and rubbing his eyes. Just what I need, a rodent loose in the house.

The second time he escaped, he was apprehended behind the living room curtains. His doors are now securely taped shut. We may have to add a barbed wire fence, alarms and spotlights.

“You have to remember to wash your hands after you play with it,” I told my grandson. “And keep its cage clean so it doesn’t get sick, and give it fresh water every day. And be gentle with it so it doesn’t bite. And…”

Oh, well, I might as well save my breath. He isn’t listening anyhow. It is good for a child to have a pet to care for and love. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

I just wish it didn’t look quite so much like a rat.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss

Posted in Creatures, Family, Humor | Tagged Animal, children, Critters, Escape artists, Grandson, Hamsters, Mammal, Pets, Rodent, Small animals | 4 Comments

Greased Lightning

Posted on October 16, 2018 by Sheila Moss

Toddler

I was asked to watch my year-and-a-half-old granddaughter for only a few hours while my son and his wife were out. Of course, I was thrilled at a chance to have my sweet little granddaughter all to myself and spoil her. But once again I have flunked Grandmother 101.

She was already in her ‘jamas, as content and innocent as a Pooh bear with a honey tree. She waved a crooked “bye, bye” as mommy and daddy went out the door. Nothing to do now but watch TV and let the child play with toys until mom and dad return, I thought.

That’s before I found out that toddlers are greased lightning. I went to turn the TV on and the child went for the stairs. She was halfway up before I realized she was not right behind me. I led her back down and told her not to go up again because she might fall.

I gave her a toy to play with and decided to fix a snack. Little Miss Greased Lightning followed me to the kitchen, climbed on a chair and tried to get up on the table where her father had left some tools. I rescued a light bulb before she could grab it. “No, honey, glass can break and hurt you.” I scooted the chair under the table, while she proceeded to open a kitchen drawer and take out all the utensils.

I put away the utensils and decided to pop some popcorn to share. Maybe food would keep her attention. “Eat one piece of popcorn at a time, honey.” She took a handful and crammed it into her mouth. I’ve never seen a child move so fast. Thank goodness she didn’t choke.

While I got rid of the popcorn, she climbed on a lamp table and stood up. “How did you get up there? Get down right now!” She jumped to the sofa, a game she seemed familiar with and had obviously played before. While I tried to figure out what to do next, she found my purse and proceeded to unzip it. I put it on the mantel, while she found her mother’s purse, which I also put on the mantel.

“Let’s play with toys,” I suggested. We found two music boxes and turned them on. She danced in circles in the middle of the floor. “How cute, that should keep her busy for a while,” I thought. She found a tiny tea party chair and sat on it, holding her baby doll. While I picked up the scattered toys, she decided to stand up on the tiny chair, which was not nearly secure enough.

Maybe we can find a cartoon on TV, I thought, as she turned the rocking horse upside down. While picking up the rocking horse, I didn’t notice that she had a package of baby wipes until I saw them flying in the air one by one. I put them back in the container the best I could while she began to unfold diapers. I swooped everything up before she could open the baby cream and put it all on the mantel, which was getting pretty full by now.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had one this age. I had forgotten how fast they can move. I wonder how her mom does it, I thought, as she was playing with the light switch. “No, no,” I said. “Baby, must not play with the light switch!” So, she just climbed up the stairs again instead.

She finally became frustrated and broke into tears because she could not climb on a chair while holding a beach ball at the same time. I tried to comfort her. I could tell it was getting to be time for beddy-bye. No, not for her — for grandma! I had forgotten how toddlers overflow with natural curiosity and boundless energy.

A grandma just has a hard time keeping up with greased lighting.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss

Posted in Family, Humor | Tagged Baby sitter, Cartoons, children, grandchildren, Grandma, Play, Popcorn, Toddlers, Toys | 2 Comments

The Worry Wart

Posted on October 12, 2018 by Sheila Moss

worry

What is it that makes people worry way out of proportion to the reason for their concern? Some call it being obsessive. Some call it maternal instinct. I don’t really know how to define it; however, I think all mothers worry about their kids. My mother used to call this sort of anxiety being a “worrywart.”

Suppose you don’t hear from your kids for a few days or a few weeks. We are talking grown, adult children who have left the nest, not little children that live at home. Still, when they are late or missing, I imagine the worse. Something has happened. I panic and begin to imagine all sorts of silly things until I call on the phone only to have them say, “What’s wrong Mom? Everything is fine here. We’ve just been really busy.”

Worrywart syndrome.

It’s especially bad for me because my youngest daughter, due to some bad luck and bad health, came back home to live with me for a while. It’s really hard to emotionally separate when they are right there under your nose and you see their every move. And it’s even harder when they should be under your nose and you don’t know where they are at that particular moment.

If my daughter is late getting home, I panic. She must have had a wreck! She is probably unconscious in a ditch somewhere — she might be dead. I fret and fret, can’t sleep. I call on her cell phone and leave a message. “Call mom. I’m worried sick because you are not home.”

She calls, “Mom, I just had to work late. Everything is fine. Go back to bed.” I feel so foolish. An old woman that can’t let go of her children or cut the apron strings! What’s the matter with me?

Worrywart syndrome.

I can no more stop worrying about my children than I can stop loving them. I guess it comes with motherhood, this built-in need to worry. Some fight it successfully and say that they don’t worry any more. Others give in to it and become nagging old cronies, controlling the lives of the kids and not letting them be their own person. I don’t want to do THAT! So, I just worry instead.

Worrywart syndrome.

I guess it’s inherited. I remember when I was a teenager, how my mother was always concerned about my whereabouts. I couldn’t understand it. I don’t want my kids to resent me or to think I’m interfering in their lives. I always thought my mom was nuts, getting upset if I was thirty minutes late getting home. Now I know that I have the same disease.

Worrywart syndrome.

If there is a cure, I’d sure like to get the medicine. “Just let go”, you say! “You’ve done your job. Get a life!” Obviously, you are not a mother. I have a life. But, there is a second sense that lets you “feel it in your bones” when things are not right. Of course, you can easily misread this feeling. Motherly instinct is just a feeling, not always a reality, and
this is where the problems come in. Is it actually motherly instinct or something else?

Worrywart syndrome.

Actually, this whole issue is a bit ridiculous. Kids grow up. I need to say goodbye to them, do my own thing, be happy with their accomplishments. I don’t really want to live anyone else’s life. My own is enough, thanks. I just wish they would call home more often, that’s all.

The harder I try not to worry, the more I worry. Then I worry about being worried. How do you break out of this circle? Maybe I’ll figure it out later. Right now my daughter is late and I have to call and be sure everything is okay. Something could have happened.

Worrywart syndrome.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss

Posted in Family, Humor | Tagged Anxiety, Apprehension, Bothered, Concern, Fear, Fret, Maternal instinct, Nervousness, Panic, Troubled, Uneasiness, Worry | Leave a comment

The Pizza Place

Posted on October 9, 2018 by Sheila Moss

pizza

My partner likes to eat out. He is supposed to be on a diet, so I suspect that he just likes to eat out as an excuse to eat food he is not supposed to have.

One night, as usual, he asked me if I wanted to eat out. I was so tired after working all day that I said, “Why don’t we just eat at home tonight?” So, we went home. About the time we got inside the door, I realized that I really didn’t want to cook, and I really didn’t want to eat a frozen dinner either.

“Can I change my mind about eating out?” I asked.

His eyes lit up! “Sure,” he said.

Then came the usual question, “Where do you want to eat?”

“I don’t care,” I replied. So, he headed down the Interstate. I had a feeling he was going someplace I didn’t want to go, like a sushi bar or a place where we would have to wait forever. I just wanted something simple.

“Pizza would be good,” I mused. “But, I don’t know any place to get pizza except carry-out.” What I meant was something simple like a pizza would be good. Men do not understand subtle hints. Men take everything literally.

“Okay, we will go back and get carryout,” he said, pulling into the turn lane.

“No, wait! I don’t want carryout, I want to eat out!”

He was getting aggravated. “Why, didn’t you say so before I got in the turn lane?”

“I didn’t say to turn, I just said pizza would be good.”

He managed to get out of the turn lane and back on the road without wrecking the car.

“I think I know a place.”

By then I figured I’d best keep quiet and eat sushi pizza, or whatever he wanted.

He pulled into a parking lot where there was a pizza store. We got out and went to the door. Wouldn’t you know, it was carryout only? We turned around and left.

“We can eat something besides pizza,” I ventured.

He went to another strip mall. I was afraid to ask why. Then I saw a restaurant with “Pizza” written on the window. “There’s a pizza place!” I exclaimed.

“I know.”

We had never been to this place before, but it looked okay. We were shown to a table and given a menu. “Have you been here before?” asked the waitress.

“No,” we admitted.

“I suggest the specialty pizzas,” she said. “You get eight toppings and the price is cheaper.” That sounded good to us, so he ordered an 8-inch veggie special and a lite beer. (He’s on a diet.) I got another one of the specialties, minus the olives.

“Our pizzas are not like the ones they have at other pizza stores,” she said. “They are like the ones up north.” Sure, we thought. That’s what they all say. My partner thinks that the only place you can get good pizza is in the north because he is from Pennsylvania.

I was just happy because there was no sushi at all on the menu.

Anyhow, the pizza came and it was absolutely delicious — best pizza I’ve had in ages. My partner gulped his down. The waitress, evil woman, then came and waved a dish of specialty cheesecakes under his nose.

“They are made with artificial sweetener,” she said. That, was all he needed to hear. He ordered dessert. “But, it’s sugar-free,” he explained to me when I frowned.

In spite of a few mistakes, dinner turned out okay – not counting the crashed diet, of course. “Next time I’m getting a 10-inch pie!” said my partner.

Next time I’m not going to suggest pizza.

Posted in Food, Humor | Tagged Carryout, Cheesecake, cooking, Eating out, Pizza, Restaurants, Specialty pizzas, Sugar-free | 1 Comment

Self-Service World

Posted on October 5, 2018 by Sheila Moss

ATM

An acquaintance of mine mentioned how much he hated standing in line at the convenience market to pay for gas. Invariably there is someone buying lottery tickets and three packs of cigarettes — and then scratching off the tickets before leaving the counter while he continues to wait, he complained.

What about “pay at the pump”? I think credit card scanners on gas pumps are one of the greatest timesaving inventions ever invented, as I no longer have to go inside to pay for gas. When real “service stations” went the way of the dinosaur, I became accustomed to inconvenience. At first, I thought “pay at the pump” only worked if you wanted to buy gas on credit. Then I found that debit cards also work and they can zap the money right out of your checking account. I haven’t been inside a gas station or convenience store since.

In the interest of saving time, I’ve learned to use those digital scanners at grocery stores with exactly the right flick of the wrist to scan the card right. The trouble is that every business seems to have a slightly different machine, and it is so easy to accidentally push the wrong button and end up canceling the entire transaction. Now cards have chip readers and all you have to do is find the slot on the machine, not always as easy at it seems.

I’m sure the day is coming when no one will carry cash at all, just plastic cards.

Automation reached a new low, however, when self-service checkout aisles were installed at my local Wal-Mart. With this new “convenience” you get to scan your own groceries instead of standing in a checkout line. Just as I was getting used to shopping carts that were unloaded by the cashier, these idiotic self-service scanners came along to destroy my composure again.

I’ve noticed that I’m not the only one who avoids them. For some unfathomable reason these machines seem to hate me. I scan my item. The computer sits there stupidly doing nothing. Eventually it says, “Scan your first item.” But I already did! What to do now, scan it again and get charged twice? “Put the item in the bag,” says the machine. But I already have! “Put the item in the bag,” it says again. So, I take it out and do it again, just to make a machine happy. “Scan the item before putting it in the bag!” shouts the machine while everyone turns to look at me as if I’m a shoplifter. No wonder these self-service machines are avoided like debris on the Interstate.

No doubt a Yankee invented these stupid machines. Southern machines would have better manners and speak our language: “Y’all scan yer item now. Take your time, honey, don’t get your britches in a wad.” This would be so much more customer friendly.

Speaking of talking machines, the ATM machine at the local Bank of America used to have a British accent. I called it the “Princess Di ATM.” I guess they eventually figured out why everyone was snickering — It is “Bank of AMERICA,” isn’t it? They finally got rid of it in favor of one of those touch-the-screen things. It doesn’t talk; it only pings. Reminds me of a clown with a horn. I’m afraid if I do something wrong it will squirt me with seltzer.

This is obviously another Yankee innovation. What an ATM machine in the South should say is something like: “Howdy, y’all! Welcome to Bank of America, southern style. Just put your deposit down yonder in the slot, hon. Here’s some of your hard-earned money back to spend. Y’all be sure and come see us again. Ya hear?”

Corporations are so out of touch with the real world and real people. They really need to get out from behind those desks and see what real people talk like, don’t they?

Posted in Humor, Southern Humor, Technology | Tagged ATM, Automated System, Bankcards, Card scanner, Checkout, Credit card, Digital scanner, Machines, Money machine, Pay at the pump, Self-service, Southern | 1 Comment

Storytelling Festival

Posted on October 2, 2018 by Sheila Moss

On one weekend each fall, the National Story Telling Festival is held in the mountains of East Tennessee. It is in a tiny town called Jonesborough, also known as the oldest city in Tennessee. It is a quaint little village ready for company, dressed in its fall finery of mums and pumpkins on bales of hay.

“What’s storytelling?” asked my partner when I first mentioned going. He would have to ask, wouldn’t he? But, actually, the term “storytelling” is pretty self-descriptive. You have heard comedians tell of recollections from their childhood, usually with humorous twists. Probably you have a family member that can relate antidotes about your relatives that have been passed from generation to generation. This is what storytelling is: People telling stories, often funny, sometimes poignant, usually about their own experiences, sometimes folktales from literature.

In Jonesborough storytelling has been taken to another level and has become an art form. The storytellers are professionals who tell their stories from place to place.

The history of how the little mountain town of Jonesborough became the storytelling capital of the nation is a story itself. It seems that like many small towns, it was slowly decaying. A teacher heard Jerry Clower telling a humorous story on the radio and thought, “Why don’t we have a gathering and invite people who can spin a good yarn to come?” And so they did. Year after year more people came to listen and the festival grew until it became a three-day celebration that takes over the town for a weekend.

Since there is no building large enough to hold the crowds, the festival is held outdoors under the shelter of large circus-sized tents. The night we went it rained and a cold front moved in. In the morning, the weather was damp and cold. We found chairs in the main tent and camped out on them all day, the two of us daring not to both leave at the same time lest other eager listeners grab our spot.

I’m sure the souvenir folks must have done a booming business in sweatshirts that year. While the audience shivered and complained good-naturedly, the show went on. My nose and toes felt like I was attending football game, but I sat tight. The tents were packed as teller after teller took the stage and captured the audience with the magic of their stories. No money was wasted on elaborate staging, just a stool or a chair, large speakers and a microphone. The show was simply the story and your imagination.

We lived on pizza and hot coffee the first day before we found out that we could have brought snack food with us. Leaving to eat dinner or stand in food lines meant loss of our spot and being relegated to listening from the back of the tent, a fate worse than cold pizza.

We watched, applauded, and listened hour after hour and into the night. We knew if we left we could miss the best part, whatever that was. I don’t remember ever laughing so hard or so much. Each storyteller was different, as different as the stories they shared. Most of the audience had been there before, some over and over during the 40+ years that the festival has existed. Some of the audience looked almost as old as the folktales.

It was an adventure, a moment of shared experience, a link between the past and the present, a tradition that has became an institution, but one that maintained its rural mountain roots and the flavor of southern hospitality. We were sorry when it was time to go home. And that must be why they come over and over again, to listen, to share the experience, and to enjoy the magical spell created just by the telling of stories.