Behind closed doors.

Paul started it.

He told another story about his dad, Dwight, to illustrate his dad's subtle humor. There's no laugh-out-loud,  knee-slapping, guffawing, corn-ball humor with the Hoff family.  It's a quieter, laying-in-wait, tap you on your shoulder when your back is turned, get you when you least expect it sort of amusement.  Once you've fallen victim, you'll know, but you don't shout it to the world, and-- unlike our family-- they don't ridicule, point, and laugh once you've fallen prey.

Paul told us about the time Dwight filled his bathroom medicine cabinet with marbles.  This kind of humor takes patience for the reward of a laugh; an unknown victim would eventually be revealed.

I found this highly amusing, and couldn't wait to implement it.  We got to work; Stephen drilled a hole in the top of the middle section of our three paneled wall mounted medicine cabinet, and we poured about 30 marbles into the closed cabinet from the top.  Testing it, we had one of the kids open the cabinet door but to our disappointment nothing happened.  There weren't enough marbles filling the space to cause a cascade and the few marbles that were sitting on the shelf sat like beady little eyes watching the reaction of our failure.  Dejected, we knocked at a few of them and down they rained into the porcelain sink below.

The racket it created was loud, jarring and dangerous!  Several marbles broke sending slivers of glass shards all over the tiled counter-top.  This was not working, and clearly wouldn't have a fun outcome if the hail of marbles came down on someone's head, or worse, sent broken glass into someone's eye.

We re-evaluated the process, and considered other options:

ping-pong balls?  Too big.
Super Balls?  Too big, too bouncy.
Cotton Balls?  Too soft, no surprise element.
 
We decided that gumballs would be just as colorful as glass marbles, equally surprising, and far less dangerous.  Our intended victim was the nosy Parker house guest who secretly opens the medicine cabinet to see what family secrets are revealed from the pill bottle labels and unguents.  We've all had one or been one.

Off to the candy store.  We purchased three bags of 50 gumballs, installed them in the cabinet, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Over the months, with the cabinet prepared and full, we had several house guests and two Solstice parties with well over 20 guests and no one ever opened the cabinet.  How 'bout that?  We determined that this was actually a test of character of the company we keep.

A.  Do you open the cabinet?
B.  What do you do if you're caught opening the cabinet by unleashing a hail-storm of gumballs?

It wasn't until several years later when we learned how some people handle it.

After my mother died, our family started running the Bed and Breakfast my folks had been operating together for nearly 20 years.  Early in the B&B season we had friends of my folks stay with us who'd been visiting Cleveland Place and The Bay of Fundy for years.  We were pretty well acquainted, and thought that they would be good subjects for the Gumball Prank and set up the medicine cabinet in the guest bathroom with 300 hundred brightly colored balls.

This was no easy task.  Cleveland Place is nearly 100 years old, and the oak medicine cabinet is built into the lath and plaster bathroom wall making it impossible to drill any holes.  We had to form a sort of false cardboard door to funnel the gumballs in, close the real door, and then slide the cardboard out from underneath.  After several failed attempts, and chasing countless escaped balls, we eventually got them all in.  We welcomed our guests, Dan and Betsy, and invited them to make themselves comfortable in room #2 and enjoy their full private bath just a few steps down the hall.

For me, there's a bit of an ethical puzzle to this gag.  If I was a family-friend guest in a home that is run as a professional lodging establishment and I saw the little door in the wall with the wee brass plate above the latch that read private please, I probably wouldn't open the door, assuming it was for the supplies or operations of the facility.

However, if I was a paying lodger and unfamiliar with the hosts I'd be concerned with what might be behind the mirrored cabinet that faces directly in front of the bathtub.  After all, I've seen the 20/20 episodes on television that exposes creeps who use small video cameras watching the innocent  in their most private moments. So, I'd probably peek inside the door to confirm that it simply contains travel sized shampoos and cotton swabs.

To their credit, neither Dan or Betsy ever opened the cabinet door.  Over the years, we've become good friends and they've returned to Cleveland Place several times and have been our hosts at their home in Massachusetts.  We eventually revealed the test that they unknowingly passed and they have since fallen victim to the gag in their own home.  For a simpler version we used a cardboard Morton Salt container that was emptied of salt, the bottom cut out, filled with gumballs and secretly stashed in the kitchen cupboard when their backs were turned.  Eventually, when it was time to fill the salt shaker, the prank was exposed. 

As the busy B&B season came in full swing, we left the medicine cabinet as is, and actually forgot about its contents.  Unfortunately, we were reminded very late one night after checking in guests.  Kathryn and I were sitting in the den downstairs and heard the tell tale rattle of 300 hundred gumballs raining down on the wooden floor above our heads.  Alarmed and startled at first, then quickly realizing the scene above, Kathryn and I were forced to leave the house as we were convulsed with laughter imagining the dazed guest, fresh from her bath, standing wrapped in her white Cleveland Place terry-cloth bathrobe in a pool of bright, shiny, primary- colored confectioneries.

The next morning at breakfast, nothing was mentioned by the guests (or by us) about the incident.  When they'd left for the day, I went to the bathroom to refresh towels, swab the toilet, and assume the daily duties of running a B&B, and found several of the gumballs stashed about--a few in a basket, others in a soap dish, some that rolled to far corners.  Most remained in the cabinet (though I'm curious how she got them back in the cabinet since several were crushed flat apparently from her shutting the door on them).  The couple stayed 5 days.  No one ever said a word about it.  Was she embarrassed?  Annoyed?  Amused?  We'll never know.  I was tempted to use a few gumballs as garnish on their pancakes one morning to make mention, but chose to let it be.  I wonder if they kept a few as a souvenir.  So:

A. She opened posted private cabinet door.
B. She never said a word about it.

Odd?  I think so.  Curious, most definitely.  But more, I wonder if she's told on herself.

Over the years, Dwight's little prank has made quite a few rounds in Alma village-- Cleveland Place has even fallen reverse victim to it on several occasions--but our rule is, you can't gumball someone until you have been gumballed, and like Dwight, you never let on that it was you who you set up the prank.

Patience.  All it takes is patience.

Fun is cheap--entertainment is expensive.

My folks always worked hard. Very hard. Pat and Wally's work ethic is one I've never seen matched. But they played hard, too. They laughed easily, could usually laugh at themselves, and enjoyed seeing if others could or would laugh and, I think, saw such as a reflection of character.

In his teens, in the early 50's, Dad worked at a gas station in Brookline, Massachusetts, on Cypress and Boylston streets pumping gas, checking oil, greasing joints, and washing cars. He was trusted with cash and he was reliable so he sometimes worked at any one of the three stations that the owner operated in the area. In Brookline, there was a Pontiac car dealership across the street and frequently Wally would see the salesman out on the lot among the cars. Since a lot of time was spent out of the building dealing with customers who were inspecting or choosing a car, the dealership telephone was hooked up to ring a bell outside as well as inside for incoming calls.

This is in the days long before cell phones, so telephones were simple, and phone booths were common. The gas station had its own booth, and like everything else in that generation, a call cost a nickel. Somehow, known only to dad, the phone at the gas station had a short in the coin receiver, so it could be jiggled without losing a nickel to place a call.

Wally had the number for the car dealership across the street. When he saw the salesman far out into the lot away from the building, he'd jiggle the coin receiver, place a free call and watch. The salesman would perk up when he heard that outdoor phone bell ringing and run back to the the building, dash inside and catch the phone just as Dad would disconnect.

"Oh! so close!"

Of course, this is also the days way before caller ID, *69, voice mail, answering machines or any other calling feature. It was just a heavy black desk phone, so it was a lost call--and potentially, for that eager salesman, a lost sale.

Dejected, the salesman would head back out to the lot, resume his duties among the cars or customers, and Dad would jiggle the line again, and hearing that ring the hapless fellow would run back to catch the call--but faster this time, and with each subsequent ring his determination increased.

Dad continued this taunt, timing the frequency and duration of the calls with the distance the salesman would put between him and the phone to the point that eventually the fellow would just stand in the doorway, waiting for the phone to chime. He'd get closer and closer with each failed connection until he ultimately stood next to the desk, hand hovering over the phone ready to snatch the handset off the receiver at the first chirp of a jingle. No connection ever made.

It was mostly a harmless prank, and it amused Dad as he watched the salesman shake his angry fist at the telephone and see his shouts, silent from the interior of the showroom. For most teens those days the fad was stuffing themselves by the dozen into phone booths, but that seems so corny--somehow Dad's chicanery satisfies on an entirely different level.

Dad and his pal, Arthur, used that same phone booth to place a free call to his mother. Posing as agents from New England Bell Telephone, they explained that it was time for the annual 'blowing of the lines' and they were calling Bell customers as a courtesy to alert them. They described the necessary process of forcing jets of compressed air through all the phone lines to clean them and avoid the annoying cracking and static in the connection during conversations.

"Mrs. West, if you'd just take a paper sack, and set the entire receiver in the bag, when we blow the lines, none of the dirt and dust that will blast out of the handset will get into your home. You'll just be able to throw the full bag of dirt away when we're done."

Mildred certainly appreciated the advance notice and promptly put the phone in a sack as advised. When Wally and Arthur came back to the house, there it sat wrapped up tightly in a brown bag.

Dad continued these harmless pranks over the years. My mother was often the victim. In the 70's, we'd moved to a new home in Michigan. As with all of our frequent moves, my mother served as forward infantry. Before the moving van would arrive her operations began in an empty house that she would scour, freshly paint, wallpaper, shine, polish and wax floors, and bring all bathrooms and the kitchen to operating-room sterility before we settled in.

Knowing my mother was eager to replace a room full of dated shag carpeting, my father rolled up several feet of the carpet, and laid down several denominations of paper currency, then unrolled the carpet back into place.

Later, when it was time to actually remove the carpet, they knelt side by side to evenly roll it up and out of the house. As each row of bills was revealed, she shrieked and whooped. Thinking that some previous owner had stashed away a small fortune she snatched up the bills while pushing at the carpet roll with the newfound strength a mother would employ to lift a car that had just pinned her child underneath. It took her a few minutes to catch on since Dad didn't join her, but stood watching and laughing, making fun until they were joined by the family who all shared the hilarity.

But she fell for it again when we moved years later, returning to Massachusetts in the late 70's. This new house was in rural central Mass. and had several acres of woodland, complemented with a pond, stone walls, and a babbling brook. To find the septic system Dad purchased a sophisticated metal detector and tromped around the woods on weekends adjusting buttons and knobs listening keenly to various beeps and alerts the machine would offer for whatever was hidden just beneath the earth.

Anticipating a new discovery in Pat's company some day, Dad took a rusty tin can and stuffed it with paper money and coin. He buried it keeping its location in mind for just the right opportunity. Not long after, they walked side by side in the woods, and the telltale alarm was sounded. My mother, prepared with trowel in hand, pounced on the spot and dug to quickly reveal the latest treasure find, the notion of new-found riches erased all memory of having fallen victim to a similar prank.

Maybe it's a generational thing. Our pal Paul's dad, Dwight, seems to be of the same stock.

Paul shared the story with us all about when his native Nebraskan parents were on a trip with another couple. Each couple checked into their separate hotel rooms and as soon as Dwight and Gladys settled in to theirs, Dwight went into the bathroom and unscrewed the light bulb from its fixture, rendering the bathroom pitch black when the door was closed. He then filled the ice bucket with tap water and set it off to the side.

When the traveling couples re-convened in Dwight and Gladys' room to plan the evening's activities, Dwight excused himself to the bathroom, flipped the light switch several times and poked his head back out to explain the faulty bulb, and ask forgiveness for needing to leave the door slightly ajar in order to see in the darkened bathroom.

He then proceeded to slowly and deliberately pour the contents of the bucket in a steady stream from several feet above the toilet bowl creating a clearly audible image of the activity within. Taking several more moments than would naturally occur for even a capacious full bladder, Dwight continued to empty the bucket until half the contents were spent. Then he stopped, paused for a second, and then resumed pouring the remaining water into the toilet.

Emerging from the bathroom, deadpan, they all went off to supper.

I think Dwight and Wally could be very good friends.

Happy Days Are Here Again!

My mother, Dad, and our pal, Paul, got along famously. Paul employed the proper amount of respect for the older couple while sharing family anecdotes, amusing travel stories, books read, movies that each other appreciated, and music to entertain. My mother especially liked him, and she didn't cotton to many people quickly or easily. A credit to Paul's character.

On a surprise visit to us all in New Jersey, Paul had interrupted a family movie we'd all started to watch. In the ensuing activities, that particular movie had been abandoned and later Paul suggested renting one he'd heard very good reviews about and had been well recommended by friends whose opinions he trusted. Cautioning that it wasn't a 'family' movie, we reserved it until the four kids had gone to bed.

We five gathered around to watch with wine glasses in hand, and Paul sat perched in his chair expectant with hopeful anticipation for an entertaining evening. As the opening credits rolled, my mother groaned loudly. Bruce Willis was among the lead actors. She loathed him. Paul sank imperceptibly lower realizing a slight disappointment early on, but it only got worse: the movie generously featured sex, violence, kidnapping, dismemberment, foul language, lesbian witchcraft, drugs and alcohol. Now, Pat and Wally were no prudes, but this might not have been the best blind-choice selection to view with brand new elder acquaintances. Paul shriveled in the overstuffed club chair as the on-screen embarrassments continued, muttering apologies and protesting 'I just didn't know'. He was mortified. Pat and Wally were more amused at his discomfort than they were offended by the movie's content.

Never-the-less, Paul's good standing over the course of the weekend earned him an invitation from Pat and Wally to Cleveland Place where they'd semi-retired in New Brunswick, Canada. Naturally, when the opportunity presented itself for our next visit, we invited Paul to join us, and much to our surprise, he accepted. He caught a flight to Newark airport in New Jersey where we picked him up in our Blue Dodge Grand Caravan and we proceeded to make a non-stop fourteen hour trip northward with Justin, Andrew, Kathryn, Olivia, Scout, and Mittens the cat. A sack of egg-salad sandwiches sat between Paul and Kathryn. She was in charge.

By the time we'd reached Hartford, Connecticut--normally a two hour drive--we'd been on the road in heavy traffic which added an extra solid hour. Paul was already tired as this was the second leg of his long trip. Occasionally, Scout, our otherwise extremely passive, non-barking, gentle, pink-nosed, yellow Labrador would burst out with vicious, deep throated, seriously intent barking and growling episodes when a motorcycle passed or followed us. Not just any motorcycle, only the Harley-Davidson with its distinctive low 'pah-tay-tah-pah-tay-tah pat-tay-ta' engine noise. We're sure it conjured up negative puppy memories from before he joined our family from the pound with paint on his ear and a profound fear of beer bottles. Co-incidentally, it seemed, these episodes would occur just as Paul's head bobbed about as he was nodding off, snapping him to alert wakefulness. We all found it quite amusing. Paul did not.

Becoming road weary, Scout weary, and needing a break, we pulled over to a rest stop and allowed everyone a 7.5 minute bathroom/stretching break (we had to make up for lost road time). As well seasoned travellers the kids knew we meant business and anyone of them could potentially be left behind if they didn't stick to our schedule. As we all gathered to head back to the parked van, Kathryn ran ahead to reserve her seat of choice next to the egg-salad sandwiches. She jumped in the open door, not realizing that it was another families' look-alike blue Dodge van, and they were already in it. We laughed and pointed calling attention to her, and she quickly re-emerged embarrassed and quite cross, which made us laugh harder, longer and louder. Back on the road, the heavy traffic dispersed, and we were on our way. By the time we'd reached Maine, we'd run out of conversation, Scout was fast asleep, and we were all tired. We asked Paul for a story to help pass the miles and keep us alert. He told us this one:

My father was chief engineer on a B-24 Liberator bomber. They were returning to England after a bombing mission when flak hit a hydraulic fluid line. It was the middle of the night, the plane was low on fuel, and the floor of the plane was slick with spilled hydraulic fluid. Because the hydraulics were out, the only way to lower the landing gear was to crank it down manually.

Flying over the English Channel in pitch black, it was up to my father to manually crank the two landing gear wheels down. He had to stand on a small narrow catwalk under the plane where the landing gear was located, below him was nothing but water. One crewman held onto my father by his flight jacket while another held onto him.

As my father was turning the crank to lower the first wheel the cable slipped off the pulley. Despite the noise and vibration of the bomber in flight and wind whipping around, he undid the nut holding the pulley wheel on so he could get the cable back on. As luck would have it, the nut slipped out of his fingers. He watched as it plummeted down into the North Atlantic.

My father kept his cool. He lowered the second landing gear wheel, removed the nut from the pulley of the lowered gear, and used it to successfully lower the other wheel. They were able to land in England no worse for the wear.

Pretty amazing especially considering these were 18- and 19- year old kids.

But there's more to the story.

After safely landing at the air base in Manston, England, because there was a landing strip especially long, and because the hydraulics was out, they had no brakes and it was necessary to come to a long and agonizing roll to a stop at the end of the strip. They were then picked up by the local base people and taken to a barracks to spend the night. In the middle of the night, their pilot, Dick Rice, woke Dad to tell him that their plane had been wrecked. Dad said" Yes , I know, that's why we're here. Rice said "No, you don't understand. The plane has REALLY been wrecked. A British bomber loaded with incindiary bombs had aborted a mission and landed on the same strip as we had and had slammed into our plane." They went out to the strip to see the damage and ,sure enough, the plane had been slammed into by the big Lancaster bomber. There were incindiary bombs scattered all over the ground together with huge puddles of oil and gasoline. AND believe it or not, NO fire !!!! Dad's plane's name "The Flying Jackass" was later to be replaced by the "Modest Maiden" which they flew for the rest of their missions.

This captivating story entertained us until we were just a few miles from the Canadian border crossing and customs. It was at this point, Kathryn asked plaintively, "Daddy, how much longer until we're at the interrogation?"

Bearing no passport Paul blanched.