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.”