That spring marked my first term in school. We had a school teacher that was something else. She was a nervous wreck. She had very red hair and a temper like no woman or man I have ever seen or heard tell of since. The poor thing was sick. She had to be.
Her favorite way of keeping everybody in line was to take a ruler and slap you on the back of the hand across the knuckles That never happened to me because she had the fear ingrained in me, and so I was a real nice. boy.
But I will never forget one day. There was a young fellow ahead of me, a new boy who had moved in and started attending school. As the teacher came down the aisle, she asked the boy to hand her a pencil. She had a paper or something in her hand and needed a pencil. So the boy handed her a pencil, point first.
She grabbed the pencil, threw it on the floor, grabbed that poor litlle fellow's hand, and started slapping him on the back of his hand with her ruler. Of course the little fellow started crying, and she informed him that she would teach him never to hand a pencil to anyone point first.
That ruler had cut into this boy's hand and the blood started flying. The older children, like my brother and the other boys older than him, saw all this commotion and everybody in shcool was pretty much fed up with what she had been doing.
It happened to be real chilly, windy day in the spring of the year. We all had to go outside in the hallway when it was stormy to eat our lunch. The teacher would shut the door and lock it, so no one would interrupt her rest and lunch hours.
In the corner of the schoolyard was a large pile of rocks that had come to the surface of the ground. A farmer had cleared it and piled it up at one end of the shcoolyard. These boys got together and recruited all of us to pack the rocks over, most of which was about the size of a grapefruit.
We packed a large pile of it and put it on the floor in front of the door. When the boys figured we had enough, they took those rocks and started in on the door...and they pulverized it with those rocks!
The red-haired school teacher was inside screaming. The more she screamed, the more the rocks flew. This may sound kind of cruel, but ... (to be continued)
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Monday, November 12, 2007
USS Beca Tina
You will remember the USS Becca Tina that proudly floated on the little pond until its rear end rotted out and it sunk to the bottem. It has been proudly raised from the deep and now sits below the little red house along the road as a flower pot full of tulips. I have a light shining on the name. Ross and Derek helped me put up swings this weekend. Four swings one especially for little kids one huge rope swing, tire swing and then another swing swing. Okay we have plans for other boats. We will soon float the Kaisa Annie, and then the Melida Marie. The Anneli proudly sits in Uncle Lars Driveway
Sunday, October 7, 2007
LET'S GET POLITICAL!
You shouldn't judge a man by his demographic. That's right folks, I AM VOTING FOR HILLARY CLINTON.
As follows are the top ten reasons why I am voting for the foxy lady with political prowess.
10. The 5k baby bond is an initiative that I can get behind. Liquid funding for our country's neonates will only spur the economy on to more stable, solid things to come.
9. Her willingness to pull the troops out. I couldn't agree more. The irony that a woman once again will have to clean up a man's mess is humorous but tragic.
8. I like attorneys. They always smell kind of minty with a hint of patchouli.
7. Her haircut lifts my spirits. Even my former flame Martha Stewart can't come close to this level of blond froth. Her cheekbones are perfectly set off by her perfect coif. Ask me what nasty misogynistic world leader couldn't be swayed by this vixen. Well, you can ask me, but I don't know the answer!
6. She stands by her man. He's been fat and thin and has sometimes licked the platter, but she still listens when Bill talks about initiatives local and global.
5. She sent her daughter to Pac 10 school. The wind coming off of the Japanese current blows liberally on the West coast giving us better fish and schools. Of course, Hillary did have special access to NAOA files, but I think this is why we haven't had any of those annoying hurricanes. And if we did, we'd get out because of our large trucks.
4. Universal healthcare. Have you seen the price of Band-Aids at Wal-Mart? They're pretty cheap but what happens if you slice your finger off instead of just slam it in the door? Why is the richest county in the world also the nation that doesn't help its poor? Let us not forget that it wasn't the drag queens that brought down Sodom and Gommorah.
3. Apologies are not an option. She may crash your car, vomit on your tire and then remember that she shouldn't have had the prawn martini, but she isn't going to tell you that she is sorry for doing so. She'll suggest a nicer car with better crumple zones and give you some helpful dealers to call when shopping for a new Volvo.
2. Hillary RODHAM Clinton/Ann ROSS Olsen.
1. It's a TWOFER. With Hillary comes Bill. I haven't stopped believin'. Have you?
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Back from Vacation
Hello everyone, sorry it has been so long since I posted. Here is the deal.
I was on a long surprise vacation. There were no computers where I was so I could not post. Thanks for all the concern, everything is just fine. I am tanned fit and raring to go with a new granddaughter to boot. Eric
I was on a long surprise vacation. There were no computers where I was so I could not post. Thanks for all the concern, everything is just fine. I am tanned fit and raring to go with a new granddaughter to boot. Eric
Monday, May 14, 2007
Candyland chapter 3 "A Pleasant Surprise"
The faint path edged slowly down the side of the mountain. Small streams tumbled here and there, down the side of the mountain cutting across the path. Larry would carefully jump over or wade through the streams. Along each stream, there would be a small path that would wind along the side of each ribbon of water up the mountain. Sometimes he could see small caves from which the streams would emerge. What did this all mean, Larry thought.
As he descended he began to walk among small then larger trees. What had been little rivlets became larger streams, which finally became roaring streams. The path became a little wider. It obviously had seen use, but there were no footprints or tracks of any sort. After several hours of walking Larry sat down next to a larger stream. The path now followed the side of this larger stream. There were lots of trees now, wide meadows and the slope became more gentle as he neared the valley floor. It was warm. If there would have been a sun, Larry thought, it surely would be afternoon. He had been walking now for many hours, first down the long tunnel and then down the side of the mountain. He was exhausted. He laid down on some soft grass and was soon fast asleep.
He slept for he knew not how long. When he awoke the light was still bright and the air warm. He had had nothing to eat since the night before. He was thirsty. Despite being near water the entire trip, he had never stopped to drink. He took several steps down to the edge of the stream and cupped his hand to take up a drink of the pure water. He began to drink. Immediately he threw his hand down. This was no water! It was sweet! As sweet as any drink he had before. It had the distinct taste of sweet lemonade. He wetted his hand again and licked the moisture off to be sure. He was not mistaken. It was deliciously sweet. He cupped his hand and satisfied his thirst with the sweet liquid.
Lining the stream bed were colored rocks of different sizes and shapes. They were everywhere. He had seen nothing like it before. He picked up a particularly beautiful one. It looked good enough to eat, he thought. It was nothing but a rock, nevertheless he just popped it in his mouth. Again he was shocked. This "rock" tasted like sugar, yet different. He began to lick it and slowly it dissolved like a sucker. This rock was rock candy. Where am I, he exclaimed out loud. A small piece of driftwood lay by the side of the stream. He carefully tasted it. Sure enough, it too was candy, chocolate like, to be exact. He reached up and grabbed a leaf from the nearest tree. Again it was sweet candy. Everywhere he looked he picked up this thing or that. Everything was candy. Even the very soil. I am in a place where everything is candy, he thought.
His worries about something to eat dissapeared, as he ate candy leaves and grass, he peeled bark from the tree which tasted like chocolate. Small twigs were tasty sweet morsals. Ice cold lemonade from the stream.
All of a sudden he saw movement. He quickly turned his head. He could not believe what he had just seen. It quickly dissappeared behind a tree and dropped from view. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief.
As he descended he began to walk among small then larger trees. What had been little rivlets became larger streams, which finally became roaring streams. The path became a little wider. It obviously had seen use, but there were no footprints or tracks of any sort. After several hours of walking Larry sat down next to a larger stream. The path now followed the side of this larger stream. There were lots of trees now, wide meadows and the slope became more gentle as he neared the valley floor. It was warm. If there would have been a sun, Larry thought, it surely would be afternoon. He had been walking now for many hours, first down the long tunnel and then down the side of the mountain. He was exhausted. He laid down on some soft grass and was soon fast asleep.
He slept for he knew not how long. When he awoke the light was still bright and the air warm. He had had nothing to eat since the night before. He was thirsty. Despite being near water the entire trip, he had never stopped to drink. He took several steps down to the edge of the stream and cupped his hand to take up a drink of the pure water. He began to drink. Immediately he threw his hand down. This was no water! It was sweet! As sweet as any drink he had before. It had the distinct taste of sweet lemonade. He wetted his hand again and licked the moisture off to be sure. He was not mistaken. It was deliciously sweet. He cupped his hand and satisfied his thirst with the sweet liquid.
Lining the stream bed were colored rocks of different sizes and shapes. They were everywhere. He had seen nothing like it before. He picked up a particularly beautiful one. It looked good enough to eat, he thought. It was nothing but a rock, nevertheless he just popped it in his mouth. Again he was shocked. This "rock" tasted like sugar, yet different. He began to lick it and slowly it dissolved like a sucker. This rock was rock candy. Where am I, he exclaimed out loud. A small piece of driftwood lay by the side of the stream. He carefully tasted it. Sure enough, it too was candy, chocolate like, to be exact. He reached up and grabbed a leaf from the nearest tree. Again it was sweet candy. Everywhere he looked he picked up this thing or that. Everything was candy. Even the very soil. I am in a place where everything is candy, he thought.
His worries about something to eat dissapeared, as he ate candy leaves and grass, he peeled bark from the tree which tasted like chocolate. Small twigs were tasty sweet morsals. Ice cold lemonade from the stream.
All of a sudden he saw movement. He quickly turned his head. He could not believe what he had just seen. It quickly dissappeared behind a tree and dropped from view. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief.
Kaisa's Memories of Fishing Trips or Writing Lyrics from Boat Cushions
It seems eight lifetimes ago that I wrestled myself out of bed to tumble into the backseat of the truck or car where everything would still be grey with twilight.
Every trip would commence with a stop by Dunkin' Donuts - or at least the fresh water trips before we upgraded to the ocean. Everytime I wanted the same thing, a strawberry jelly or a vanilla cream filled. I occasionally brave the transfat demons and try one when I go back to Salem, but they never taste the same.
In the very early days, I would also get a hot chocolate heated to the approximate temperatures it takes to heat the fires of Vulcan. Even though I would try to be prudent, I would always end up scalding my tongue to the point where everything I ate for the next 24 hours would taste slightly citrus.
And because I was with Dad, this would be a whole lot of candy.
Scott was usually huddled in the corner in a quilted green coat, ripe for either cuddling or harrassing, depending on my mood. The a.m. was usually reserved for cuddling. We would sometimes share a seatbelt (if we wore one at all) as the car wound its way on mountain curves towards whatever lake we were going. Although it was cold and it was going to be horribly cold wherever we ended up, for the moment, in the car, everything was pleasantly close and warm. There was never a trip where my Dad wouldn't blast the heat. To this day I still hold a disproportionate amount of fondness for any man who will turn the heat to high. It's much rarer than I could have guessed at that time, when I was young and beautiful and planning to be a famous writer/model/actress.
When we finally got out on the lake after enduring the stretched time from the unloading of the supplies to the launch on to the water, two things would become quickly apparent. 1) It was freezing and 2) it was really quiet. Both were natural enemies to young Olsen children.
There was a Oliver Cromwell style kerosene space heater in the boat that was either dead or scalding. No sinful temperance for that thing. To receive heat you must be baptized by fire, and this was the objective of the dangerous thing. Scott and I would hold our denim encased legs close to its grated front as long as we could stand it, and then pull away, shreiking. After about three minutes our smoldering jeans would cool to a pleasant warmness that lasted about two seconds until we had to start the whole thing again.
This activity was usually accompanied by our enthusiastic if somewhat eccentric singing. Everything in our view was subject to verse, from our father telling us to be quiet to the ever present danger of losing your bait and hook in the swampy bottomless seaweed.
Our favorite for a good while however was a simple chant named "Gale Force Warning". For the record, the lyrics go "Gale Force Warning (repeat three times)/Storm Force Warning (repeat three times)/ and finally (with feeling) HURRICANE WARNING!!! WHOOOOOOOO!!!"
It wasn't until I had children of my own that I even knew my Dad was listening. It was a creative and motivating song, but I must confess I stole the lyrics from the floation cushion that had probably been purchased long before I told Scott too much thumb sucking affected his ability to divest milk duds of their chocolate coating. (Which therefore meant he had to give them to me to get the chocolate off so he could have the much easier to digest caramel portion and not suffer any gastronomical discomfort.)
These were good times, and unlike a lot happy things that zip past before you have time to get used to them, I knew they were as they surrounded me. At the end of every fishing trip, right after my Dad slit open the bellies of the unfortunate fish to show me what they had been eating, a spongey feeling of melancholy overcame my soul. The wind of late afternoon shaking the branches of the lazy maples seemed to predict an unavoidable fate where life didn't permit such pleasant freefall, and it was coming soon.
Every trip would commence with a stop by Dunkin' Donuts - or at least the fresh water trips before we upgraded to the ocean. Everytime I wanted the same thing, a strawberry jelly or a vanilla cream filled. I occasionally brave the transfat demons and try one when I go back to Salem, but they never taste the same.
In the very early days, I would also get a hot chocolate heated to the approximate temperatures it takes to heat the fires of Vulcan. Even though I would try to be prudent, I would always end up scalding my tongue to the point where everything I ate for the next 24 hours would taste slightly citrus.
And because I was with Dad, this would be a whole lot of candy.
Scott was usually huddled in the corner in a quilted green coat, ripe for either cuddling or harrassing, depending on my mood. The a.m. was usually reserved for cuddling. We would sometimes share a seatbelt (if we wore one at all) as the car wound its way on mountain curves towards whatever lake we were going. Although it was cold and it was going to be horribly cold wherever we ended up, for the moment, in the car, everything was pleasantly close and warm. There was never a trip where my Dad wouldn't blast the heat. To this day I still hold a disproportionate amount of fondness for any man who will turn the heat to high. It's much rarer than I could have guessed at that time, when I was young and beautiful and planning to be a famous writer/model/actress.
When we finally got out on the lake after enduring the stretched time from the unloading of the supplies to the launch on to the water, two things would become quickly apparent. 1) It was freezing and 2) it was really quiet. Both were natural enemies to young Olsen children.
There was a Oliver Cromwell style kerosene space heater in the boat that was either dead or scalding. No sinful temperance for that thing. To receive heat you must be baptized by fire, and this was the objective of the dangerous thing. Scott and I would hold our denim encased legs close to its grated front as long as we could stand it, and then pull away, shreiking. After about three minutes our smoldering jeans would cool to a pleasant warmness that lasted about two seconds until we had to start the whole thing again.
This activity was usually accompanied by our enthusiastic if somewhat eccentric singing. Everything in our view was subject to verse, from our father telling us to be quiet to the ever present danger of losing your bait and hook in the swampy bottomless seaweed.
Our favorite for a good while however was a simple chant named "Gale Force Warning". For the record, the lyrics go "Gale Force Warning (repeat three times)/Storm Force Warning (repeat three times)/ and finally (with feeling) HURRICANE WARNING!!! WHOOOOOOOO!!!"
It wasn't until I had children of my own that I even knew my Dad was listening. It was a creative and motivating song, but I must confess I stole the lyrics from the floation cushion that had probably been purchased long before I told Scott too much thumb sucking affected his ability to divest milk duds of their chocolate coating. (Which therefore meant he had to give them to me to get the chocolate off so he could have the much easier to digest caramel portion and not suffer any gastronomical discomfort.)
These were good times, and unlike a lot happy things that zip past before you have time to get used to them, I knew they were as they surrounded me. At the end of every fishing trip, right after my Dad slit open the bellies of the unfortunate fish to show me what they had been eating, a spongey feeling of melancholy overcame my soul. The wind of late afternoon shaking the branches of the lazy maples seemed to predict an unavoidable fate where life didn't permit such pleasant freefall, and it was coming soon.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Its not easy being Old by yours truly and the frogs outside my window
Its not easy being old.
having to spend each day without a fishing partner,
When I think it could be nicer with lots of little fishing partners,
or some older grandkids.
Its not easy being old.
It seems you blend in with so many other oldies.
And people tend to pass you over' cause you're
not with a bunch of little fishing partners.
But Old can be nice in other ways.
Old can be wise and friendly like.
And old can be vast like the ocean, or important like a mountain,
or beautiful like a tree.
When old is all there is to be,
It could make you wonder why, but why wonder why?
Wonder, I am old and I'll do fine, Its beautiful!
And I think its what I want to be. Maybe.
Naw, I just want a fishing partner.
Thank you kermit and my little frog friends outside my window for helping me cope- Eric
having to spend each day without a fishing partner,
When I think it could be nicer with lots of little fishing partners,
or some older grandkids.
Its not easy being old.
It seems you blend in with so many other oldies.
And people tend to pass you over' cause you're
not with a bunch of little fishing partners.
But Old can be nice in other ways.
Old can be wise and friendly like.
And old can be vast like the ocean, or important like a mountain,
or beautiful like a tree.
When old is all there is to be,
It could make you wonder why, but why wonder why?
Wonder, I am old and I'll do fine, Its beautiful!
And I think its what I want to be. Maybe.
Naw, I just want a fishing partner.
Thank you kermit and my little frog friends outside my window for helping me cope- Eric
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