Choose Carefully 

    Some people choose a career or an activity with such a small chance of success that it begs the question, “Why are they trying to do this?” 
    An example was the fellow who tried to hijack a Minnesota Department of Transportation snowplow. This guy was standing along the road so the snowplow driver stopped to see if he was okay. The thief climbed up into the cab and told the driver to get out. The driver refused, so the thief got out. A little later a pickup driver saw this same fellow standing in the middle of the highway and stopped to see if he needed help. 
    The thief grabbed the driver’s jacket and tried to drag him out of his car but the driver resisted by driving off, dragging the thief for some distance down the street. 
    If I was a career counselor I would have to advise this fellow to find a line of work where success didn’t depend so much on being able to influence the actions of others. 

    Also in the category of not doing what you’re not good at: A gentleman named Rudy, in Australia, tried to shoot his friend’s cow. An aside: We have no idea why Rudy was trying to shoot his friend’s cow. Maybe he didn’t have one of his own, or maybe he was just mad at this particular cow, or maybe he was mad at his friend. Who knows? 
    So after luring the cow into a shed, Rudy took aim and fired. Another aside: We’ve got to believe that this shed was not so big that Rudy couldn’t get rather close to this cow.
    Anyway, the shot missed the cow. Another aside: I had a gun like that once, in fact I still do, it’s sitting in the corner of my office just in case I ever get attacked by a cow. 
    Rudy aimed and fired again. This time the bullet missed the cow; surprise, surprise, went through the back wall of the shed, through a wooden fence, then through the door of a passing car and into the leg of the driver. 
    The authorities took a dim view of his marksmanship, fined him $1,000 Australian, and took away his gun license for five years. Before the authorities got involved Rudy did finally manage to shoot the cow. 
   I would have liked to know what his friend thought about Rudy’s actions. We could ask the cow what it thought, but it’s a little late for that.

Avast and Bejabbers 

From My Journal 

    Once again I find myself explaining an expression I’ve used. 
    Speaking of looking it up, I would tell you to do that with the “avast and bejabbers” thing, but unless you have access to some very special reference material you would not be able to find much. 
    Some people would say the bejabbers is a mild oath, but according to my information it came about like this: Sean Avast and Neal Bejabbers were a standup comedy team who played, during the late 18th century, in and around Ireland and Scotland. Being that most of the population in those countries lived in seacoast towns these two clowns became famous, and well known even, to the seafaring population of a large part of the world. It was common to hear some sailor saying, while his ship was sailing up Belfast Lough, “I wonder if Avast and Bejabbers will be playing when we get to port.” Usually he didn’t get an answer, as after two years at sea hunting whales, he was probably talking to a mast, a coil of rope, or something else equally uninterested in Avast and Bejabbers. 
    As time went on and the funny duo became more and more referenced in casual conversations, the phrase “avast and bejabbers’ began to be used for any and all exclamations---good, bad, or indifferent. The most famous use of the phrase, according to Funkstien and Wagnellsky, was at the hanging of the infamous pirate Jeremiah Bleep, otherwise known as Blood-and-Guts Bleep. When they put the rope around his neck he looked around and said, “Avast and bejabbers, they’re really gonna hang me,” which they proceeded to do. 
    At this time the phrase was still not accepted by everyone, especially the clergy, who were prominent at Bleeps hanging. Bleep was not the first person to publicly use a normally censored phrase, but years later when the TV censors were looking for an appropriate word to cover up words that needed to be censored, they, tongue in cheek, picked “bleep” for that name. Uncle Jeremiah would be so proud. How Bleep got the nick name of Blood-and-Guts is another story.

How I Got This Way 

    Life can be hard. The tough either don’t survive or just have a miserable time of it. When I was growing up we didn’t pay much attention to physical hardships. I don’t remember any emotional hardships, in fact we probably didn’t know we were supposed to have any. 
    When the tongue of the manure spreader dropped on my foot raising a lump the size of half a softball, so that I shouldn’t have walked on it for several days, I just ignored it, limped around the farms with the aid of a make-shift walking stick, and continued with my chores. 
    As the years passed this attitude of physical and emotional toughness stood me in good stead. However there came a time when life decided I needed a refresher course---hence the game of PIT/SPOONS. The following description is from my journal, written in 1991. 

    The scene---both daughters and their husbands had come to visit. 

    While Lorraine was picking up the extra food, the kids went into K Mart to find a deck of Pit cards. Now if you don’t know what Pit is you had better ask someone from an earlier generation, however I have the feeling that anyone reading this probably has been introduced to the game of Spoons, which uses a Pit deck to initiate the mayhem that is the real game. 
    The game is basically the trading of cards until a person holds a complete suit, after which this person picks up a spoon from the center of the table. The frantic effort of trading cards is similar to the floor of any stock exchange during a selling or a buying panic. Since there is a penalty for not getting a spoon, and being there is one less spoon than there are players, there is usually a mad scramble for the rest of the spoons. 
    The madness of the scramble is proportional to the amount of red meat the group has been eating over the last few days, and/or a natural instinct for bringing pain and suffering to one’s fellow players. This group, falling into both categories, even now makes my kind and gentle nature cringe with the memory of the last several evenings. 
    The grabbing of the spoons, or forks, if the group is in a blood-sport mood, makes the “running of the bulls” in Pamplona look like a slow stroll along the Hot Springs, Arkansas, Promenade Walk in early morning. As the grabbing starts there is usually one if not more bodies thrown across the top of the table without regard to personal safety or dignity. At one point I found myself being dragged across the table top by my oldest daughter, who I had nurtured and cared for, and who was now threatening me with a bite into a wrist artery if I did not relinquish the hold on “my spoon.” 
    Finally realizing just how much this meant to my daughter, and feeling my shoulder muscles letting go, I gladly gave up my claim to said spoon and was thrilled to see her win yet another round of this insane game. 
    The younger daughter, who was sitting next to me would usually wait for me to get a spoon, then in one of several sneaky ways she has developed, since being removed from my stabilizing influence, takes the thing away from me. The sons-in-law, having no regard for life or limb, especially mine, were indeed worthy opponents. It was somewhat gratifying to realize that if worse came to worse, career wise, they would excel as enforcers for some mob family. 
    This is a game that one should not try, with this local group, without proper training. The following would be one possible training program. First work with weights until you can press about four-hundred pounds. 
    Then put several large rattlesnakes into a bird cage, shake them up until they are very indignant, then reach in, tickle the one of choice under the chin and retreat, picking up at least three of four randomly placed marbles on the way out. When you can do this without getting bitten by one of the snakes, you know you have almost developed the speed and agility to be able to compete with this bunch. Getting bitten by the snakes, if that does happen, will give you a small taste of what it’s going to feel like during the game, especially if you’re using forks. 
    Next go out into the back yard, and after making a fist with your grabbing hand, hit an oak tree with as much weight as you can put into it. Do not be dismayed at the bleeding and the pieces of flesh being left on the bark of the tree. If this bothers you, this game is not for you. 
    Next, using that same hand, still in a fist, strike the back of the hand against the same tree. If it is too messy by this time, use another tree. When you can do this without sustaining any major damage to your hand, you are as ready as you’re going to get. 
    However, the most important preparation is not physical, but emotional. Good preparation would be to look at pictures of starving third-world children, Holocaust victims, or close-ups of accidents. When you can do this without any twinge of emotional response you are ready to play with a group such as fate has thrown me in with.

The Origin of Another Word 

     A while back, in some correspondence, I used the word sorely and was called on to explain myself. The following was my response: I’m sure ya’ll have been waiting to get this explanation, then again maybe you’re saying, huh? The word sorely is not that unusual, a little archaic maybe, but then so is the author. 
    Of course, this lack of interest is because most of you assume that the word sorely comes from the root word sore, and over the years it has taken on somewhat of the same meaning, so I can see how you might be misled about its origin. 
   The definition in Webster is surprisingly correct, and it means the same today as it did when it started to become a much used word. The definition today and then, is and was, “grievously, painful, urgently.” Good word, huh? 
    The only reason I’m aware of its origins is because of my vast knowledge of the Spady family history, and it so happens that the knowledge about this word comes out of that quagmire of irrelevant misinformation. 
    It all started in the early days of the Civil War, or actually earlier than that. Ivan Sorely Spady, was named after his father’s famous Russian mentor, Ivan the Sweet, who was a candy manufacturer in Moscow in the early 1800's. He was famous for his cheese flavored chocolate, (and how that all got started is another story). Ivan’s middle name of Sorely came from his mother, who, when she was handed this bundle of joy seconds after his birth, took one look at him and said, “this kid is one _____ mess.” Her speech was somewhat slurred and they all thought she said sorely, although they couldn’t figure out what that meant, but that became his middle name. 
    Years later, after trying to raise Ivan, his mother still had no reason to change her mind, but out of love for the kid, never revealed what she had said. 
    Anyway he grew up being called Ivan on his good days, and derivatives of his middle name on his not so good days. Mostly this centered on the denominative word of sorry. (Don’t be ashamed to ask about the big words, that’s how you’ll learn.) 
    Ivan and his family lived in Northern Virginia and as the debate raged throughout the country about states’ rights versus federal control, his family was torn between the Southern and Northern views. 
    At the time of the Fort Sumter fiasco Ivan was eighteen years old, and being called on by both the local Confederate and Union enlistment officers. Some from the area were opting for the North and some for the South. (However, there were a couple of Ivan’s cousins who each enlisted on both sides, but that’s another story.) 
     The die was cast when the Northern recruiter, after accidentally smelling Ivan’s breath, promised that because of all the fine dairy farms in Pennsylvania the Union would have a steady supply of cheese for its armies. 
    When Ivan went to sign up, he left off his first name thinking that it sounded too foreign, so to the army he became known as Sorely Spady. When asked if he had any talents he mentioned that he could play the trumpet, so he was sent to bugler training school. Two hours later he was sent back to his company a full-fledged bugler. 
    Sorely was attached to the Commander of the Army, but didn’t see any long-term bugling action until May 1, 1863. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been ready before that, or that he wasn’t around before that, but that there was always some reason that he couldn’t perform his bugling functions. For example: just before the battle of Antietam he was stung on the lip by a bee and all his bugling sounded as though he was signaling “by the left flank to the rear charge” which is a rarely used maneuver; and General McClellan was afraid that the army wouldn’t even know how to do it, let alone recognize it, even if he could figure out when to use it. 
     At the first battle of Bull Run, General McDowell was all set to use Sorely, but on the second note of his first “charge” a rifle ball accidentally carried away the front third of his bugle, and two of his better teeth. He could still blow the notes but nobody could hear him more than five feet away, which left him rather ineffective. 
     At the second battle of Bull Run, General Pope had Sorely at his side as they moved into position. Just at the moment that Pope was going to tell him to blow “charge”, Pope’s horse stepped on Sorely’s foot. The resulting mangled blast was taken by the Northern troops as a sign to retreat, (some have said that any excuse would have worked as well), and so the Confederates retook most of Virginia. 
    It wasn’t that Sorely was having a “trise di nerfs,” as the French would say. He was always ready for action and willing to do his thing but something always happened to befuddle him in some way. By this time the Army of the Potomac, now being led by General Hooker, that’s “Old Fighting Joe” for you CWBs; was, along with the rest of the group, wondering if Sorely was good for them or should they cut off his cheese ration and let him defect to the Southern cause. As Joe and his 120,000 fighting men moved across the Rappahannock to confront General Lee and his army of 60,000, it was decided that Sorely would be given one more try at bugling out the commands. Hooker did some maneuvering that would have been effective, but then decided against it and pulled all his units into a defensive position at Chancellorsville. Lee, seeing the hesitation, attacked. Hooker ordered a retreat, but in the middle of that bugle a Southern ball took off part of Sorely’s right ear, and he was so miffed at what he conceived as a deliberate attempt on the part of the Confederacy to interrupt his life, that he blew a “charge” and thus started three days of horrible killing and maiming. The North lost 11,000 men and the South lost 10,000 men. That battle caused more pain and suffering then anything that had yet happened in the War.       Ever after that event, when anyone felt especially pained, they would just say, “I’m feeling sorely today,” and everyone knew just what they meant.

Texas Gopher Dilemma 

 The following is a report I wrote on my efforts to rid my Texas yard of gophers. 

 TEXAS INSTITUTE FOR THE ERADICATION OF CERTAIN MAMMALS 

(Don’t bother trying to look this up) 

 Burleson, Texas 

 REPORT 

 ON 

 THE GUMMING OF GOPHERS 

and 

IT’S SUBSEQUENT RESULTS 

 Experiment carried out 

 and report written  

by 

 Eldon N. Spady 

bna (better known as) 

 Doctor of Dirt, 

Weasel of Wiliness, 

(and several other things the publishing laws will not allow) 

 Awarded 

 Eradicator of the Month, May 1989

 Eradicator of the year, 1987 

 Articles Published 

Poison Monthly, “If a Little Is Good, A Lot Must Be Better” 

Green Lawn Quarterly, “How to Handle Your Neighbors After Spreading That Golden Sewer Pond Sludge” 

    First let me say that I must give at least partial credit for this idea to my brother, hereinafter referred to as the ‘Source’, who is a real Doctor living in, well, let’s say the Northeast, just to confuse those pesky environmentalists who might be looking for him as soon as this report is published. 
    The initial concept, as stated in my grant request to the Siesta Club, was that: “Whereas the ground burrowing animals in my back yard are of such a number that surely there must be included in their numbers at least one mutant ground burrowing mammal that is carrying in its body the genes that will, if exploited correctly, cure the world of yet some unheard of ailment. Therefore, these valuable creatures must be studied, fed, and kept happily active until their time comes. 
    I thereby respectfully submit that if your fine organization would furnish me with the aforementioned grant monies I will keep these ground burrowing mammals supplied with chewing gum, which my Source (remember the Doctor brother in the---ah---northeast) has confirmed will undoubtedly keep them from leaving the premises.” 
     What I was trying to do was get someone to front the money for the gum I was going to use to discourage these pesky gophers that have been occasionally burrowing around my yard and flower beds. 
     After receiving a very snippy, and undeserved I might add, response from the Siesta Club I finally decided I was on my own and proceeded to move ahead according to the instructions from my Source. 
     This gum thing was a last resort. I had tried using commercial poisons which the gophers would not touch. Concocting something that will kill a gopher would not seem to be that difficult. However, the challenge obviously comes in making it taste appealing to the furry little things. 
      I had already tried running water into their tunnels which had the effect of washing part of my yard into a low spot in the next block. After paying out the money to buy a truck load of replacement dirt and spending 147 hours hauling this to the other end of my property, one wheelbarrow full at a time, I still had gophers tunneling around my yard. 
    I had been told by several pimply-faced “experts” at my local Big Box store, that what I needed was to kill the grubs in the soil, which is what these critters were trying to find and eat. (Moles? Maybe. Gophers? I wasn’t sure they knew what they were talking about.) 
    After spending several hundred dollars on a product that these same clerks would not handle without the aid of a hazmat suit, I still had gophers tunneling around my yard. There is no such thing on the market as a trap that will kill a gopher, at least none that these green merchants would admit to, or, heaven forbid, have available. 
    Therefore, when my Source told me of this simple and foolproof cure for these creatures I was elated. Part of the instructions I received was that the choice of gum was critical and that without using ‘Juicy Fruit’ I would be wasting my time. So ‘Juicy Fruit’ it was. 
    My request to the Wrigley people for a supply of their product to help rid this part of Texas of the dreaded lawn- destroying gopher was met with a rather nasty letter from their attorney, one Quido Gerpeduchi, stating that if they caught me mentioning their product in connection with the killing of warm blooded, furry, and lovable animals, I should have my affairs in order. I thought the response was a little strong, but this whole ‘Juicy Fruit’ - gopher/mole thing might be wearing a little thin with them. 
    I had an old pack of this chewy substance in the house so proceeded to administer it according to the instructions. Then I waited. There seemed to be no response or reaction of any kind. I concluded that gophers were put off by the age and staleness of the gum so I went out and bought a new pack of the substance, hoping it would be fresh and therefore more enticing. 
      The reaction was immediate if not gratifying. The tunneling activity took a quantum leap upward. Instead of one runway zigzagging across a part of my lawn I had whole areas that looked like the bottom of a bull fighting ring. It appeared that not only were the gophers enjoying the gum, but that the population had exploded. I was sure of this one morning when I found gophers with Oklahoma stickers on their luggage, sitting on my patio waiting for me to dispense gum. 
    I immediately stopped giving away free ‘chewing enjoyment’ to the gophers, and since then the tunneling activity in the yard has fallen off to the disgusting, but usual, pre-gum level. 
    We eventually moved, leaving the gopher-filled back yard for the next home owner. 
     I’m sure that family would appreciate any suggestions you might have.

An Attack of Common Sense? 

    As reported by Ben Hooper, Mr. Corey Hancock was hiking in Western Oregon. It was night, cold, and rainy. What else? It’s Western Oregon. Corey came upon a three-month old bear cub which at first glance appeared to be dead. It was not moving. Corey wisely waited a few minutes to see if there was a mother bear around. None came forward to claim the cub. Corey discovered the bear was not quite dead, and figured that if he left it, it would soon die. So, he picked it up and took it with him. He gave the bear CPR, which seemed to revive it some. 
    Corey ended up at an animal shelter in Salem, where he left the cub, and after some care and getting checked over by a veterinarian, the cub was forwarded on to the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife (ODFW) who will give the bear another checkup. Evidently they didn’t trust the veterinarian’s skills. The animal shelter said that Corey was owed a big “thank you” for rescuing the bear. 

    So far it has been a nice story. The part that got me was the reaction of the ODFW. They said that Cory should have called them before removing the bear from the wild. Never mind that Cory had to walk two hours to get cell phone service. This kind of attitude lets us know that they cared more about their rules than about the bear. But why make that comment at all? Under the circumstances, it served no purpose except to make the Department look like a hidebound bureaucracy.      The ODFW then announced that they would turn Corey’s case over to the Oregon State Police with the implied threat he would be prosecuted for rescuing the bear. 
    The Oregon State Police, evidently being brighter than the ODFW, announced that no charges would be filed against Corey. Smart move. Someone in the OSP had an attack of common sense.