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.

The weakest Links

In Omaha, we lived in the neighborhood called Spring Lake and our house was across the street from Spring Lake Park which was home to one of eight municipal golf courses throughout the city. Not being golfers, and knowing very little about the game, we didn't take advantage of the 9-hole course until one spring day when we found a complete set of men's golf clubs complete with a bag at a garage sale for ten dollars.  Neither of us had ever swung a club before, but this was a bargain!  Sold!

When we got it home, we opened all the pockets, pouches, zippers and compartments and emptied its contents to find it to be a complete outfit with woods, irons, tees, a variety of balls, a putter, and a new green fly swatter.

Stephen took out the flyswatter and set it aside.

"Oh, wait."  I stopped him.  "The flyswatter is for the 9th hole interlude when you're playing an 18 hole course." I said dismissively while quickly making up a story on the spot.

He paused and looked at me.  "HUH?"

I explained that I'd seen my dad play a dozen times with Norton Company guys, and the fellows always have flyswatters in their bags for the 9th hole--the half way point in the game.  They take out the flyswatters and swat each other on the fanny while they take a beer or scotch break. "It's some silly ritual that goes way back to Scotland-- like paddling at rush week in fraternities."  Stephen put the flyswatter back in the golf bag, obviously and rightfully skeptical.

Over the next several months we'd visited the Spring Lake course several times with Stephen's set of clubs.   The green fee was only three dollars if you didn't rent an electric golf cart, so it was an inexpensive pastime for us, close to home, and such a pleasant way to spend an afternoon or early evening outside.  Eventually, we purchased a used ladies set in iridescent aqua green at a different garage sale for me, and I found a pair of fabulous ladies white patent-leather golf saddle shoes with one saddle in red and the other in blue.  They cost a dollar at the thrift store and I loved them.  They were fun, shiny, vivacious, my size, and, most importantly, my price. When I wore them on the green I felt like I was wearing Dorothy's ruby slippers.  Finally, we were both completely outfitted, and we started to enjoy playing regularly with the challenge of a 33 par game at Spring Lake and improving our game!

Stephen's boss, Ken,  heard that he was learning and playing the sport and invited him out to his club in West Omaha to spend a Saturday on his 18 hole private course.  Stephen accepted, and I reminded him about the fly-swatter--and stressed that you didn't want to be the LAST one to take out your swatter at the 9th hole, since then YOU would be the one everyone else got to swat!  Stephen was still skeptical, but left it in his bag.

Before the weekend tee time arrived, I called Ken at work and explained what I had told Stephen about my flyswatter gag, and asked Ken to play along at the 9th hole, asking Ken to be the first to whip out a flyswatter and start 'a-swatting'!  Surely, if Stephen saw his BOSS doing this silly ritual, my story would be validated, and Stephen would become part of the knowing few.

I wish the outcome had become fodder for a very amusing story of hilarity to be shared for years to come over beers at the club-room bar. Unfortunately, like other tests of character among people who have encountered us, Ken failed this one, and revealed to Stephen that it was just a gag long before their golf game even started.

Later, that summer, we'd been invited to visit my sister's family in Tennessee.  Unlike us, their entire clan is sports oriented, gifted, and superior in skill, but for once we now shared a common interest with our newly developing golf talents.  We'd been improving on the links, and we had all our own equipment so we brought them along for this visit.  Finally, a common bond between the husbands, and an opportunity for 'girl-time' out on the course.

My sister and her husband were members of The Country Club, complete with privileges to the outdoor swimming pool, club room, restaurant, and 18 hole golf course.  During our visit, we'd planned an afternoon of golf for the ladies and sitting poolside with beer for the fellows while all our kids splashed and played.

Judy got a golf cart (more luxury!) and we approached the first tee.  Judy wore a light-weight sporty golf short-set with the appropriate golf-themed logo on the shirt and coordinating soft-leather, sneaker-like, golf shoes.  Since the average July temperature in central Tennessee is 90 degrees with stultifying humidity, it was an appropriate wardrobe both for the weather and the country-club environment.  Suddenly, my flashy patent-leather, pointy-toed, golf shoes turned from magical empowering ruby slippers to two remnants from a vaudeville wardrobe chest, and my feet became heavy and clown-like causing me to self-consciously trip on the cleats at the first green creating a short rent in the turf.  Judy scolded me reminding me that they were the members there.  My madras thrift-store golfing "skort" suddenly changed from how I'd thought of it -- light-weight summer sportswear -- to a scratchy woolen kilt, fit for winter in the Scottish Highlands, sitting heavy on my hips in all its patches and gaudiness.  I looked at Judy then looked down at myself seeing what she saw, and it was just then that I realized that I was probably an embarrassment for her. 

Well, I'll show her.  I set up my ball, chose an arbitrary club from my faded plaid golf bag with its cracked leather straps and sent that first ball soaring down the par 4 green and sunk the ball in three.  She was impressed, and said as much out loud!  I was going to be okay, after all.

But my game steadily declined from there.  I was self-conscious, Judy was impatient. I was hot and sweaty, while Judy became more and more terse as my strokes increased, my balls went wayward, and other club members closed in on our slowing progress.  Having only played 9 holes before, by the time we were at the 18th hole I was exhausted, dehydrated, and humiliated.  Soon after the 11th hole, Judy played the remainder of the game in awkward silence and stopped keeping score.  When we finally finished what felt like torture right down to the last stroke at the 18th hole, she returned the cart, folded the score card into a very small square and pocketed it, and we joined the gang poolside.  Stephen stood to greet us, and saw my hot, sweaty, dejected face and Judy's obvious disappointment.  We didn't even get to shower.

I guess to some degree we all fail tests of character at some point in our lives. That was the last game of golf I've ever played.

I heart New York

We love company.  We enjoy sharing laughter around the dinner table, the camaraderie in the kitchen when preparing big meals, the flowing wine, story telling, reminiscing, and sightseeing.  Since moving to New Jersey from Omaha, Nebraska, we bragged to many back in Nebraska how we were just minutes from New York City as an incentive to have them visit and stay with us.  As far as we were concerned, being in New Jersey had little to offer in comparison, and we were homesick.

Over the years, several friends (or friends of friends) or family arrived, stayed, and fell victim to the Chrysostom Family Whirlwind Tour which included seeing highlights of the most well known, and some little known, significant landmarks of New York City.  Trying to tailor our tours to the likes, interests, and wallets of our guests, we would often include a driving tour that included skyline views from one of the major bridges (George Washington, Brooklyn, Verrazano), a side trip into the grittier parts of The Lower East Side and The South Street Seaport, a gustatory experience at noteworthy restaurants on Mulberry Street or in Hell's Kitchen, a bargain hunt for knock-off purses, watches, and jewelery on Canal Street, cultural exposures to a variety of museums including The Metropolitan and the American Museum of Natural History, entertainment in comedy clubs, on Broadway, Radio City Music Hall, or the independent street shows offered by entrepreneurial talent, a pass through Central Park and taking delight in the variety of transportation options by ferry, tunnel, subway, rickshaw-type pedicab, and of course, New York City Yellow Cab.

During a visit several years ago after my mother died, Dad was joined by Barbara Blakney and her teen son, Mitchell, all traveling together from Alma, New Brunswick, Canada--approximately a 12+ hour drive.  As we'd become acquainted over the years with our frequent visits to Alma, Barb had suffered through my endless bragging about the opportunities we had with our family on day trips into the city, and she was eager to share those experiences with Mitchell.

Oh, Mitchell, dear Mitchell.  He is one of the few young men on this earth who we love as a son.  He is confident, very clever, amusing, and laughs easily.  He exhibits no false bravado, and seems to adapt well to any situation.  In the same age group as our kids, they all seemed to get along well, and we wouldn't have discouraged a relationship with either of our daughters.  A fine fellow, indeed; a credit to his parents.

One of the highlights we were especially keen to share with Barb and Mitchell was a fabulous independent street show we'd seen in our very early days when we first moved back east and lived in Manhattan for several weeks.  Set on the side walk in Times Square this show was an unusual combination of boom-box new age music played in the background while an artist created a fantastical futuristic city-scape mural on paper he taped down to the sidewalk.  His medium was only spray paint and a variety of cylindrical vessels such as empty tuna cans and tops or caps from bottles of every size, and some straight edge blades.

He donned a respirator, and began his show with examples of his work available for sale on display behind him. His creation took approximately 10 full minutes, and was quite dramatic as each layer of the astronomical metropolis was revealed with surprising techniques of negative imaging from the placement of the cylinders to give dimension through each layer of color.  His audience is captivated, and "ooohhs, and aahhhs" in concert as the startling effects are created.  If you are very impressed, he will sell you the newly completed artwork for a reasonable fee.  We were very impressed, but offered to the kids that we couldn't afford one this time, but if we ever saw him again on the street, we'd get one then, so we asked his name, and how often he presents his show.  He gave us a card, thanked us in a thick, cheerful, english accent, and we continued on our way.

We stumbled upon Simon less than a week later, at Rockefeller Center, watched his show again, and purchased his newest creation.

When Barb and Mitchell were in town, we wanted to share this show with them, so we dug out the card, and called Simon to see when he might be performing while we're in the city.  He suggested to meet at South Street Seaport at a designated time the next day and we all agreed.  This will knock their socks off!!  So we announced this special side-trip, and briefly described Simon's talents, the artwork, and the dazzling techniques, and prepared them to anticipate an amazing performance.

At supper that evening, we talked about the options for the next day's events.  It would be a full day: but as usual, we offered to cover the cost of the ferry tickets for everyone as we ferried from Stated Island to Manhattan--a courtesy as your generous hosts.  We wrapped up a fine meal, and joked and laughed and shared good Cypriot wine, and prepared for Stephen's famous Creme Brulee dessert.  While he busied himself, I barked at the girls to clear the table and do the dishes, and Barb followed suit to offer Mitchell's assistance.  Dad hushed everyone and jokingly set his plate down on the floor for our dog, Scout, to lick clean, which he did nearly instantaneously.  We all remarked that it was much  faster than washing, and "look how clean!", so we amused ourselves by putting the freshly licked plate back into the cupboard on top of the stack of plates ready for the next meal.  "Ah, ha ha ha, what a funny--oh ho ho", "Now where's dessert?"

We retired into the living room, enjoyed Stephen's dessert, shared some music, and everyone went off to bed for a good night's sleep--tomorrow was going to be a full day.

The next day, we landed in Lower Manhattan, Battery Park, after passing the Statue of Liberty by Ferry.    The whirlwind tour had begun, and we visited The Tenement Museum on Orchard Street--a far cry from the likes of anything in the small fishing village of Alma--, shopped a few boutiques, lunched in Chinatown, and found ourselves running a little late for our set time with Simon at the Seaport so we hailed two cabs, and as everyone hopes to do, said, "Follow that cab, and FLOOR IT!" to our driver.  He did, and we were just a few minutes late as we pulled directly in front of Simon and his show.

"JANE!" he called out as we spilled out of the two cabs and hustled over to his area.  I was giggly with anticipation.  Mitchell will love this; this ain't no stuffy museum, this is ENTERTAINMENT!  Dad circled the families around and the show began.  Cue music.  I'm nudging, Dad---"This is going to be GREAT!"  Stephen shushed me.  Simon tapes down his paper, dons his respirator, and shakes the spray can with its telltale ball bearing rattle.  "WATCH THIS!" I exclaim.  Stephen tells me to stop it, and I quietly settle in for the show. Simon chooses flat black for his first application of paint, and completely covers the paper with it, while he sits on an overturned milk crate.  His cylinders, tools, and music are all in place.  But Simon stands up and turns around to face the crowd--just assessing potential customers no doubt-- but Barb sees this as a "There, my work is done--behold my great creation!" stance, and calls out, "That's IT?  Hell, I can do that!" and crosses her arms in front of her, in extreme disappointment.

"Wait." I lean in to quietly tell her, and using my mother's often used catch phrase, add "it gets better", and Simon returns to his task and the audience is mesmerized, including Barb, Mitchell, and Dad.  Maybe Simon heard Barb's remark?  I don't know.  Maybe because I'd called and asked for this special outing. I don't know.  But for whatever reason, Simon's show was even more compelling than the previous two we'd seen.  The music seemed more intense, the flourishing orchestrations of his paint layering appeared more dramatic, the finished art seemed more surreal. 

Success!  Mitchell took the creation, Dad exchanged business cards with Simon inviting him to Alma, and off we went to supper in Little Italy. I was glad not to have to go home after such a big day and cook for the crowd. It had been a good day and we were hungry, despite having started the day with a big breakfast at home before the ferry ride. I said as much out loud.

It was just then that we remembered that no one had taken Scout's cleanly licked plate back OUT of the cupboard after supper--we silently looked at each other, wondering who got that plate at the breakfast table...

The More The Merrier.

When we decided to include our new Bagpipe Band friends in our Winter and Summer Solstice celebrations, naturally we made a list that included the people we thought were fun company. In our planning efforts, we compiled the guest list, designed the invitations, developed an extensive Greek menu of heavy hors d'oeuvres, and made sure we had buffet tables and party-ware. We chose good card stock and rubber stamps featuring different whimsical suns and spent a Saturday afternoon to create an intriguing party invitation--few of our intended guests had attended a solstice event before and we wanted to share a memorable family tradition with them.  Our Winter party started promptly at 4:23 in the early evening. Sundown.  As the sun set, we declined to use any artificial light, using only candlelight throughout the home, including in the bathroom!

Much to our surprise, nearly everyone we invited arrived, and the doorbell rang promptly at 4:20 our most prompt guests arriving first:  Ron and Kathy Stark.  They have proven to be the most prompt couple we've known over the years.  The guests kept coming, including Jim and Jen McHarg, and Fran and Clive Lay.  Food and drink were offered, and the house got darker and darker.  Just like in our own family when we shared a winter solstice event, we found ourselves all in the kitchen with candlelight ablaze, sharing, eating and drinking around the kitchen table.  Overall, it was a nice party, and we enjoyed getting better acquainted with this new small circle of friends that we'd mostly just attended bagpipe events with previously.

One couple was noticeably absent, however, and we wondered why they didn't join us.  The next time I saw her I asked about it and Mrs. Midgley remarked that she'd never received an invitation!  What?  How was this possible?  Everyone else did!  I was suspicious, and silently questioned her sincerity, though I realize it could have happened.

When it was time to welcome the summer solstice, we dug out our invitation list, and since we were planning an outdoor buffet, were able to add quite a few new names to the list.  Regretting the "lost in the mail" invitation to The Midgley family from the past winter, we made sure they would receive one for the Summer Solstice event.  After all, the highlight of this summer party was going to be a dramatic flaming cheese dish common in the Greek Cypriot culture of Stephen's family.  You may have read about it in a previous blog entry.

Inanycase, determined to make sure there was no oversight in the delivery of this special invitation to the Midgleys, I had it registered and certified so that the recipient would have to sign for it and I would receive a card in the mail showing it had been signed for and accepted.  I received the return card, but no R.S.V.P.

But, more to the point, ultimately I was still rather skeptical at Mrs. Midgley's insistence that they'd never received the first invitation last winter, so to press the matter, I chose other venues for the invitation to make sure all the information would be undeniably received.

We went to our local pizza joint and asked for a large clean plain box, and brought it home.  In the box we put an enlarged copy of the invite with its pertinent details, cut into a circle to fit the box, and drove 45 minutes to their house and had one of the kids knock on the door, announcing "Pizza Delivery", hand it over and we sped away.

Still no R.S.V.P.

Well, I'll show them.

Several days later, we took the invitation to the office supply store and had them make 100 copies on the brightest neon-colored selections of paper available.  With those and staple gun in hand, we repeated the 45 minute drive to their house during the day when they were at work and school and papered their yard, home, trees, mailbox, and garage, with the cheerful reminders about the upcoming event.

No call, no R.S.V.P.

Undaunted, I asked for Stephen's computer skills to make another copy of the original cleverly worded and artistically rendered card stock and have it duplicated on special copy paper that can be used for iron-on transfers.  We ironed these transfers on four brand new brightly colored t-shirts. We then went out and purchased a length of rope, a box of clothes pins and a cheap plastic laundry basket.  In the wee hours of the night, Stephen and I made yet another trip to their house, and parked down the street, tiptoed through a neighbor's yard and found ourselves stalking the Midgley family of four who were peacefully watching late night television in their den.  Avoiding the motion sensitive lighting in their back yard, we strung up the length of rope between two trees, pinned the t-shirts bedizened with the information needed to get them to our very important solstice event, left the laundry basket under the freshly hung 'laundry', and skulked back home, undetected.

Two days later, there was a message on the answering machine from a cheerfully exasperated Mrs. Midgley.  "Uncle!" she announced.  "Enough already!  We got ALL the invitations!  No more!  We'll see you on Saturday."

Since the summer solstice celebrates the longest day of the year, and daylight is abundant, our outdoor party was lively, well attended, and went long into the night. The Midgley family never showed up.

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.

In over my head

I have a friend.

After living in New Jersey friendless for about ten years, I finally found one. She's deceptively quiet, keenly aware, brutally clever, and sharply witted.

Sorely missing the one friend and social outlets we'd had in Omaha for so long, I was elated when Jen invited me to a candle party. It's just like a Tupperware (tm) party, except instead of poring over the merits of colorful plastic food storage containers, you look at catalogs and samples of candles of every shape, color, and fragrance, each with a corresponding candle holder while the candle lady hostess describes the moods and atmosphere to create in your home with them. Not one item costing less than $25.00 I genuinely couldn't have cared less, but being desperately needy and painfully lonely I drove full speed to the party and was the first to arrive.

Upon my arrival, the perfect hostess, Jen offered to take my coat. That's when I knew she needed me. Her coat closet was so crammed full of clutter and debris, most of which didn't even belong in a coat closet, that I wanted to cancel the party and right then and there get it organized for her.

As we became better acquainted (see Pregnant Woman with Lemon in The Cheese Stands alone blog)), I forced my hyper-obsessive organizing skills upon her and on several occasions, we met at her house for a day of sorting, categorizing, eliminating, and cleaning the overwhelming piles and overstuffed drawers and cabinets that had accumulated in a house full of four young children, a menagerie of pets, and two working parents. For both of us, it was a win-win situation. My own four children were grown and out of the house, and I had no outlet for such a wealth of unspent skills. Jen had no such skills, and seemed to politely tolerate my pushy, aggressive, and sometimes insensitive demands to get her surroundings up to the standards of a boot-camp sergeant. No doubt, she was relieved when I left at the end of these days, but as I drove away, my endorphins soaring after the release of compulsive organizing, I thoughtfully planned for the next opportunity and which Rubbermaid (tm) products to utilize for it.

It was in the basement when things went awry. We were doing it all--sorting, cleaning, organizing, and making minor household repairs in the usual way one afternoon, and went to the fuse box to kill the power so we could safely replace a light switch. Finding a blank box panel that should have a notation for the location of each power supply, I remarked that Jen's husband, Jim, should be aware of this, and take the time to identify each one and clearly mark the corresponding boxes. She came over to see, and we both noted the single word POOL on a switch that we couldn't map to any of the house circuits. None others were identified.

Jen exclaimed that it would explain the mystery cement slab they'd always wondered about in the back yard, along with a few other unexplained archeological discoveries in the 8 years they'd lived there. There must've been an above-ground pool! When she brought this new knowledge to Jim, he quickly, flatly, and dismissively denied there'd ever been a pool in their back yard. But that just didn't make sense to me, and I certainly didn't appreciate:

A. The fact that his fuse box labels were blank--what man of the house doesn't mark his fuses?
B. His notion that since HE didn't discover the POOL notation, then the pool never existed.
C. How he dismissed our discovery and Jen's offer of significant household historical information.

After our work was done and I drove the hour long drive back home, I concocted my plan of attack. "I'll show him." and while stuck in rush-hour New Jersey traffic, formulated an elaborate scheme that would require both Stephen and Jen's cooperation.

I described the situation to Stephen and asked for his computer skills to cut and paste official seals and logos from the McHarg's township website to be the letterhead for a sternly worded letter from the tax assessor's office regarding the recent discovery of eight years of unpaid taxes on an unauthorized residential swimming pool. Of course, the discovery revealed from an inquiry to the office to PROVE that there was, indeed, a pool there at one time. "I'll show him."

I required Jen's help to provide the surveyor's map and lot numbers to include with the letter. And for someone who has absolutely no organizational skills, what-so-ever, I was impressed by the immediate presentation and fax transmittal of these documents! This is REALLY going so show Jim.

So we sent this:

Re: Lot 38 & ½ of lot #39 (Lot 4, block 703)

To: Mr. James McHarg

A recent inquiry was made to this office regarding the presence of a residential /single-family dwelling swimming pool on your property. Based on this inquiry, and in accordance with New Jersey guidelines mandating strict discovery procedures, our office conducted a detailed tax history investigation. This analysis uncovered your failure to pay taxes on the residential improvements on the property since the 2000 tax year. Records for 1987 show that the borough issued a permit to the homeowner for installation and erection of the following: Residential family above-ground swimming pool: 18’X33’ oval galvanized
Gravel foundation
Cement decking
Wooden easement
Chain link safety fencing
Electrical pumping/sieving unit
Water evacuation trough

A follow-up building inspection and compliance review confirmed the work was completed according to the permit. These improvements upgraded the property to a higher tax base. We are notifying you that current unpaid taxes amount to $14,867.33 (fourteen thousand, eight hundred, sixty-seven dollars and thirty-three cents) including 8 (eight) annual late fees and penalties incurred for failure to pay.

This total amount is now due and payable by May 31, 2009. The amount due for the tax year of 2008 is $1,213.85 (one thousand, two hundred, thirteen dollars and eighty-five cents). Payments postmarked or received by this due date will avoid any further late fees and penalties.

Please include your lot number and property address in all correspondence when contacting our office regarding this matter. We accept cashier’s checks, certified bank checks, and U.S. Postal money orders for payment by mail or in person at 1 Kings Highway, Middletown, NJ 07748, or by VISA/MasterCard at 973-943-7403.

Bill Schrettir
Township Assessor’s Office
Township of Middletown

Vishnu Peyup
Commercial/Residential Taxation
Township of Middletown


That looked daunting enough. So it was sent in March to Jen. She then, in turn, would send it in its official looking township envelope from their post office with the correct postmark. She did, and we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

By August, hearing nothing, Jen sent e-mail that Jim's birthday was upcoming, and hoped I had clever ideas for a silly gift? I immediately responded that I would offer nothing until we got results from "the letter".

She wrote one line back:

I hoped you'd forgotten about that.

Uh, oh. What? Why? So I picked up the phone and called her. Fearful that Jim had gone ballistic upon reading "after a recent inquiry to our office" figuring it was a result of my meddling and he flew off the handle, I asked what had happened.

It was bad. Real bad.
Since Jim often travels about four days a week for his job, he'd tossed the letter in a pile and intended to get to in in the near future. In the aforementioned chaos of that household the letter was promptly mislaid or lost, and Jim put it in the back of his mind with every intention to 'get to it'.

Jen casually reminded him one day about it-- eager for the ensuing hilarity when he called the fake number and the prank revealed-- but again, he dismissed her and went on another business trip. Once back home, while Jen was at work, having lost the letter with our fake names and numbers Jim called the Tax Assessor's office directly--the phone number on our letter was Stephen's cell phone number and Stephen was well prepared with his role once he identified Jim with caller ID.

The clerk at the assessor's office explained that their "regular guy" who sends out those letters was currently on medical leave and she had no record of anything regarding the pool matter.

Wanting to resolve this entire issue as soon as possible, and before another business trip caused another delay and distraction, Jim insisted that the temporary assessor come to their house to visually inspect and report that there is no pool, never has been a pool, and thereby eliminate any taxes, penalties, fees, and other financial burdens involved.

So the tax man arrives clip board in hand, and sees no pool, still having no record of an inquiry, history of construction, or unpaid tax assessments. There, that was easy. However, the construction debris from Jim's current work on a bathroom remodeling project which is sitting in a pile in the driveway causes some concern and the assessor notes no building permit on record. This is a serious violation, and cause for a fine and fees. He starts writing things down on his clipboard.

And while he's noting that, he spies that the originally detailed and surveyed gravel driveway is now asphalt, but does not meet the street properly for drainage and street plowing. Also having filed no permit, this incurs substantial additional fines and fees.

As Jen calmly and quietly explains all of this over the phone, I have gone from laughing nervously, to gasping, to becoming physically unwell, and nearly dizzy. It was like an I Love Lucy episode; Jen couldn't stop it, and yet, couldn't explain it away as all being a silly prank that had gone completely haywire.

As kind as she is, she immediately insisted that we could never-EVER mention this situation. If Jim found out the truth, he WOULD go ballistic! They plan to just pay the fines:

I interrupted, "How much are the fines?" thinking we should probably offer to pay at least half. Jen diplomatically and quietly replied, "Enough to hurt. A lot."

I am beside myself. My sweaty left thigh (it's a condition) is saturated and I am completely at a loss. How could this have happened?

Jen, again, trying to relieve my obvious and extreme discomfort, says, "I don't want this to ruin our friendship, so I'm just going to go now." And we hang up.

I am genuinely sick to my stomach, and immediately call Stephen to tell him how horribly, horribly wrong this prank went and let him know that under Jen's strict advice that in the future, should we ever get together again, can never let it slip, "Yuk, Yuk, Yuk!! Hey, remember that time we played that prank on you about that phantom swimming pool in your back yard?" No, we must never forget, and never mention it....EVER.

Meanwhile, Jen was my only friend. Jim is great company at parties. Did I ruin this? What will I do? Should I call her back and offer to pay the stupid fines? But what if they're too much even for us? Can I find out somehow and pay it without them knowing? My head is reeling. I don't know what to do with myself, so I go to the basement and white wash the walls until midnight while my mind replays the conversations, re-reads the letter, the dollar signs whizzing by in my mind's eye, imagining Jim's wrath, Jen's helplessness to admit anything and the angst she must have dealt with. Oh God, Oh dear, this is THE WORST.

As the paint dries, it's the wee hours of the morning. I know I won't be able go to sleep. My mind abuzz. I'll have a stiff drink (or two) and check my e-mail. Maybe Stephen came up with a diplomatic response to this debacle.

An e-mail from Jen is in my inbox. She apologizes for having told me the negative outcome. She never wanted us to know.

Oh, Jen; dear sweet Jen. Trying to assuage my own horrific guilt by taking the blame (well, she was in on it from the beginning.) She knows I'm suffering, yet even with the financial blow they're taking from it all, she wants to ease my mind and relieve me of responsibility.

This won't ruin our friendship, she promises. She writes:

I feel bad about this whole thing. It's JIM'S fault he tried to pull one over and not pull a permit on a renovation that's taken far too long, which honestly deserves some sort of punishment.

It's JIM'S fault he hired a fly-by-night paving company who showed up at our door UNBIDDEN and required payment by check, in full, made out to a third party and when that didn't work out, cash, before completion of repairs.

It's JIM's fault he has left the bathtub out there for so long, waiting, he says, until the completion of renovation because, why have someone come out twice?

It's JIM's flawed character that doesn't allow him to let anything go. All correspondence in the form of mortgage refinance offers, credit balance transfers, Nigerian sweepstakes schemes and, yes, threatening letters from municipalities, must be followed up on.

It is JIM's problem that he has created an atmosphere within our friendship that would promote the execution of this hoax, and it is JIM's great fortune to have married someone well-humored enough to turn the hoax around on her very good friends.


Genius, sheer genius. Best of all, I've still got a friend.

Bread (with Wieners)

Over ten years ago, I started doing historical demonstrations of pioneer living. I called it Homesteading 101. I've been traveling to classrooms of every grade, senior centers, museums, libraries, and various venues to share how the hearty Pioneers survived making their own threads and yarns, cloth, butter, cheese, candles, soap, and bread. Quite often I'd have to find my way to a public school in a gritty part of a downtown urban neighborhood, lugging a weaving loom and a canvas bag full of filthy raw sheep fleece. Frequently, I'd find myself lost in transit to distant locations, struggling for nearby parking, battling flights of stairs with loads of cumbersome equipment, or jammed up in New Jersey traffic turned parking lot. I soon learned to leave a big window of time for any such delay.

Recently, on my way to a senior citizen's retirement community with all the equipment for a captivating historical bread making demonstration including a grain mill, several pounds of whole wheat grain, and loaves of freshly baked whole wheat bread, I found myself in fast flowing traffic heading north on the Garden State Parkway. I was ahead of schedule, encountering no traffic problems, and on my way to a group that has invited me back repeatedly for my "edu-taining" programs and workshops. It was a good day.

Shortly before my exit, however, there was trouble on the side of the Parkway. A mini-van was pulled over to the shoulder and I saw a young adult woman standing, a middle-aged man pacing, and a stout black woman my age gesturing and working a cell-phone. Relieved it wasn't my problem of the day, I veered into the middle of the three lanes to pass by, when the woman came around the front of her van held her phone out in front of her with one hand and her other hand out waving. She caught my eye directly as I passed, and pleaded with genuine earnest desperation, "HELP ME! PLEASE HELP ME!" She meant it.

I veered back into the slow lane and immediately pulled onto the shoulder and backed up our Dodge mini-van close to the front of their van and waited while she came up along the passenger side of the car, across the front, and to my window which I lowered with the automatic button as she approached. Holding her cell phone out again, she said, "Help me, thank you for stopping, I need you to call 911." I said, "What's going on?" and she held out her arm, still with the cell phone in hand, and showed me three successive large, deep, well defined, human bite marks that were fresh, raw, and real. The poor woman's skin had been so wounded, that her dark black skin was now sickly pale in the center of each large round raised flesh wound with red blood dotting the teeth impressions.

"Oh, Jesus!!" I exclaimed--"What happened?" she explained that she was a driver for the mentally challenged, and one of her clients had "Gone off" while she was driving.

That would have been Charles. He was the middle aged man I'd seen pacing moments earlier who was now suddenly in the middle of the road in the three-lanes of The Garden State Parkway. Cars started to honk and swerve to avoid him as he ran back and forth from lane to lane.

I dialed 911 on my cell phone. Hers was not working.

"Hello, 911, what is your emergency?"

I described the situation, and advised they'd better send police, FAST.

The woman started calling for Charles, as the cars honked and swerved to avoid him. "Charles, get back here! Get out of the road! Charles, come over here.!" She had the authoritative command of a serious black woman who knew how to take control, but she was worried and hurt and her pitch and intensity grew with every shout.

Charles ignored her and by now had removed his shirt, belt and shoes as cars continued to avoid him and his cast off articles of clothing littering several lanes of the Parkway.

The younger woman who until now had remained calm and quiet on the shoulder approached the car. I told the driver to put the young woman in the passenger seat of my van and pushed my electric lock latch to unlock it. The young woman climbed in, and I said, "Hi, I'm Jane. Sorry, you're having a rough day." and she replied, "Yeah, it is, and showed me her arm that had less severe but similar bite marks." She spoke slowly and without emotion--another client, I surmised. Then she said, "But it's my teeth that really hurts." and looked up at me, so I could see her swollen lips and red jaw. Charles had punched her in the mouth! And HARD.

As the traffic whizzed past, horns blaring, tires screeching, Charles reached down into his trousers and pulled and wrangled until he'd released his large white underwear that he began to swing above his head and holler unintelligibly. This, with the constant pleading of the driver for him to come back to the safety of the shoulder, the horns, the speed, the chaos of the few moments sped past with frantic anticipation. I called 911 again as Charles removed his pants and tore off his t-shirt and bit off pieces and spit them out.

I suggested they'd better send an ambulance; this man couldn't avoid being hit by a car much longer.

The woman's non-relenting pleas to Charles finally connected to him somehow, and he approached the car. He came to my window and stood breathing heavily, sweating, naked. I asked, "What are you doing?" and he replied with a sharp, fierce, strong, blow to my arm that was resting on the window ledge. Nonplussed, and with an unintentional Tony Soprano bellow I hollered, "WHOA!" Oh, man-oh-man, it really hurt.

At this point, I still hadn't even put the car in park yet; these events had unfolded so quickly. I slammed the gear shift into park, and leaned over in my seat toward the poor wounded girl in the passenger seat. Charles reached into my window, through to me and grabbed my shirt collar and started to drag me back toward him, with the look in his eyes that suggested he anticipated that I had a very tasty liver, and he would enjoy every bite.

I mashed him off, back into traffic, and pushed the button to roll up the window.

Unfettered, Charles returned to his private world as he removed his socks and used them as a flag-like accessory to whatever delight he was experiencing in his mind. He was stark naked.

By now, an unmarked state Trooper car had arrived and the Trooper stood with the van by the side of the road as he calmly and sedately put on rubber gloves. Charles approached the trooper, and I steeled myself for a dramatic physical scene. The trooper motioned to Charles, and said, "Hey Buddy, why don't you come over here with me?" and they calmly walked over to the unmarked car, Charles sat down on the pavement, and the Trooper put plastic Zip cuffs around his wrists. As simple as that.

The ambulance arrived momentarily, and the two women went off to be attended to, and I put the car in drive and left. My work here was done. Approximately 15 minutes had passed; I was still going to be on-time for my program!

I arrived at the senior center in less than 5 minutes, and I was trembling, my head reeling. I hauled my equipment, set up my grain mill, dramatically poured a tall pile of whole grain, fluffed a large bouquet of wheat sheaves, and was greeted by the familiar and friendly audience anticipating an entertaining tutorial on the history of grains, breads, and a delightful tasting session of home-baked wheat bread over the next 45 minutes. They welcomed me back by name.

"Hi, Jane!"

"Hello! Phew! A funny thing happened to me on the way to this program today." and I described my encounter from just moments earlier, and took several sips of strong hot coffee in between breaths. The audience was captivated. I wrapped up my story with an 'All's well that ends well', and took a deep breath to begin my program and launched into the varieties of grain around the world.

Approximately 10 minutes into my program, after dispensing invaluable historical information, passing around species of grain plants for inspection and identification, and sharing timeless resources of grain production for our food supply, I took a pause, suggesting this would be a good time for questions from the audience that I might address during the remainder of my presentation. An elderly lady in a wheelchair in the back of the room raised her hand and called out, "Jane, I have a question."

"Okay! I called on her brightly--what's your question?"

"That man was COMPLETELY NAKED?"