I live in the country because I like to be gently awakened in the mornings by the dim light, followed by the sight of the yellow sunshine grazing the high spots on the hills, and the sounds of birds chirping outside my windows.
I abhor alarm clocks, and prefer not to be jolted out of sleep. I am jumpy enough without starting off the day that way. In fact, I am apt to be late for work in the winter when the sun doesn’t rise early enough to keep me on schedule.
Lately though, my peaceful mornings have been disrupted by the arrival of a crazy feathered enemy who seems to have taken up residence somewhere near the eaves of my house.
Before you get alarmed and call PETA to report that I hate birds, let me disclose that robins nest every spring in the white fir next to the front deck and it is enjoyable to watch them hatching two or three birdlets, even though they make a mess on the railing. We feed a mega-flock of hummingbirds that flit back and forth among the spruces and quakies. We tolerate a yellow bird that thinks his reflection in the window is trying to cut in on his territory. Actually we should put that one out of his misery because he attacks his own image over and over again.
But the pellet gun is sitting right by the bedside, and Mr. B., after he is shocked awake, hits the ground running on tiptoe while pumping the air rifle. It is quite the sight so see him crouching behind the front door in his underwear, the barrel waggling out of the opening as he tries to take aim on the critter who scatters every time he hears the click of the pump.
Our squatter is a wily woodpecker.
Okay, there is not a shortage of wood at my house. The roof is shingled with cedar shakes, the decks are redwood, there is some kind of wood siding, and there are trees of all kinds way too close by to please the fire department, but does the woodpecker choose to drill any of those wooden materials where there might actually be bugs hiding?
No, he disdains the name that bird lovers gave him and he hammers each morning on the aluminum downspout!
With its hollow round shape, the downspout is rather like the C-sharp-below-middle-C pipe of the Tabernacle organ. The pounding sound resonates up and down the pipe as it amplifies, echoes and pours right into the bedroom window which has to be open to catch the cool night breezes.
I read that woodpeckers hammer for two reasons. One is to find, secure and eat any bugs that it locates in the materials it pecks. The other is to communicate. He signals the possession of his territory to would-be rivals. Well, if that is what he is doing (I assume it is since there aren’t many bugs in the downspout) and just in case he didn’t notice, I was here first. There wasn’t a woodpecker to be heard when I moved here.
Mr. B.’s shoot-at-him concept of relocation is ineffectual since this bird is faster than a speeding bullet. If any of you bird-whisperers know how to get rid of an impudent woodpecker who is not playing by the rules, I would like to hear from you.
I also read that you can adopt a woodpecker at the Wildlife Action Center (“Take action to help wildlife.”) If you want to take action, my bird comes free and without paperwork.
In the event that there are no takers, my other idea is to apply Bertha logic which suggests that I go down to Basin Rental and borrow a jackhammer which I set up under the rain gutter and use to send the more aggressive territorial signal. Do I have to do that every morning, or is once enough?
I guess if I think about it, “Hammerhead” is winning this argument. Every morning when he signals “Hey you, this is my district, you can leave now,” I get right up, and soon I get in the car and leave.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
How to waste not your zucchini
Well, we picked our first zucchini of the summer today—just the beginning of many more zucchinis to come, I am sure. I know there is a zucchini tradition—zucchini in summer is the counterpart of fruitcake at Christmas. And I will probably write about fruitcake in December if I haven’t already. But I am herewith climbing on the annual zucchini jokewagon in an effort to outdo all of the other zukesters.
Just so you know, my Mother tried to teach me not to waste anything. Along with a houseful of kids, she was the mother of recycling. My Mom was waste-free when waste-free wasn’t cool. And speaking of zucchini, we ate them for breakfast, lunch and dinner for the whole month of August when I was growing up. Granted, there are a lot of ways to disguise zucchini. That is because they don’t really have any taste and can therefore be made to taste like anything—apple pie, spice cake, chicken casserole. If someone has a zucchini chocolate recipe, I would like to have it please.
I say that the most serious waste of all is unused zucchini. Having a seven-year supply of them squirreled away is no excuse for wasting the rabbit of the vegetable kingdom. Did I mix my metaphors again?
I looked it up—the word “zucchini” is diminutive of zucca squash. In other words, around here we grow the small variety. Aren’t you glad we don’t grow the large one?
So to help you be more green, (no pun intended), here is the Butterbean suggestion list of ways to use all that superfluous zucchini. Warning: this list is not mother-approved.
1. These are dog days. Use one for a doorstop.
2. Give them to your kids to make canoes to float in the bathtub. With a little imagination, they may be able to make other toys out of them.
3. Dry them and make kitchen witches. The color is perfect.
4. Use them for shoe trees. This will use up two at a time.
5. Let the kids play war with them. They make great grenades. My kids used to play a game called “bazoocchini.”
6. Slice the overgrown ones 3/4” thick and load them into your clay pigeon thrower.
7. Collect a representative sampling of them and take them to the county fair. You could “stuff the ballot box” by submitting courtesy entries for your friends and relatives. That one that tripled in size overnight could be entered into the largest vegetable contest. If it is a pumpkin contest, play dumb.
8. Box some up and send them to the IRS.
9. Try juggling some. They should substitute well for bowling pins. This method is most effective if you are a novice juggler. But novice or not, start out with several.
10. I think they might make good fish bait. Try a small one whole when fishing for bass.
11. Leave them lying around in the back yard. Maybe the dog will bury them.
12. Conduct scientific experiments with them. I should think that zucchini could be used to make something really useful like bio-fuel and with a little encouragement, which no one has been willing to give them before now, (no one fertilizes zucchini plants) could be made to out-produce corn as a crop. And unlike corn, if they disappeared from the food chain, no one would ever notice.
Whatever use you find for your extra zucchinis, remember two things: keep your car locked from now until first frost and never, never throw zucchini in the garbage, no matter what.
Just so you know, my Mother tried to teach me not to waste anything. Along with a houseful of kids, she was the mother of recycling. My Mom was waste-free when waste-free wasn’t cool. And speaking of zucchini, we ate them for breakfast, lunch and dinner for the whole month of August when I was growing up. Granted, there are a lot of ways to disguise zucchini. That is because they don’t really have any taste and can therefore be made to taste like anything—apple pie, spice cake, chicken casserole. If someone has a zucchini chocolate recipe, I would like to have it please.
I say that the most serious waste of all is unused zucchini. Having a seven-year supply of them squirreled away is no excuse for wasting the rabbit of the vegetable kingdom. Did I mix my metaphors again?
I looked it up—the word “zucchini” is diminutive of zucca squash. In other words, around here we grow the small variety. Aren’t you glad we don’t grow the large one?
So to help you be more green, (no pun intended), here is the Butterbean suggestion list of ways to use all that superfluous zucchini. Warning: this list is not mother-approved.
1. These are dog days. Use one for a doorstop.
2. Give them to your kids to make canoes to float in the bathtub. With a little imagination, they may be able to make other toys out of them.
3. Dry them and make kitchen witches. The color is perfect.
4. Use them for shoe trees. This will use up two at a time.
5. Let the kids play war with them. They make great grenades. My kids used to play a game called “bazoocchini.”
6. Slice the overgrown ones 3/4” thick and load them into your clay pigeon thrower.
7. Collect a representative sampling of them and take them to the county fair. You could “stuff the ballot box” by submitting courtesy entries for your friends and relatives. That one that tripled in size overnight could be entered into the largest vegetable contest. If it is a pumpkin contest, play dumb.
8. Box some up and send them to the IRS.
9. Try juggling some. They should substitute well for bowling pins. This method is most effective if you are a novice juggler. But novice or not, start out with several.
10. I think they might make good fish bait. Try a small one whole when fishing for bass.
11. Leave them lying around in the back yard. Maybe the dog will bury them.
12. Conduct scientific experiments with them. I should think that zucchini could be used to make something really useful like bio-fuel and with a little encouragement, which no one has been willing to give them before now, (no one fertilizes zucchini plants) could be made to out-produce corn as a crop. And unlike corn, if they disappeared from the food chain, no one would ever notice.
Whatever use you find for your extra zucchinis, remember two things: keep your car locked from now until first frost and never, never throw zucchini in the garbage, no matter what.
You could starve here
Don’t you just hate it when you are hungry and you try to open one of those cardboard packages of something that have the little perforated half-circle spot that says “press here”?
You do press here and nothing happens so you press a little harder, but the box stays closed. You increase the pressure, which is a step in the wrong direction, and the box stays closed.
“Try again.” This time you carefully line up the curve in your thumbnail, to the little “perforation” line. Again you press here and and tho whole box begins to twist.
“Okay, I am smarter than this box of junk, and I am not exactly a hundred pound weakling either. Get a tool. A spoon. Push on the little curved line with the front edge of the spoon.”
You do, and the box collapses completely so that now the curved dotted line is lying flat against the adjacent side of the box and you now have a hyperextended thumbnail and a bruised ego.
“Okay, a different tool.” You look around for a something like an industrial box ripper, or a jackhammer, but unless you are a construction worker, you will be stuck with ordinary hand tools.
Against your better judgment, but in desperation, you pick up the butcher knife with which you start to saw, on the mangled box corner. The box slips causing further injury to your poor thumb.
“Okay, I give. This box is stronger and smarter than I am, and I wasn’t hungry anyway.” By now you are jumping up and down with your thumb in your mouth, but on top of the box. You think about getting a band-aid, but, with an injury to one hand, it could be a little bit tricky to get it open.
“All right, I lied— I am too hungry, and I’ll show you. I’ll eat something else.” You find another package of food in the fridge. This one says “cut here.” Let’s see, do I need a pair of tin snips or a band saw?”
“Well, I’ll try the scissors. Hmm, they were right here yesterday. They aren’t today.”
You really give up and decide to eat out. But you realize that you might have to avoid meals that come with those little packages of condiments. They say “tear here” or “lift here.” If they will and you do, you will end up with a rash on your shirt anyway.
I never know how to open those hermetically-sealed-in-space-age-plastic electronic devices either. I think that any package that requires an imported or exotic tool, say a plumber’s helper or a Sawsall to get it open should come with the tool, don’t you?
By now you realize that you need either a tranquilizer or an antacid tablet. But that seems a little discouraging. The antacid comes in a package big enough to hold a fish tank, and the tranquilizer has to be pushed through the plastic film before you can get to it. If you get it pushed through in one piece, it will end up under the fridge anyway.
Well, I could learn from my grandkids. They can open anything. That is probably because they either can’t or won’t read the opening instructions and therefore don’t use them, or they don’t mind what they destroy during the process.
After they open a box of cereal, you have to keep the rest in a sandwich baggie, or throw it away. You may need special tools to repair the kitchen, too.
It’s the same with cookies, crackers, a gallon of milk, a bottle of ketchup, cheese, lunch meat, yogurt, a carton of cream. They can open them all. Can’t you just imagine it?
By the time they get the container open, it is no longer a container, but hey, they are not hungry, and they are happy.
You do press here and nothing happens so you press a little harder, but the box stays closed. You increase the pressure, which is a step in the wrong direction, and the box stays closed.
“Try again.” This time you carefully line up the curve in your thumbnail, to the little “perforation” line. Again you press here and and tho whole box begins to twist.
“Okay, I am smarter than this box of junk, and I am not exactly a hundred pound weakling either. Get a tool. A spoon. Push on the little curved line with the front edge of the spoon.”
You do, and the box collapses completely so that now the curved dotted line is lying flat against the adjacent side of the box and you now have a hyperextended thumbnail and a bruised ego.
“Okay, a different tool.” You look around for a something like an industrial box ripper, or a jackhammer, but unless you are a construction worker, you will be stuck with ordinary hand tools.
Against your better judgment, but in desperation, you pick up the butcher knife with which you start to saw, on the mangled box corner. The box slips causing further injury to your poor thumb.
“Okay, I give. This box is stronger and smarter than I am, and I wasn’t hungry anyway.” By now you are jumping up and down with your thumb in your mouth, but on top of the box. You think about getting a band-aid, but, with an injury to one hand, it could be a little bit tricky to get it open.
“All right, I lied— I am too hungry, and I’ll show you. I’ll eat something else.” You find another package of food in the fridge. This one says “cut here.” Let’s see, do I need a pair of tin snips or a band saw?”
“Well, I’ll try the scissors. Hmm, they were right here yesterday. They aren’t today.”
You really give up and decide to eat out. But you realize that you might have to avoid meals that come with those little packages of condiments. They say “tear here” or “lift here.” If they will and you do, you will end up with a rash on your shirt anyway.
I never know how to open those hermetically-sealed-in-space-age-plastic electronic devices either. I think that any package that requires an imported or exotic tool, say a plumber’s helper or a Sawsall to get it open should come with the tool, don’t you?
By now you realize that you need either a tranquilizer or an antacid tablet. But that seems a little discouraging. The antacid comes in a package big enough to hold a fish tank, and the tranquilizer has to be pushed through the plastic film before you can get to it. If you get it pushed through in one piece, it will end up under the fridge anyway.
Well, I could learn from my grandkids. They can open anything. That is probably because they either can’t or won’t read the opening instructions and therefore don’t use them, or they don’t mind what they destroy during the process.
After they open a box of cereal, you have to keep the rest in a sandwich baggie, or throw it away. You may need special tools to repair the kitchen, too.
It’s the same with cookies, crackers, a gallon of milk, a bottle of ketchup, cheese, lunch meat, yogurt, a carton of cream. They can open them all. Can’t you just imagine it?
By the time they get the container open, it is no longer a container, but hey, they are not hungry, and they are happy.
Monday, June 30, 2008
“There’s a snake in my boot”
Hooray! It’s high summer. Time for festivals, snow cones, ice cream, baseball games the Fourth of July, parades and all of those wonderful activities that call to mind the summers of your childhood. No, I didn’t forget fireworks. I just saved the best for last.
Those small-town summer festivals are terrific. We went to the Pork Rind Heritage Festival in Harrod, Ohio, a couple of weeks ago. It was great! We bought three large bags of fried-on-the-spot pork rinds in three different flavors—crispy, regular and barbecue—for six dollars. They didn’t have fireworks that I know of, but they shot off the Civil War canon every fifteen minutes.
A few years ago, we watched the City of Louisville’s fireworks display from the banks of the Ohio River. They discharge twenty minutes worth of non-stop fireworks from barges in the middle of the river. It was great!
Last Saturday night we caught the fireworks while passing through Myton, Utah, from the car. They were set off on the sidewalk in front of the rest rooms at the city park. We know that only because Mr. B. was looking for the rest rooms, and during the extended lull before the finale we got a little closer to the fireworks than we realized. It was great!
We got in on some pretty good fireworks in Logan, Utah, a few years ago. They are fired from the middle of Aggie Stadium, but we watched them from the cemetery. Before that, though, we had a few fireworks of our own. Figuratively and literally.
Everyone knows that fireworks are dangerous. They must have some redeeming value, however, because even in Logan (the safest city in the United States) you can still buy ten-second Roman candles, snakes, poppers, and of course, sparklers—all without finishing Hazmat training or getting a hot work permit.
One grandson was taking no chances though. He suited up for Butterbean family fireworks by putting on his boots. They looked just like the !4” Ranger Extreme Rubber Firefighting boots except they were smaller and had frog eyes on top. Never mind that he was wearing his shorts instead of Nomex Assault Gear Turnout pants. All the other kids were foolishly wearing flip-flops with their shorts for which indiscretion they were duly warned.
The dads assembled their candles, lighters, and punks, while the moms placed their chairs well away from ground zero which kept relocating and so did the chairs. The kids surged backward as the parents yelled “stand back” and forward as the dads held each piece to the igniter.
In an order that resembled mayhem, each “firework” was finally lit, exploded, and enjoyed with obligatory “oohs and ahs.” The kid in the boots was joining in the festivities with the rest, except that he couldn’t jump up and down so easily. So far, so good.
In any quality pyrotechnic show, the sparklers are saved for last. That is because the dads are more interested in big firepower than in little sparks. The kids love the sparklers because they finally get to do something besides watch.
So the sparklers were passed out like dealing cards and a few of them were finally lit. The kids with their lit sparklers were darting around like overexcited fireflies. The sparks were bouncing off their bare feet and legs, and they didn’t mind the little prickles much.
All was well until the Future Chief of the Fire Department dropped a piece of hot wire from his defective sparkler into his boot where it didn’t bounce unless he did. By the time someone figured out that his yelling was for some reason other than hyperactivity, he had a pretty good burn. Something to forever remember The Fourth and fireworks by. A memory he is sure to cherish.
And when he does fireworks with his kids, he will be able to show them the scar on his foot, next to the strap on his flip-flop, and scare the heck out of them. And if he ever lets them light sparklers, he can say, “My grandma and I think that sparklers belong in the same category as Red Ryder BB Guns.”
Those small-town summer festivals are terrific. We went to the Pork Rind Heritage Festival in Harrod, Ohio, a couple of weeks ago. It was great! We bought three large bags of fried-on-the-spot pork rinds in three different flavors—crispy, regular and barbecue—for six dollars. They didn’t have fireworks that I know of, but they shot off the Civil War canon every fifteen minutes.
A few years ago, we watched the City of Louisville’s fireworks display from the banks of the Ohio River. They discharge twenty minutes worth of non-stop fireworks from barges in the middle of the river. It was great!
Last Saturday night we caught the fireworks while passing through Myton, Utah, from the car. They were set off on the sidewalk in front of the rest rooms at the city park. We know that only because Mr. B. was looking for the rest rooms, and during the extended lull before the finale we got a little closer to the fireworks than we realized. It was great!
We got in on some pretty good fireworks in Logan, Utah, a few years ago. They are fired from the middle of Aggie Stadium, but we watched them from the cemetery. Before that, though, we had a few fireworks of our own. Figuratively and literally.
Everyone knows that fireworks are dangerous. They must have some redeeming value, however, because even in Logan (the safest city in the United States) you can still buy ten-second Roman candles, snakes, poppers, and of course, sparklers—all without finishing Hazmat training or getting a hot work permit.
One grandson was taking no chances though. He suited up for Butterbean family fireworks by putting on his boots. They looked just like the !4” Ranger Extreme Rubber Firefighting boots except they were smaller and had frog eyes on top. Never mind that he was wearing his shorts instead of Nomex Assault Gear Turnout pants. All the other kids were foolishly wearing flip-flops with their shorts for which indiscretion they were duly warned.
The dads assembled their candles, lighters, and punks, while the moms placed their chairs well away from ground zero which kept relocating and so did the chairs. The kids surged backward as the parents yelled “stand back” and forward as the dads held each piece to the igniter.
In an order that resembled mayhem, each “firework” was finally lit, exploded, and enjoyed with obligatory “oohs and ahs.” The kid in the boots was joining in the festivities with the rest, except that he couldn’t jump up and down so easily. So far, so good.
In any quality pyrotechnic show, the sparklers are saved for last. That is because the dads are more interested in big firepower than in little sparks. The kids love the sparklers because they finally get to do something besides watch.
So the sparklers were passed out like dealing cards and a few of them were finally lit. The kids with their lit sparklers were darting around like overexcited fireflies. The sparks were bouncing off their bare feet and legs, and they didn’t mind the little prickles much.
All was well until the Future Chief of the Fire Department dropped a piece of hot wire from his defective sparkler into his boot where it didn’t bounce unless he did. By the time someone figured out that his yelling was for some reason other than hyperactivity, he had a pretty good burn. Something to forever remember The Fourth and fireworks by. A memory he is sure to cherish.
And when he does fireworks with his kids, he will be able to show them the scar on his foot, next to the strap on his flip-flop, and scare the heck out of them. And if he ever lets them light sparklers, he can say, “My grandma and I think that sparklers belong in the same category as Red Ryder BB Guns.”
Really business as usual
So you think you know what the world’s oldest profession is? Well, I am here to challenge that myth. I believe that the oldest and longest-running profession is selling lemonade. I am not talking about soda fountains or juice bars with 60 kinds of fruit drinks, or even general stores that sell everything.
I am talking about the traditional (understatement) lemonade stand, the one where the entrepreneurs are all under the age of eight, and the establishment consists of a fruit box or a chair with a pitcher of lemonade, some cups piled upside down on the “counter” and the poster with scrawled crayon letters that roughly read “lemonade 25 cents,” or denari, or euros, or round stones, or whatever is appropriate.
I expect that lemonade stands have been around at least as long as there have been lemons. And considering that probably no one has ever made any money selling lemonade, that is a long time.
How do kids manage to get the resources and the permission from their parents to set up shop? If the parents aren’t actually complicit, they must at least have noticed when their kids started pillaging the family stores for cups and Kool-aid or started moving the furniture outside.
Well, actually it’s easy for kids to get adults on board with this project. Parents concoct an idea of their own—they will use this opportunity to teach their little budding capitalists about business practices—assets, profit margins, production, etc.
By the time they find out that the kids don’t want to build a business model, it’s too late. Kids are only interested in gross income. They don’t want to learn about production costs or profit margins. So the parents shrug and settle. Maybe by default the kids will learn something about supply and demand.
So like smart little entrepreneurs, they get their production materials donated. Mom would rather raid the cupboards than go to the store with a bunch of overexcited kids who have no investment capital anyway.
With all aspects of the business model except a passion to be lemonade tycoons abandoned, they plunge ahead. They stir up lemonade under conditions for which the health department was invented, and they carry it outside. Here are some business ventures that I remember:
One day this last March, while driving through my daughter’s neighborhood, I was shivering and complaining about the falling snow while wishing that I had a nice drink of hot chocolate to warm me up. We noticed some activity ahead on the sidewalk that did not look like children making snowmen. You guessed it—the children had set up shop. They were probably able to offer lemonade without ice that day, thus cutting overhead costs considerably.
My grandson’s business model calls for running world’s biggest and best lemonade stand. He has gathered the production resources for a high-end stand where he will sell Brazilian Lemonade. He even understands that he needs a hot day on which to sell it. He is still waiting for a hot day though.
My nieces had a good idea for overcoming the problem of selling on a high-speed street. (They employed some sophisticated advertising techniques whether they realized it or not.) In order to get potential buyers to notice their stand and not drive on by before they knew what they were missing, they positioned one little salesperson 50 yards ahead of the stand. Her job was to jump up and down and in exaggerated forms of American Sign Language convey the message “lemonade stand up ahead on the right,” thus giving passersby time to slow down and pull over. I’m a little challenged with ASL myself, but maybe someone got the message. Their idea must at least partially comply with non-discrimination guidelines though.
I remember trying to sell lemonade once when I was a kid. We lived in Dry Fork, or the hinterlands as it was known then. My mom tried to teach me about “location, location, location,” but I must have thought that if I built it, they would come. I had a little table and a chair and I sat on my chair all afternoon. About three cars passed by and none stopped. I had to bring my lemonade back inside and serve it for supper. No one paid me for it either, which may have been a violation of child labor laws.
Actually, I would be very surprised if there aren’t applicable regulations governing the sale of lemonade from roadside stands. Probably kids should just give their lemonade away as they have always done. Otherwise they may find out that the business-model part would be the least of their headaches when operating in today’s business environment.
I am talking about the traditional (understatement) lemonade stand, the one where the entrepreneurs are all under the age of eight, and the establishment consists of a fruit box or a chair with a pitcher of lemonade, some cups piled upside down on the “counter” and the poster with scrawled crayon letters that roughly read “lemonade 25 cents,” or denari, or euros, or round stones, or whatever is appropriate.
I expect that lemonade stands have been around at least as long as there have been lemons. And considering that probably no one has ever made any money selling lemonade, that is a long time.
How do kids manage to get the resources and the permission from their parents to set up shop? If the parents aren’t actually complicit, they must at least have noticed when their kids started pillaging the family stores for cups and Kool-aid or started moving the furniture outside.
Well, actually it’s easy for kids to get adults on board with this project. Parents concoct an idea of their own—they will use this opportunity to teach their little budding capitalists about business practices—assets, profit margins, production, etc.
By the time they find out that the kids don’t want to build a business model, it’s too late. Kids are only interested in gross income. They don’t want to learn about production costs or profit margins. So the parents shrug and settle. Maybe by default the kids will learn something about supply and demand.
So like smart little entrepreneurs, they get their production materials donated. Mom would rather raid the cupboards than go to the store with a bunch of overexcited kids who have no investment capital anyway.
With all aspects of the business model except a passion to be lemonade tycoons abandoned, they plunge ahead. They stir up lemonade under conditions for which the health department was invented, and they carry it outside. Here are some business ventures that I remember:
One day this last March, while driving through my daughter’s neighborhood, I was shivering and complaining about the falling snow while wishing that I had a nice drink of hot chocolate to warm me up. We noticed some activity ahead on the sidewalk that did not look like children making snowmen. You guessed it—the children had set up shop. They were probably able to offer lemonade without ice that day, thus cutting overhead costs considerably.
My grandson’s business model calls for running world’s biggest and best lemonade stand. He has gathered the production resources for a high-end stand where he will sell Brazilian Lemonade. He even understands that he needs a hot day on which to sell it. He is still waiting for a hot day though.
My nieces had a good idea for overcoming the problem of selling on a high-speed street. (They employed some sophisticated advertising techniques whether they realized it or not.) In order to get potential buyers to notice their stand and not drive on by before they knew what they were missing, they positioned one little salesperson 50 yards ahead of the stand. Her job was to jump up and down and in exaggerated forms of American Sign Language convey the message “lemonade stand up ahead on the right,” thus giving passersby time to slow down and pull over. I’m a little challenged with ASL myself, but maybe someone got the message. Their idea must at least partially comply with non-discrimination guidelines though.
I remember trying to sell lemonade once when I was a kid. We lived in Dry Fork, or the hinterlands as it was known then. My mom tried to teach me about “location, location, location,” but I must have thought that if I built it, they would come. I had a little table and a chair and I sat on my chair all afternoon. About three cars passed by and none stopped. I had to bring my lemonade back inside and serve it for supper. No one paid me for it either, which may have been a violation of child labor laws.
Actually, I would be very surprised if there aren’t applicable regulations governing the sale of lemonade from roadside stands. Probably kids should just give their lemonade away as they have always done. Otherwise they may find out that the business-model part would be the least of their headaches when operating in today’s business environment.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Stop for the bend in the road?
All of you who deign to read the Butterbean rantings know by now that I am not necessarily the most logical tool in the shed. (See what I mean?) I have to ask dumb questions all the time. And I get humiliated by the answers all the time.
Just because I don’t understand something doesn’t mean that everyone else doesn’t. For instance, there are probably people who understand why boys wear their pants so low that they have to hold them up with one hand. I hope they aren’t talking on their cell phones while they are carrying their lunch trays.
So in view of that, (not the pants) can anyone explain to me why there is a stop sign at the corner of 500 South and 3500 West? There needs to be a good reason.
Excuse me, there is not one stop sign, but two of them. One so you will stop before you turn onto 500 South and one to halt you before you turn onto 3500 West.
Did you notice that I said “corner,” not “intersection”? This corner is essentially a bend in the road. There is only one way to proceed and that is around the corner unless you want to get out of your car and walk on the cow trail that continues straight ahead on what would be 500 South if indeed 500 South did continue past 3500 West.
Just in case you are getting a little dizzy, or you are like me, not too facile with your cardinal directions, I have produced in stunning detail, a map of the corner in question:
(Graphic here)
I heard there was a flourishing rabbit den straight ahead, past 3500 West on 500 South, up the hill and around the thistle patch, but I don’t know for sure. Beyond that there may be an anthill and many ant paths, but I don’t think there is an actual road. Some may disagree with me, but I am here to say that 500 South ends at 3500 West and vice versa.
So this is how it goes when I am on my way to Wal-Mart: I am driving south on 3500 West, and I dutifully stop at the stop sign and look both ways. I will be sure to avoid a collision if there is a rabbit careening down the trail from the west. I feel pretty sheepish though, looking off into the sagebrush in search of, I don’t know, a school bus?
And if there is a car approaching the corner on 500 South from the east, the other direction, it will be stopping for I-still-don’t-know-what since any rabbits should be in the other lane and not pose a threat. That other lane is wide enough for a bunny after all. It certainly doesn’t need to stop for me since I am already stopped and busily looking both ways. I probably create more hazards parking there wondering what I am waiting for than if I just made the turn, merged in behind the rabbits and continued on my way.
Well, I still keep thinking someone knows something that I don’t. Maybe this is the intersection from Jumanji, which might be the name of that movie about mad elephants running loose.
Just because I don’t understand something doesn’t mean that everyone else doesn’t. For instance, there are probably people who understand why boys wear their pants so low that they have to hold them up with one hand. I hope they aren’t talking on their cell phones while they are carrying their lunch trays.
So in view of that, (not the pants) can anyone explain to me why there is a stop sign at the corner of 500 South and 3500 West? There needs to be a good reason.
Excuse me, there is not one stop sign, but two of them. One so you will stop before you turn onto 500 South and one to halt you before you turn onto 3500 West.
Did you notice that I said “corner,” not “intersection”? This corner is essentially a bend in the road. There is only one way to proceed and that is around the corner unless you want to get out of your car and walk on the cow trail that continues straight ahead on what would be 500 South if indeed 500 South did continue past 3500 West.
Just in case you are getting a little dizzy, or you are like me, not too facile with your cardinal directions, I have produced in stunning detail, a map of the corner in question:
(Graphic here)
I heard there was a flourishing rabbit den straight ahead, past 3500 West on 500 South, up the hill and around the thistle patch, but I don’t know for sure. Beyond that there may be an anthill and many ant paths, but I don’t think there is an actual road. Some may disagree with me, but I am here to say that 500 South ends at 3500 West and vice versa.
So this is how it goes when I am on my way to Wal-Mart: I am driving south on 3500 West, and I dutifully stop at the stop sign and look both ways. I will be sure to avoid a collision if there is a rabbit careening down the trail from the west. I feel pretty sheepish though, looking off into the sagebrush in search of, I don’t know, a school bus?
And if there is a car approaching the corner on 500 South from the east, the other direction, it will be stopping for I-still-don’t-know-what since any rabbits should be in the other lane and not pose a threat. That other lane is wide enough for a bunny after all. It certainly doesn’t need to stop for me since I am already stopped and busily looking both ways. I probably create more hazards parking there wondering what I am waiting for than if I just made the turn, merged in behind the rabbits and continued on my way.
Well, I still keep thinking someone knows something that I don’t. Maybe this is the intersection from Jumanji, which might be the name of that movie about mad elephants running loose.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Our one-dogpower machine
I fondly remember the days when we didn’t have a pet. I used to be one of those people who disdained “pet talk;” in fact I thought I would never begin a conversation with a sentence like this: “Guess what our dog did today?” Well, I also remember doing just that. It was back in the days when our first dog was a pup.
The sad part of it is that I didn’t have anything to brag about. Our dog, Steve, had not done one cute thing in his life. He was too big and awkward to be adorable. He was too stubborn to get smart. He was too uninhibited to be dignified. He had no sense and he couldn’t see past the end of his nose, which, I admit, was quite far.
So when I stooped to “pet talking,” you can be sure that I was complaining.
First of all, this dog dug holes. He made craters in Father’s lawn; he dug under the neighbor’s fence to let their dogs out to play, and once he got a friend to play with he was prone to run off with him. (Once we found him a few blocks away from home, and he had to ride home in the truck with Mr. B. after an earnest lecture that ended with, “…and your friend can walk home.”)
And he dug up the flowers in the garden. Now if I could have taught him to dig weeds, I could run bragging to my “smart-pet” friends, but he only dug up valuable things. He didn’t even dig to bury things like nice normal dogs do. Why, my nephew’s dog once buried a whole loaf of bread, wrapper and all. Now that’s remarkable. Something to tell others about.
Secondly, he chewed. He chewed the neighbor’s sprinkler heads to bits. He chewed up baseballs, shoes, socks and big sticks. He could turn an aluminum can into crinkled confetti which he used for scattering around during dog conventions.
He ate those big rawhide bones for dinner—just chewed them up and swallowed them. (Expensive meal.) He methodically removed and chewed up the shingles from the roof of his own dog house. He also chewed up his own doggie rug leaving himself nothing to lie on but cold concrete. That’s what I mean when I said he couldn’t see beyond the end of his nose.
You would think that he would have known that he might want that bedding later, like the next time he needed to rest from his labors. Instead he was diligently working on pushing the limits of a dog’s endurance to new heights—like never resting.
What a waste of horsepower—or dogpower. I used to try to think of ways to harness all of that energy and find something useful that he could do.
I couldn’t send him to take out the garbage. That would have been like leaving the cat to tend the canary. I couldn’t trust him to guard the house. He stole more things than any thief would.
He was big enough to pull a plow, but I didn’t need any more plowing done. He had already turned up most of the back yard.
I wondered if he could push the lawn mower if I got it started, but he was afraid of vacuum cleaners, and they aren’t nearly as vicious as lawn mowers. Let me see…
It just seemed like we ought to have gotten something besides confetti in return for our investments of food, sprinkler heads, shoes, new lawn, shingles, etc.
Well, we were seriously working on getting him to dig in a designated spot. If he got that figured out, he was going to be digging post holes for his own fence. That I could tell the neighbors about.
I didn’t know it at the time, but Steve’s behavior was directly related to his age. Like everyone else he finally grew up and became a nice normal dog with a few behaviors worth mentioning in conversation—he could fetch and hunt birds.
The sad part of it is that I didn’t have anything to brag about. Our dog, Steve, had not done one cute thing in his life. He was too big and awkward to be adorable. He was too stubborn to get smart. He was too uninhibited to be dignified. He had no sense and he couldn’t see past the end of his nose, which, I admit, was quite far.
So when I stooped to “pet talking,” you can be sure that I was complaining.
First of all, this dog dug holes. He made craters in Father’s lawn; he dug under the neighbor’s fence to let their dogs out to play, and once he got a friend to play with he was prone to run off with him. (Once we found him a few blocks away from home, and he had to ride home in the truck with Mr. B. after an earnest lecture that ended with, “…and your friend can walk home.”)
And he dug up the flowers in the garden. Now if I could have taught him to dig weeds, I could run bragging to my “smart-pet” friends, but he only dug up valuable things. He didn’t even dig to bury things like nice normal dogs do. Why, my nephew’s dog once buried a whole loaf of bread, wrapper and all. Now that’s remarkable. Something to tell others about.
Secondly, he chewed. He chewed the neighbor’s sprinkler heads to bits. He chewed up baseballs, shoes, socks and big sticks. He could turn an aluminum can into crinkled confetti which he used for scattering around during dog conventions.
He ate those big rawhide bones for dinner—just chewed them up and swallowed them. (Expensive meal.) He methodically removed and chewed up the shingles from the roof of his own dog house. He also chewed up his own doggie rug leaving himself nothing to lie on but cold concrete. That’s what I mean when I said he couldn’t see beyond the end of his nose.
You would think that he would have known that he might want that bedding later, like the next time he needed to rest from his labors. Instead he was diligently working on pushing the limits of a dog’s endurance to new heights—like never resting.
What a waste of horsepower—or dogpower. I used to try to think of ways to harness all of that energy and find something useful that he could do.
I couldn’t send him to take out the garbage. That would have been like leaving the cat to tend the canary. I couldn’t trust him to guard the house. He stole more things than any thief would.
He was big enough to pull a plow, but I didn’t need any more plowing done. He had already turned up most of the back yard.
I wondered if he could push the lawn mower if I got it started, but he was afraid of vacuum cleaners, and they aren’t nearly as vicious as lawn mowers. Let me see…
It just seemed like we ought to have gotten something besides confetti in return for our investments of food, sprinkler heads, shoes, new lawn, shingles, etc.
Well, we were seriously working on getting him to dig in a designated spot. If he got that figured out, he was going to be digging post holes for his own fence. That I could tell the neighbors about.
I didn’t know it at the time, but Steve’s behavior was directly related to his age. Like everyone else he finally grew up and became a nice normal dog with a few behaviors worth mentioning in conversation—he could fetch and hunt birds.
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