April Showers Bring . . . Dents!

 By Michael L. Alumbaugh © 2021

The two Saturday milkings had gone smoothly considering I was alone with a 100 head of Holstein’s. Thankfully there weren’t any freshened heifers to contend with. Believe me, there are much better ways for a sixteen year old to get his kicks.

My boss Gene, a gentle soul, his wife Maurine, and their son, my high school mate Tony, were on another weekend outing leaving me in charge of the dairy farm duties. They’d be back Sunday afternoon so everything needed to be spick and span. I’d fed and milked the cows, hosed down the stalls, cleaned and hung up all the milkers, washed out the vacuum lines to the bulk tank and was ready to go home. I was tired!

Finished, I stepped out the door onto the loading dock. A refreshing breeze wafted across me. I inhaled deeply. Ah, yes, fresh air. Suddenly, the placid stillness was broken by a thundering cloudburst!  KABOOM! The windows on the milk house rattled. Almost instantly I was enveloped in a torrential downpour. It was even hard to see my car just thirty feet away through the sheets of rain. I made a flying leap from the dock in the car’s direction and scrambled to my old grey two-door, a ‘50 Ford coupe. (It was my first car. I’d paid fifty bucks for it.) The large raindrops hit hard, pelting me as I hopped inside.

Slamming the door, the driver’s side wing swung out of place and fell to the floorboard. Rain poured through the hole! I grabbed the wing and pushed it into position but, as I pulled my hand away, the force of the water pushed it back out. Great! I’d have to hold it in place while I drove.

I fired up that flathead V8, turned the wipers on high, backed onto the road, and aimed it south, still holding the wing in place. There were three miles of sandy dirt road ahead of me with two bridges, a farm and a few fields, before reaching the main road. It would be smooth sailing the remaining five mile home. I hit the gas!

Gunning it the first half mile, I crossed the angular bridge, then slowed for the intersection. Those old style wipers left only about an 8 inch triangle to see through. I peered through the deluge in all directions. As best I could make out it appeared clear. I took my chances and mashed the gas pedal to the floor. The one farm was just ahead. Then, finally, the second bridge. It was a little concrete structure about the length of a small hay trailer. From there it’d be a mile and a half to the highway and then “Westward HO!”

Speeding toward the farmhouse, there was a sudden break in the storm. The timing was perfect. The road ahead was the sandiest in this section. It ran the next quarter mile, all the way to the entrance of that farm. From there, the ditches increased in depth on both sides of the road. As I backed off the gas pedal the car swayed back and forth, fish-tailing through the sandy slough. Still holding the glass, I managed to maneuver the old grey tank through the sloshy sand-filled ruts and pick up speed again.

I made it past the farmhouse entrance. What a relief! But just as quickly as the cloudburst had slowed another thunderclap resounded and a flood of rain exploded in front of me. The drops hit the metal roof in a deafening roar. It sounded like a hundred drummers drumming all around me. Once again, in youthful exuberance, I put the pedal to the metal and rumbled on down the road.

The next obstacle in my path was that concrete bridge. It didn’t really amount to much. It was basically a couple of concrete slabs about 4 foot high and 12 foot long jutting up from the ground on each side of the road. The problem it created was the narrowing of the roadbed to a single lane. Still holding the wing in place, I lumbered on toward the bridge. The rain pushed hard against the glass.

Then, as quickly as the downpour started, it stopped again. I spotted the bridge . . . and, near it, something else caught my eye. It was a farmer on an old red Massy-Ferguson tractor. He owned the house I’d just passed. He’d been disking the field and was exiting it in an attempt to escape the drowning flood, too. He was soaked to the bone! That tattered old red umbrella over him had seen better days. It had more holes than cover for him.

Making matters worse, by the time I saw him I was going way too fast to stop without hitting him. And the ditches weren’t an option either. They’d either flip me or run me smack dab into the concrete abutments. In the same instance he saw me and stopped dead in his tracks. The tractor’s front wheels and weights had extended out into the road as he turned north toward me.

Neither of us had time to improve the situation. Preparing for the worst, I grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, directed the car toward the gap between the tractor’s nose on my right and the concrete abutment on my left. Then, I slammed on the brakes! The car skidded toward the opening. Hopefully, I’d miss both objects and charge on down the road. The wing shot to the floor.

Flying past the tractor, the car’s front fender hit the weights on the nose of the tractor while the opposite front fender caught the concrete bridge abutment. It was like being stuffed into a small funnel. The impact of both obstacles forced me to a screeching halt!

My heart raced. Concerned for the farmer, I looked over my shoulder to see if he’d been thrown from his machine or if the tractor had been laid over on its side in the ditch. To my relief, both appeared fine. I jumped out and ran around the backend of the car. There the man stood, inspecting the damages.

In unison we exclaimed, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” I stated confidently. He nodded, expressing the same.

Cocking his hat back on his head, he looked at me. “Man, with this rain I didn’t see you coming.”

“I barely saw you and it was too late when I did.” I remarked.

Looking back at the intersecting point of the two vehicles, he offered, “Let’s see what we’ve got going here.” My car had actually hit both the tractor’s weights as well as its right front wheel. The wheel was now pointing south while the other pointed north.

Looking at the car, the weights had sheared and crushed the metal on the right front fender from behind the headlight longwise all the way to just ahead of the passenger door. On the other side the concrete abutment had done basically the same on the left front fender.

Both machines now had limited steering capability. Everything else on them appeared intact.

“Well,” he continued, “I can manage my tractor over to the barn if you can figure out how to get over there behind me. I think I can get those fenders away from your tires over there. Whatcha think?”

“Let’s give it a try.” I replied. “”Not sure if  I could make it home otherwise.”

“Okay, let’s get going before the next monsoon hits!” He spoke with a smile, turned, climbed back onto the red tractor and, hitting the individual wheel brakes, headed toward the red barn behind his house.

Opening my door, the rainwater from my floorboard spilled onto the road. I scooted the wing out of the way and hopped back into the car. I turned off the wipers and, with limited steering, followed in reverse behind the tractor as best I could.

He left his tractor just outside the barn door and motioned me in. Once inside, I shut the old girl down. He studied the fenders for a bit and then walked over, grabbed his four foot farm jack , placed it sideways on the tire and slide the lift nose under the crumpled fender. Then, I held the steel jack frame in place while he worked the jack handle. The metal groaned as it contorted its shape away from the tire. In no time he had both fenders back out allowing freedom to steer normally again.

“Wow!” I exclaimed. “You made it look easy!”He just smiled and put the jack back.

“So, how are we going to fix your tractor? It looks pretty bad! I’ll be glad to help if I can.” I offered appreciatively.

“Oh, she’ll be fine.” he said confidently. “It just broke the sheer pin on that wheel. I’ll replace it and then check them both to make sure they’re okay.”

“Well, what do I owe you for the damages and all?” I asked.

“Nothing, son. I just hope your Pa don’t skin you when you get home.” He chuckled.

“Well, I should be fine . . . I hope.” and grinned. “Thank you for your kindness.”

“You’re welcome.” He spoke warmly, adding, “But you might want to slow down a bit from now on.”

“Oh, yes sir! I will.” I felt a bit ashamed but it was a valuable lesson learned. I couldn’t have had a better instructor. I smiled in gratitude, shook his hand, hopped into the car and drove out of his driveway for home . . . slowly.

Thankfully, my Dad understood the impetuous ignorance of adolescence. Later that summer, he found a buyer for my now damaged beast. He sold it for $50.

Raised Glazed Donuts (Stuck Up!)

By Michael L. Alumbaugh, © 2021

It was early Saturday morning. I was trying to get my shoes on when I heard, “Come on, hop in or we’ll be late!” It was my older brother Ronnie. “Get a move on!” he urged. Him being 16 and me 12, I knew I needed to get a move on. He was a busy man with places to go, things to do and people to see.

“Coming!” I shouted.

Mom handed me a couple of dollars from her nearly empty coin purse. “You’ll need that for your haircut” she said, and offered a loving smile.  I stuffed it into my pocket, scrambled out the side porch door, flew over the steps and hopped into the blue and white ’58 Bel Air. We backed out of the driveway like bandits, shot past the high school and headed out of town.

Ronnie had stopped getting his hair cut in town at Ritchie’s Barber Shop. I suppose it was because Mr. Ritchie only seemed have two styles of cuts in his skill bag: crew cuts and butch cuts. But he only charged 75¢. Whatever the reason, we’d skipped breakfast for an early appointment in Sterling 12 miles away.

We cruised into Sterling’s downtown business area, parked the car, and ran into the shop. “Hello boys, have a seat. We’ll be right with you.” It was the first “Clipper King” near the door: A tall, chunky man with dark hair, mustache, black apron and friendly smile. He waved his scissors in the air and returned to his customer. There were three barber chairs in the shop but only two barbers. The second barber, a younger thinner man, stayed focused on his client.

Ronnie was first. I waited my turn and looked at comic books. The thin barber called to me, motioning to the chair. I hopped in. Speedily he caped me, chopped and cropped, snipped and clipped, thinned and trimmed, and finally combed my noggin. He finished me in no time! We paid the men and scooted out the front door.

I turned to go to the car assuming next stop was home. Ronnie, on the other hand was apparently on a mission.  He headed in the opposite direction and started across the street. “Where are you going?” I called. Watching for cross traffic, he turned and motioned to me to follow, then trotted briskly to the corner donut shop on the other side. A donut shop? We never go to donut shops!

I ran across the street and hurried through the shop entrance. That wonderful fresh baked aroma almost knocked me over. The place hummed with customers sitting at tables chatting over coffee and munching on their delights. Ronnie stood eyeing the selection. They’d sold out of about everything except glazed donuts, some with colored sprinkles and some just iced. The icing glistened as it dripped off the sides of each one. He looked a little disappointed but ordered a dozen anyway.

The cashier didn’t have any more boxes with covers so she made do with a lid lined with wax paper and loaded up the treats. Apologetically she said, “Sorry, we’ve run out of napkins.”

“That’s OK.” Ronnie replied. He paid the lady, grabbed the lid filled with those confectionary delights and marched out the door.

Crossing the street, he commented, “Let’s get home! Everyone’s waiting.” The summer heat had turned the sedan into an oven. As we got in, he said, “Roll down your window.”  I happily complied. He slid the prized package between us, cranked up the Chevy and took off. The breeze was refreshing as we headed for home.

My mouth watered! I couldn’t wait to dig in. We sped down the highway and then turned off onto a back road. “This isn’t the way home!” I chirped.

“It’s a shortcut.” he responded warmly. With that, he massed the gas pedal to the floor.  It felt like light-speed as we zoomed down the road!

Suddenly his expression became stern. He instructed, “Grab the bottom of the seat and the donuts!”

 I had no idea what he was talking about.  Excited and confused, I thought, “The bottom of the seat?  Where? . . .  and why?” But it was too late. Straight ahead of us and coming fast was an elevated railroad crossing! Ronnie had the steering wheel to keep him in place, but not me.

The car shot up the grade, thumped the rails and went airborne for a few seconds, with me and the donuts floating toward the ceiling. We lofted, then descended, and slammed down hard into the roadbed. I flew to the top of the car, slammed my head into the roof, and crashed back into the seat! I saw stars!

Trying to regain my bearings, I rubbed my head and looked over at Ronnie as we continued racing down the road. “I told you to hang on to the bottom of the seat!” he said and snickered.

Excitedly, I looked down to where the lid had rested. Still in place, I gave a sigh of relief. But wait, some of the donuts were missing. Startled, I asked, “Where are the donuts?” He glanced around quickly and then looked up. Fastening his sight back to the road, he retorted, “You dummy! I told you to hang onto the donuts. They’re stuck to the roof!”

I turned my gaze to the top of the car and there they were, glued to the cloth headliner by their icing. What a mess! Hitting a washboard area of the road, the vibration began loosening the donuts from the fabric. Sprinkles and drips of white icing began pouring back into the box and seat below. And we had no napkins!

“Well, get them down and back into the box!”

A couple dropped back in. I caught as many as I could with the sticky masses clinging to my fingers. Carefully I rearranged them in the lid, licked my fingers and reached for the rest. The remaining ones had to be peeled off leaving their gooey remnants of icing on the ceiling.

My head had stopped throbbing by the time we swung into our driveway. Ronnie delivered the mangled treats to the kitchen table, and disappeared. He probably grabbed a wet cloth and raced back to his car to clean up the mess before the sugar solidified. The rest of the morning was a blur. I don’t think I ate one donut, and who knows what happened to the rest of them. But one thing is certain: now, every time I see a glazed donut, I smile.

I Like Eggs!

 By Michael L. Alumbaugh, © 2021

 I like eggs! You can soft boil in the shell, or hard boil them, peel off the shell and wrap them in fried sausage for Scotch eggs. Then, there’s baked eggs wrapped in bacon and sprinkled with cheese or soft poached eggs served on hot buttered toast. Or skillet fry them over easy, or “sunny side up,” served with pancakes or waffles, fresh butter and maple syrup. Another way is to scramble them into an omelet with cheese and crumbled up sausage and serve with fresh baked buttermilk biscuits and jam.  About any way you make them I’ll eat them!

 And two eggs are better than one. I love cracking an egg and getting the surprise of a double yolk too. When I gathered them as a kid for my Grandmother, then watch in great anticipation to see a double yolk pop out of the shell into the skillet! Needless to say, I like eggs!

 Being raised a city boy by farm folks in central Kansas, Mom ensured that eggs would be a staple on the family breakfast menu. They still are, though Mom is with the Lord these many years. My bride of now over 40 years likes to fix them for me but will occasionally mix it up by going eggless for breakfast. She’ll serve fresh fruit with yogurt or maybe a bowl of oatmeal or scones with fruit as a side. On special occasions, she’ll make crepes filled with fruit or other fillings and top them with fresh whipped cream. Believe me, all of these are wonderful diversions from the routine, but the feast of my day still has eggs in it one way or another. Always has been and always will, I hope, because I like eggs.

 Now, winding the clock back a few years to January of ’76, and my early college days, I discovered a few variations to Mom’s standard menus with eggs by another mother . . . from the south. It all happened on an interim college course I was taking. The college had created a month study in the Field Work of Christian Education. Basically, it was the research and study of the inner workings of a functioning church. Destination: Florissant MO, a suburb of St. Louis MO.

 The eight of us, two guys and six girls plus our Prof, headed south from Olathe, KS. The students would be staying in various homes of church members for the duration of the course. Bobby and I were assigned to a retired couple in a nice home a few miles from the church. Upon arrival, we were shown to the guest room; a small room with dresser, double bed and private en suite. We unpacked our suitcases, were given a short home tour and returned to the living room for a warm welcoming evening meal and fellowship with this older couple.

 And what a sumptuous meal it was with posh dining room table settings, crystal dinnerware and fine silverware. It was a pretty classy setup for this small town country boy. After the fine dining, we retired to the living room and got better acquainted.

 Around 9 pm the Mrs. commented, “You’ll need to be at the church by 8 in the morning. Breakfast is at 7. Have a nice rest and we’ll see you in the morning.” With that, she grabbed her little dog and followed her husband to their bedroom. Bobby and I wandered to the guest room, tucked in and had a solid slumber.

 About 6:30 the next morning there was a knock on our door. It was the Mrs. “Gentlemen, it’s time to wake up. Breakfast will be served at 7 in the kitchen dining area. How do you like your eggs cooked?” Bobby responded, “Sunnyside up!” I paused. I’d never heard of that. But no wanting to appear ignorant, I affirmed the same. “Mine too, thanks.” And with that she shuffled off down the hallway.

 We jumped up, rinsed off, dressed, made the bed in lightning speed, grabbed our notebooks, the classroom syllabus and headed for the kitchen diner. Boy was I hungry!

 The fragrant aroma led the way to the kitchen! The breakfast nook wasn’t as spacious as the main dining room but was still warm and inviting. The small square table was already set with plates and silverware for each of us. Bobby sat opposite me with our hosts to each side of us.

 In the middle of the lacey covered table was a selection of various jams and jellies, a pitcher of orange juice and another of milk. Coffee cups were upside down on saucers at each place setting with napkins and silver to the side. On each plate was a warm slice of toast, some fresh strawberries and what appeared to be a small helping of mashed potatoes. The Mrs. served each of us our eggs fresh from the skillet and sat down. Then, the Mr. offered a prayer of thanksgiving. With that, we dug in.

 Politely, butter, jams and jellies were passed around and then drinks offered. “We also have coffee and tea if you prefer,” she offered. Bobby poured a cup of coffee. I stuck with the juice. Then I studied my plate. Everything was perfect, almost too perfect. The strawberries were a nice ruby red, the toast a golden brown and crunchy as I spread it with butter but the potatoes looked way too white. I was perplexed. “Why would you serve mashed potatoes for breakfast?” I pondered and poked them curiously with my fork while attempting to maintain a placid countenance.

 Obviously, I had lost my poker face and the Mrs. picked up on it. “Is something wrong?”

 I hesitated. She continued. “You look confused. Have you never had grits before?”

 Not being from the south, I was lost. I quipped “Grits? What’s that?”

 She explained that they were a creamy form of cornmeal, sort of like oatmeal, and could be eaten in a number of ways. After elaborating on a variety of ways to eat them and embellish them, her last comment got my attention. “A lot of people like adding butter to them and then mixing their eggs with them.” That hit the spot. I’d never been a fan of cornmeal in any form, or oatmeal, so this method of consuming them offered me an escape route without being rude to my hostess.

 She continued, “Just slide your egg over onto it, chop it up and season them to taste. You’ll enjoy them.” With that, she smiled and returned to her meal.

 I studied the elements, slid the egg over and chopped it up. She’d cooked it to perfection with that beautifully golden yolk infiltrating every part of the grits. I grabbed a strawberry and primed my palette. Then, placed my fork in the mound of mash and eagerly placed it in my mouth. The mound of mash eventually disappeared.

 What I never told my hostess, or Bobby, I’ll tell you. “The grits ruined the egg!”

 She must have had a keen sense of discernment along with her pristine sense of decorum because I never saw another serving of grits from our gracious hostess on that breakfast table the rest of our stay. And to this day, I still don’t like grits, or cornmeal in its various forms, (or cooked oatmeal) but I will eat them politely, with some reservation.  But I really like eggs!

Drive South! . . . Or Not.

By Michael L. Alumbaugh, © 2021

 Whizzing through the 37^th Street light, I came to an abrupt stop. It was 6:15 on Monday morning.  I had 15 minutes in which to clock in and here I sat stalled in traffic. We’d been on a refreshing weeklong vacation of “honey do’s”, picnics and family outings. Being late to work the first day back wasn’t on my agenda!

 But did I really care? The work, along with a decent salary was fine; gathering numbers, tracing productivity, daily meetings, the job itself was all good, stressful at times, but good. It was the general corporate atmosphere of “the swamp” that was taxing; those vying for position, power plays, manipulation of the facts (and numbers), the maneuvering for position by some, and shenanigans by others.

 It was politics to the max like some game to be played. Backstabbing was the order of the day. And all usually at the expense of others livelihoods. I’d had enough for a lifetime! All that pressure was returning as I drew closer to my destination. Why couldn’t we just do our jobs, enjoy the camaraderie and go home to relax at night?

 Surveying the immediate conditions, a mile-long line of taillights illuminated the dark inside lane of K-15 as it curved into the distance.  The next traffic light was on MacArthur where I had to make a left but the turn lanes were apparently blocked. Whether it was a malfunctioning light or an accident up ahead, I couldn’t discern.

 Occasionally, cars zipped by in the outside lane as I sat in my “mini-Corvette”, a fiery red ’90 Saturn.  Headlights started filling the rearview mirror as a string of cars collected behind me. I reached up to flip the mirror down to dim mode. As I did, I noticed a young lady in the car behind me squirming and wriggling in the driver’s seat as if getting into something. Then she paused, grabbed something from her lap and started putting on makeup and eyeliner.

 Holy cow! She was dressing! What had she done, left her place in her nightgown? What a crazy place to dress! I flipped the mirror tab down and fixed my gaze ahead. The car in front inched along now so I moved in concert with it.

 Cars in the outside lane kept flying by. I considered my options: I could stay in line or change lanes, go past the intersection to 47^th Street South, hang a left, backtrack another mile . . . and still end up late. Sigh! I was frustrated. The cars ahead continued their periodic advances. I proceeded forward like a link in a chain.

 As I sat there watching cars pass, my mind wandered. What was south of here anyway? There was Derby just a few miles down the road, then Arkansas City. Further down there was Ponca City, next Oklahoma City and then Fort Worth and Dallas. We’d visited that area a year or two before. The bronze mustangs in Las Colinas were fabulous. The kids loved them! My mind journeyed onward as traffic continued inching along.

 So, what was south of Dallas? I hadn’t travelled that far but remembered the map we’d studied for a trip. Ah, yes, there was Waco, then Austin, San Antonio, Corpus Christi and finally Padre Island. A few short years prior, my college art class had travelled to Padre Island for a painting skills project.  I didn’t think I could afford it and stayed home. A major mistake on my part! I recalled the stories my classmates had shared upon their return. How I longed to have gone and been a part of that life lesson. But I didn’t. And now, here I sat, stuck in traffic.

 But wait! I had an inspiration! Checking the gas gauge, the tank was full! This car was getting 26 mpg and the distance to Padre Island was only about 750 miles. That’s only 30 gallons. I could leave this rat race and make it there in no time! I could call my Bride and tell her I’d be back by the weekend, and enjoy the scenery. WOW!

 The fantasy enveloped me. I was entranced! I grabbed the steering wheel, checked for passing cars in my passenger side mirror, flipped on my right blinker, turned the wheels toward the outside lane and slowly pressed the gas pedal. Then, like a brick, sanity hit me!

 “What am I doing?” I exclaimed! I have a beautiful wife and five kids depending on me to provide for them. Who do I think I am anyway?

 I turned the steering wheel back correcting my direction, turned off the blinker and watched the traffic up ahead. It was moving faster now.

 As I moved forward I could see the intersection. There were flashing lights from a police vehicle in the distance. A local yokel was directing traffic toward the aircraft facility.  As I got closer I saw the holdup, an old pickup truck with the hood up in the left turn lane.

 By now I knew the outcome for me; I’d make it to work on time after all. I’d add value to my work team and moral, emotional, spiritual, financial and physical support to my family. Their bright eyes and beaming smiles beat hands down anything my imaginary escape could offer me. And I felt like a fully dedicated husband and father again, not some selfish moron on a mission to avoid responsibility.

 The words from Psalms 37:23 came to mind; “The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord: and he delighteth in his way.” Thank you Lord!

Blown Away!

 By Michael L. Alumbaugh, © 2021

Proverbs 15:13 says, “A glad heart makes a cheerful face, but . . .” in my case, “Frivolous foolery festers furious frowns!” It was late autumn and my sophomore year. College mid-term exams had mutated into end-of-semester finals. I’d taken a third shift stocker job at Green Hill Grocers which hadn’t worked well with my farm boy metabolism. I was frequently dozing off in classes which, consequently, plummeted my grades from those teetering middle C’s to the lower D’s!

As I entered our house that morning, the rooms echoed their emptiness as all were either at work or school. Passing through the living room, I headed toward my bedroom to grab a few winks before my first class at 11. There I noticed remnants of my little sister’s birthday party littering the floor; a napkin here, a ribbon there, and a solitary balloon slowly rolling across the carpet, stirred by the breeze of my steps.

On the stereo was an unused balloon waiting to be inflated. As I stepped to reach for it, my foot booted the filled one and lofted it upward into the air, bouncing it gently into the ceiling, lightly ricocheting off the wall and floated back toward me. I clenched a fist and hit it! It flew back into the ceiling and then the wall and lazily came to rest on Mom’s recliner. As I advanced to resend it, it lay motionless, and then gave a startling “POP!” I gathered the remains, grabbed the fresh balloon and headed for the kitchen trash can.

In that short journey, young adult maturity resigned itself to more maniacal possibilities.  Tossing the ragged remains of the burst balloon into the bin, I proceeded to blow up the new one. Growing larger with each breath, I thought, “Just one more breath. Just one more. Then I’ll tie it off.” But before I finished that last breath, it exploded with a resounding “BANG!” The remaining mouth-piece and neck dangled from my lips. I gave it a disappointed final blow. It retorted with a “PPppppttttaaaattthhh!” The sound reminded me of someone with a serious head cold blowing their nose. I giggled.

That’s when it happened! That blathering balloon neck ignited latent adolescent juvenilian images long hidden deep within my artistic rational subconscious. I pondered a moment, “What if I hid this within a handkerchief or Kleenex? I could fain a cold, and blow my nose with reckless abandon!” I hurried to the bathroom, grabbed a tissue, laid it out on the sink, and strategically positioned that ragged mouthpiece on it. Then, I carefully picked up the now armed tissue, poised it over my nose, cleverly slipped the balloon end opening into my mouth, gazed into the mirror and gently, but firmly, gave it a blow. “PPPppppttttaaaattthhh!”  The sound it produced was disgustingly convincing! So much so, even a doctor would offer their professional assistance to comfort and relieve me.

Suddenly, an epiphany moment revealed itself: The library would soon be opening its doors to the studious and stalwart scholars preparing for their exams before semester holiday break. The opportunity of a lifetime!

I grabbed my jacket, my arsenal: the balloon end nestled into the Kleenex, and a couple more tissues for insurance, my class notebooks and my textbook,. Like a man on a mission, I shot out the front door and headed for my car. Speeding the five short miles to the college, I cleverly crafted my approach, playing through its diabolical intricacies. With the library floor plan in an L shape, I’d need to plan wisely.

Mentally prepared, I entered the hallowed halls of the library building, flew up the flight of stairs and stealthily infiltrated the confines through the metal entrance security doors. Next I surveyed the premises, locating the key players: the angelic and kind Miss Dickerson, a spinster and the head librarian, and her assistant, and a bit of a Grinch, Mr. Thompson. Next I identified key targets safely and comfortably nestled within the confines of study cubicles and tables.

Ah, yes. There was Miss Dickerson sandwiched between large bookshelves rearranging reference books. I slipped by her unnoticed. Next there sat Mr. Thompson just at the far end of the checkout area with his nose buried in the card catalog. He acknowledged my presence with a slight turn of the head and a twitch of the eye, grimaced and locked back into his indexing.  Then there was Bob the Fowler in the magazine area fulfilling his daily routine of newspapers, and probably secretly absorbing the comic sections.

Over in the far corner of the room was a couple studying each other, I assumed, while other students were rustling about incognito within the study cubbies. Then I saw her! There at a distant study table in an isolated area as far as could be found from view of the front desk was Cindy, a reclusive studious bookworm. She was obviously absorbed in research. The layout was perfect for my stratagem.

 I made my way past Mr. Thompson and turned the corner toward my first victim. She was positioned perfectly between the dull unchecked research manuals and reference catalogs. No one would be sneaking up behind me unnoticed here. At the opposite end of the long table, I removed my jacket, sat down, opened my study notes, placed an ink pen in close proximity and opened my textbook. She didn’t seem to notice.

The room was characteristically solemn with the occasional sound of page turning and position readjustment in seats, a bit of sighing or sniffles and the typical book replacement on shelves.

 Shuffling my papers as if delving deep into the study delirium, totally not my persona, I casually commandeered my secret weapon, carefully positioned the balloon equipped facial tissue within my hand and, resting it on my knee under the table, waited for the perfect opportunity.

With head slightly tilted downward and nose positioned close to the textbook in front of me, as if in deep concentration, I scanned the target area for potential breeches in security. Then, I fixed my gaze on Cindy. She was totally absorbed. I raised my hand to my face, covered my nose with the tissue, inserted the aerating arsenal into my mouth, inhaled, and gave a long steady exhale through the mouthpiece. “PPPTTTHHHHTTTPP!” It sounded satisfyingly snotty as it reverberated off the walls! 

Cindy’s head jerked up in surprise! She trained her eyes on me. I offered my discomforted puppy dog eyes look, pretended to wipe the residual mucus from my nose and resumed my studious downward gaze. She gave a sympathetic sigh, smiled tenderly and returned to her studies.

Savoring the deafening silence of the room, I waited anxiously for my next slobbering toot. Turning a few pages, I fumbled with my pen, repositioned my trigger finger under the table and waited for my next assault. Minutes seemed like hours. General sounds within the academic confines resumed with body movements and rustling of pages.

At last the moment had arrived! I cleverly scanned the horizon for any unusual movement. Everyone seemed to be in their proper places. I repositioned myself in my chair, shuffled a few more pages in the guise of studious research, raised my hand to my trusty schnozzola and blew, this time with gusto. “PPPPTTTHHHHTTTPPPPP!” The grotesque blast rattled the rafters! Heads rose freakishly, searching around the room desperately to discern what had just happened. Some wiggled restlessly in their seats while others just snickered. Cindy, on the other hand, gave me a ghastly gruesome glare. Her eyes pierced the deepest recesses of my silliness. “If looks could kill . . . “ You know the rest.

“Ah, yes!” I inwardly gloated, “What a gratifying response. Mission accomplished.”

“But wait! Why not bask in the glory of this moment of triumph?” I reasoned. “I’ve accomplished grand things here. And, as they say, Three’s the charm.”

Once again I waited, savoring each silent second with renewed delight. Resuming my copious study façade, I listened and casually surveyed my audience, but this time in reckless abandon. Again the perfect opportunity presented itself. I raised my weapon of mass mock slimy slathering, inhaled, and gave a bountifully hefty heave. It produced what only could be described as a solid sonic sloshy symphony!

At that, Cindy scowled viciously, gave a heartfelt ghoulish growl, began gathering her belongs and got up to relocate. But as she did, unnoticed by me, Mr. Thompson came storming toward me from behind and in one fell swoop grabbed me by the nap of the collar with one hand, my paraphernalia in the other and escorted me out the double door!

Once at the stairwell, he gave me a firm shove and growled a stern warning. “If I ever hear you in here again, I will have you permanently barred from this college library! Do you hear me?”

And with a burning glare he turned, reopened the doors and pensively entered his collegiate domicile.

But as he did, his steps slowed. He turned slightly toward me as I headed down the stairs. Our eyes met.  I then saw an expression on his face I thought I’d never see. “Was it my imagination?” It was a look of remembrance, a fleeting memory of some past escapade, a similar stunt perhaps. He offered a consoling smile and disappeared within that academic abyss.

 With a combined sense of shame and camaraderie I wandered out the front doors. A feeling of remorse mixed with appreciation for his dedicated sensibility welled up within me. That day our boyish paths crossed, forming an invisible bond of mutual respect between us. The lesson he offered me then has lasted to present day. Since, I’ve cherished the phrase, “Practical jokes aren’t very practical.” Or as Will Rogers once said, “Everything is funny, as long as it’s happening to somebody else.”  I’ve mentally stored these lessons under “mucus_mem.brains.”