••• Thursday, November 18, 2004

Thunky Thursday
Things…. I thunk…It’s Thursday…and stuff like that.

The Times, They Keep A Changin...
Is it just me?

K. I'm in my car. In my driveway. Seatbelt buckled. Just on time to leave for work. I realize that I forgot my lunch. The clock on the dash says 6:55.

Now, how long should it take for me to unbuckle seatbelt, run back into the unlocked house, grab an already prepared satchel, run back to my still running car, buckle up and put her in gear? Are you thinking a minute, tops? Me too.

Wrong and Wronger. By the time I'm buckled back into my seat, the clock says 7:00.

Or how about the work keys left on the dresser in the upstairs bedroom at the far end of the long hallway? How long there and back? Two minutes? That would be my guess. Tops. Definitely longer than the sprint to the much nearer kitchen. Nope. Five minutes again.

Five minutes. Rain or shine.
Five minutes. Sprint or playing Mother May I?
Five minutes. Try it.

Dead Presidents Still Get Beaver? Dam.
Would this be considered a woodsy form of fencing, or money laundering?

I am aware that my selected Thunky Thursday link has already been used this week by Jenifleur . Since I already busted a the brain cell on adequate wordplay, I’m biting anyway.

And speaking of the lovelies JenLa, in comments yesterday, La nostalgically identified the lost soft drink of my youth as Funny Face. Thanks La. I never would have come up with that from memory (but I guess I coulda googled.) And Shirley I don't recall half of the flavors listed at the site.

Hello Mutter?

  1. Childhood:: Memories
  2. Ransom:: Little Red Chief
  3. Melissa:: Etheridge
  4. Trust me:: No, really.
  5. Report:: Kinsey
  6. Give up:: Your dreams
  7. Nightgown:: Torn
  8. Smokes:: I’m outta
  9. Cookies & cream:: Strange combo
  10. Gameshow:: Vanna

…A Time in November
I spent a couple of evenings this week trying to write about my dad and birthdays. But it just wasn’t gelling. There were too many words of too little interest.

Finally I asked myself what I wanted to say. And I answered this:

My father and I shared a birthday season. This has always been a special connection to him. However, with the exception of that last year, I cannot remember us ever celebrating his birthday as a family.

But I do remember that every November, on the evening of my birthday, he would leave for northern parts unknown, to deer hunter's camp. There, for two weeks, he would do what daddy deer hunters do, the details of which were never specifically revealed to me. But I always imagined lots of chili and campfires and cases of Blatz longnecks. And no baths. For two weeks.

While my dad was gone hunting, we kind of partied at home. Dad was a staunch meat and potatoes and coffee with dessert for dinner kind of guy. In his absence, we dined with decadence on things like fish sticks and tater tots, tuna noodle casserole (complete with canned peas and potato chip topping) or Velveeta mac and cheese with pigs in a blanket.

After a week and a half of this crazy fun, the pining would begin. That's when began the countdown of days until his return. Of course there were no cell phones then. And long distance from a pay phone was for emergencies only, back then.

When we’d finally hear that back door creak open, my sister and I would run to the door, yelling and fighting for the first hug and scratchy face rub.

But what I remember the most about those chilly, joyous nights of November is the smell.
My daddy's smell.
Like the inside cap of his favorite dirty, stinky hat.
Only bigger.
And better.
And all over.

That's the kind of November I remember.

I admit to being a little slow on the blogtake sometimes, but how in the hell did I miss last week's blog-u-drama? I did read several references to it here and there, but simply figured it was some inside info thing.

I hope it's all water under the Beaver Cache by now.

That being said, I would like to share some sage wisdom, aptly learnt at my grandmammy's bony knee.

Don't shit where ya live.


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