Mufasa of the Corn

At Buffalo Covenant Church, if you were in high school, you were in the Good News Singers. It didn’t matter if you could carry a tune, read music or play an instrument. You had no choice. You were in the Good News Singers. One of the benefits was that you got to wear the “outfit” and go on tour every summer.

Let’s start with the outfit. I always felt bad for the girls because no matter how hard they tried, their dresses always looked like pajamas. They were always some kind of floral print and you could buy them at one of two local clothing stores. I can’t remember if was Boyd’s or Cohen’s. But it was pretty much the same for the guys. Entering ninth grade was exciting because I got to wear the outfit. For the guys it was light gray polyester pants, a dark blue shirt, a white belt and white shoes. We were stylin’ fer sher. But just imagine how we all looked as a group. Like a large bunch of dweebs, right? But we thought we were cool. And that’s what mattered.

We’d spend weeks every spring raising enough money for our tours. Once we sold undersized fire extinguishers, jars of popcorn, Currier & Ives candles, and some kind of flashlight thing. And we’d even get farmed out to do hard labor. This is one reason why I have such a bad back today. Once we even paved the church parking lot to save the church money and to make some ourselves. It was pretty much a disaster and I’m certain someone got in some sort of trouble for it. But we were kids and we didn’t care about adult politics because we were going on tour.

My first tour was to the Chicagoland area. I remember singing for a bunch of small churches in towns like Beloit, Wisconsin. The town has a Hormel meat packing plant so the whole city smelled like rotten meat. The people we stayed with that night were so proud of their Formica countertops they found a way to work it into every sentence they spoke. We sang in Chicago for a huge audience at a boring meeting. While eating ice cream after the concert at a restaurant across the street, my friend Karna was doused with mop water when exiting the women’s restroom by a lady speaking Farsi. She seemed to be mad at Karna for being in the way of her water tossing. But I think she did get a free sundae out of the deal.

In Kalamazoo at the Red Roof Inn we were so bored one evening I dressed as the Pope and we had some sort of very sacrilegious ceremony involving Grape Nehi and cake given to us by the church. Someone pronounced the name of the town “Oomazooma” with great confidence and we made fun of them for it he rest of the tour.

In Rockford, Illinois we were all sleeping at a motel because the big church didn’t have any volunteers to put us up for the night. The small churches all did but the big church didn’t. I digress. So it’s 3:00 AM and the door opens. I thought it was Dave Manz who was supposed to be in his room. I figured he was going to play a trick on us. He started looking through our suitcases when I realized it wasn’t Dave. “Who is it!” I shouted. Immediately my roommates woke up and the man bolted out the door. We followed him outside, all in our underwear. Then the mystery man hopped into a semi-trailer and drove off. We ran inside and called the police who quickly caught the man. It’s not too hard to spot a semi truck in the middle of the night. He was arrested for being stupid.

But the best story happened one night in a sleepy town in the middle of Iowa. It was the middle of the night and we were exhausted. But all night a really loud roaring sound from some poor sick animal kept up awake. That morning at breakfast I asked our hosts, “What was that sound? It sounded like a wounded lion.” I was just kidding, of course, but they replied much to our surprise, “Oh yeah, that lion belongs to the Tornwald’s just down the road. They keep it in a corn crib. It roars all night, every night.” And sure enough, they drove us by the Tornwald farm before bringing us back to the tour bus that morning. Who keeps a lion in a corn crib? I guess the answer would be, Iowans.

I’ll be telling more about my career with the Good News Singers later. So stay tuned. And you fellow choir members, email me or leave me a comment if you remember a good story you’d like me to tell. Or tell it yourself.

Lake Beauty Houdini

It was the middle of the summer at Lake Beauty and I was headed into St. Cloud, the only big city near camp, for a day off in the middle of the week with my young family. I always felt bad about leaving camp in the middle of the week because there was so much going on. But I knew all would be well because I had a very capable staff of talented and highly creative college students. But sometimes that creativity got me into trouble.

That summer two of my staff, Jeremy Sohlstrom and Ryan Richardson decided to perform some Houdini-esque magic tricks. One of my favorites involved placing Ryan inside a large cloth bag, locking the top, covering him up and watching him wriggle around until he popped out from under the sheet. It was a crowd pleaser. But soon the boys grew tired of this and they wanted to up the ante.

They convinced me that Ryan could do this trick underwater. The idea was to place him in the bag and then roll him off the end of the dock. He would hold his breath and quickly escape. We took some safety precautions like only throwing him into the shallow end, placing a knife inside the bag in case something went wrong, and putting two strong lifeguards in the water next to him with orders to drag him into the shallows in the event the countdown reached a certain point. They rehearsed it and convinced me it was perfectly safe. They performed this trick for the campers a couple of times and they were very amazed. It was a great trick.

I am now in St. Cloud with my family. My three-year-old daughters are happily playing in their car seats when suddenly we hear a familiar and unwelcome sound. Brittney had puked all over herself and we were caught unprepared. But three years of fatherhood taught me to think quickly. We immediately drove to Target. I sent Sheri inside to purchase some cheapo towels and a new outfit for Britt while I stayed inside the stinky car. She then took the new towels into the store restroom where she wet them down in the sink. We used them to clean her up spic-and-span. While Sheri was in the store Elissa decided to comfort her sister with a song she made up.

Throw up go away, throw up go away,
Throw up go away from me.
Throw up go away, throw up go away,
Throw up go away from me today.

It was sung to a tune I had never heard. It was all I could do to keep from laughing, as both my girls were very sensitive to that when they were young. “That was very nice,” I said to Elissa. “Thanks, dad. I’ve got grow the flowers and drive the bus songs, too!” I was about to bust a gut.

Back at camp, the boys took advantage of my absence. They upped the proverbial ante again. Without my knowledge, they devised an even “better” performance. They placed Ryan into the bag. Ryan put a large folded-up towel on his head inside the bag. Jeremy poured a little bit of gasoline on top of the bag, lit the bag on fire, then pushed Ryan into the water. They told me later they had practiced this stunt with no ill effects. However, on this day, after pouring the gasoline Jeremy talked a little too long allowing fumes to build up inside the bag. It didn’t take long. When Jeremy lit the bag it created a fireball inside the bag causing Ryan to panic. He immediately rolled himself into the water. In his panic he struggled to get out of the bag. Maybe Jeremy can leave us a comment here to tell up what happened next because I was not there and I certainly would not want to make anything up.

What Jeremy and Ryan did not know, and neither did I, was that at the camp director and the camp’s uptight insurance agent snuck down to the waterfront that day. They saw the whole thing. The director thought I had sanctioned this trick so I was in a lot of trouble the moment I arrived home in my puke-filled car. No matter what I said I could not convince the director that I didn’t know about this new trick. It was not a good evening for me. I can laugh about it now but it was a doozie at the time.

Britt went to bed and slept off her illness. Ryan spent the evening nursing his burns and praying his hair would grow back. Jeremy just laughed all night. I went to bed knowing that if I were in Jeremy and Ryan’s shoes, I probably would have done the same thing. And the campers all went home with a great story to tell about a guy in a bag on fire that jumped into the water and the next day had a red face and no eyebrows. It was just another day at LaBeCoBiCa.

Mr. Willy

I was in seventh grade and at the height of my self-esteem. I had a giant egg-sized zit that manifested itself about every two to three weeks on different parts of my face. Some were so large they looked like I was birthing a boob. Just when one would leave, another would appear. I was also tall and super thin. Let’s just say that I was a complete dweeb.

So imagine this. I’m in my seventh grade math class with a seventy-year-old teacher named Mr. Wilson. He had two claims to fame. First, at the end of each school year he would jump over the class garbage can. Given how old and frail he was that was quite the accomplishment. Second, he was known for something called the Willy Grip. If he caught you misbehaving, he would dig his spindly fingers into the back of your neck. He knew the exact nerve that would get your undivided attention. It goes without saying that I can speak of this from experience. Today they would call the Willy Grip a lawsuit. But back then it was just Mr. Willy doing his thing.

So on this day I’m in Mr. Willy’s class when I noticed a large, soft lump on my knee. I thought for sure I had grown the first-ever giant knee zit. I started to poke at it. It didn’t hurt. It was soft and puffy and I had no idea what it was. I tried pushing it around, but it wasn’t moving. I quickly assessed where Mr. Willy was located in the room. He was sitting at his desk looking like he was asleep. We were supposed to be working on algebra problems but since Mr. Willy was snoring I decided to stand up and see if I could dislodge the curious lump.

So I stood and pretended to stretch. I shook my leg a little but the lump remained stuck. I shook my leg harder and harder. I was now drawing the attention of my classmates. I can only imagine what they were thinking. I shook my leg really hard. Now most everyone was looking at me. But the thing moved. I gyrated my leg even more and now everyone was curious what was happening to me. I kicked and kicked. It felt like a piece of cloth. Then, on one strong kick, the thing flew out the bottom of my pant leg and through the air landing in the front of the class. When it finally landed, it was obvious what it was.

Mr. Willy now saw that something was happening so he stood up and went to the front of the class. Now half the class was holding back a serious case of the giggles. Mr. Willy bent over, picked up the object and showed everyone. Then he said, “Are these yours?” He held up a pair of my little sister’s underpanties. Somehow static electricity in the dryer must have decided to embarrass me that day. It worked. Since that day, I’ve always double-checked the dryer.

So let this be a lesson to you. If you are in Junior High School and you ever feel a lump on your leg. Leave it alone. You’ll thank me later.

Monkey Knife Fight

I'm so sorry but I've been very busy lately. I've been too busy to write more stories. So please, enjoy this photo of a monkey knife fight. And feel free to comment. I shall have another story tomorrow. So please stay tuned as I am certain it will be worth your time.

Retirement Day

Mrs. Bauer was the principal at Buffalo Elementary School for 138 years. And because of her age, she was really cranky. As my previous stories about her indicate, we had our relational difficulties since first grade. Her disparagement for me culminated when I projectile puked fish sticks all over her new dress. Our relationship never recovered. The best I could do was to avoid her every chance I could.

In fourth grade, I learned a new word that brought incalculable joy to my soul. That word was “retirement.” It was announced that Mrs. Bauer was retiring and we would have a new principal. I realized in that moment that my years of altercations with this woman would be at an end. And, better yet, the new principal would know nothing of my checkered past. I would be new!

But it wasn’t over as we had one last formality to endure. The entire school was marched out onto the front lawn. We had never done this before and we were not quite sure what to expect. Were they tricking us into another round of vaccinations? We could not tell. Once there, we were instructed by Mrs. Dornquast to sit on the lawn facing a podium they had set up close to a freshly planted tree. What could all this mean?

Then began a series of people in suits giving long and boring speeches about all the wonderful things Mrs. Bauer had done. Not once did they mention any of the things I would remember her for. So we all sat and listened for what seemed like an eternity. Between every speech someone would ask us all to stop picking at the grass we were sitting on. What did they expect? We were bored to tears. Then they did something horribly cruel. They showed us a special cake made for this special occasion announcing that only teachers would get a slice in the teacher’s lounge.

Then, Mrs. Bauer got up and told a bunch of really boring stories we cared nothing about. On and on she droned. Then, something quite remarkable happened that would be indelibly etched into the brain of every kid present that day. A stray dog from the neighborhood wandered around near the podium. It provided a much-needed distraction. They tried to shoo it away but it insisted on hanging around. Mrs. Bauer droned on oblivious to the mutt. Then, completely out of site of Mrs. Bauer, the dog went over to that tree, which they had just dedicated to her many years of service and it gave it a sniff. The mutt detected no previous ownership of the tree so it lifted its leg and took a very long pee all over its trunk.

Realizing the symbolism of the moment, and having great empathy for that dog, we all began to cheer. Unbeknownst to all of us, this “christening” coincided with the end of Mrs. Bauer’s speech. She thought we were all cheering for her. I’m sure she would be crushed to learn that we were cheering for that dog who represented us all that day. For years we played tinkle tiles imagining we were doing the same thing the dog was now doing. And now, completely unscripted, that dog was dedicating Mrs. Bauer’s tree in a fashion we never dreamed of.

Realizing what was happening, someone ran the dog off hoping to salvage any dignity yet remaining. But the deed was done. We all saw that dog wizzing on Mrs. Bauer’s tree. There were 200 witnesses and one maple tree soaking it all in. Every time I gather with my old friends, we remember that day and laugh our heads off. It was an unbelievable ending to a series of stories about a little elementary school in Buffalo, Minnesota.

As this story borders on the unbelievable, I encourage all you fellow students of mine to chime in and let us know your thoughts about that amazing day.

Little Yellow Butterfly

It was a beautiful butterfly but Robin Johnson had it in a Miracle Whip jar with a bunch of grass. Any third-grade biologist knows full well that butterflies do not eat grass. Ah-doy. And that is exactly what I told Robin after show-and-tell was over. But she would not listen to reason.

Robin and I were friends from kindergarten. Her grandmother lived right across the street from me in the apartment building my grandparents owned. Robin’s grandmother was very nice. She used to feed me all kinds of cookies and pastries. And she loved to play Yahtzee. So whenever I had some time, and who doesn’t when one is in the third grade, I would head across the street for some cookies and some Yahtzee. Back then, children could roam the neighborhood freely without the fear of being abducted. That’s because everyone in Buffalo knew everyone else. And, we knew all our neighbors.

So back in Mrs. Hjemeland’s class I’m nagging Robin Johnson all morning. “You had better let that thing go or else it will die,” I repeatedly told her. Her response to each of my urgings was, “If I do, it will get eaten by a bird.” She even got emotional about it. Girls. Everyone knows that birds don’t eat butterflies. Well, I finally wore her down. She announced to everyone that at the start of recess she was going to let it go. I couldn’t wait. The thought of some poor butterfly cooped up in a stinky Miracle Whip jar was too much for me to bear. I hate Miracle Whip.

Mrs. Hjemeland dismissed us and straight out to the play yard we went. It was a bit breezy so Robin elected to stay right next to the building. She tearfully (what a wus) opened the jar and shook it to coax the butterfly out. That little yellow butterfly must have smelled the fresh air because it immediately bolted out the top of the jar. It flew out and staggered a bit. But then it flew straight up into the sky. Up and up it went. And then, out of nowhere a bird flew in and ate the butterfly, its severed wings floating away in different directions.

“NOOOOOOOOOO!!!” she screamed as she gave me “the look.” It was the first time I ever remember getting “the look” from a girl. It chilled me to my bones and left me gasping for air. My brain shut down but my mouth kept working. “WOW! Did you see that? And it didn’t even eat the wings!”

Two weeks later, just as Robin started talking to me again, I broke some glass flowers she brought in for show-and-tell. It was quite a few weeks I played Yahtzee alone with Robin Johnson’s grandma. But there were more cookies for me. And that’s when I learned that the nice thing about guilt is that pretty soon it goes away.

This time, it was our fault

For you Californians reading this, you won’t be entertained so switch to another webpage. But for everyone else, you might find this amusing. We had another earthquake tonight. It was only 3.0 on Mr. Richter’s scale but it did get our attention. I was in the living room talking to my friend, Jerry, when it felt like a giant truck hit the side of our house. We heard a huge boom and the whole house vibrated for about 3-4 seconds. Some of our neighbors ran out into the street. I’m not sure why. I stayed in my chair talking to Jerry. He’s from L.A. so I take my earthquake cues from him. You can check out our little event here.

Most of the quakes we’ve felt here were just like this evening’s. Just when you realize what’s happening, it stops. It’s not even enough time to enjoy the shaking. During one of these little ones I lost about 5 gallons of water out of my fish tank. It sloshed all over the place. I was in the emergency room getting stitches during another earthquake. At first I thought it was some unruly kids behind me kicking my chair.

The biggest one we’ve felt was a bit over a 4. It lasted about 15 seconds. We had just arrived home after an eight hour drive back from Disneyland. We were all stepping out of the car, the garage door still open. We heard a boom and then felt the ground and the house start rocking. We looked across the neighborhood and the pavement down the street was actually moving in waves. We remember hearing the sound of all the houses creaking and moaning as the earthquake twisted and rolled the foundations. It was a very strange feeling. We propped ourselves up standing in a doorframe because we didn’t know how long it would last or if it would get stronger.

If you’re into this nerdy stuff, bookmark this map and check on us. We live five miles NNW of Santa Rosa along the red fault line called the Rodgers Creek Fault. They say we’re due for a big one. Hopefully when that happens we’ll be somewhere safe, like heaven or Fargo.

Poopy Pants

Alright, here it is folks. Some consider this to be the Queen Mother of all Scott stories. I hope you enjoy hearing it as much as Brittney and I were a part of it. It all happened when my wife asked me to go to Home Depot to purchase some blinds. I quickly said, “Yes dear,” and asked my daughter, Brittney, to ride along. I bribed her with the promise of ice cream. Off to Home Depot we went.

With Brittney in tow I picked up the blinds and made my way to the front to pay. I was third in line behind an older woman and a very elderly couple. We were in the express lane. The lady in front of me was being very rude to the elderly couple. She was commenting on how much of a hurry she was in and pointing out that this couple had broken the express lane limit by one item. It was certainly the worst thing ever to happen in the history of the universe.

Many years ago I worked as a store detective in a large department store chain in Minneapolis called Donaldson’s. I was always bothered by how many rude customers there were and I vowed to “give it back to them” once I was a civilian. I’ve actually done this for years much to the embarrassment of my daughters. This day would be no different.

“Chill out lady,” I said. She then turned and started swearing at me with my young daughter at my side. “Stay out of this,” she shouted. “It none of your bleepin’ business.” I just smiled at the checkout clerk. She could tell I was going to make her day.

The elderly couple left and now it was the mean lady’s turn. She placed two cans of paint on the checkout stand and asked, “Can you open these for me. I want to check on the color.” The clerk said, “Sorry ma’am. I can’t. You need to do that in the paint department. This is the express lane.” That’s when the fireworks began. Follow the dialogue.

Mean lady- “What the bleep do you mean? I was just at the bleepin’ paint department and there was no one there.

Scott- “I’m sorry lady but you’re lying because I was just there and there were 3 clerks there with nothing to do.”

Mean lady- “You stay the bleep out of my bleepin’ business. Who the bleep are you calling me a liar?”

Scott- “I was just there. And why are you inspecting paint in the express checkout line when you just harassed that elderly couple for having one extra item?”

Mean lady- “Shut the bleep up and mind your own bleep bleep business”

Scott- “Well lady, this is my business because now I’m stuck behind you wanting to check on paint colors in the express lane.”

Mean lady- “Well you can just shut the bleep up.”

It was at this point that Home Depot employees started gathering around and other customers were beginning to pay attention to the mean lady who was now yelling everything like we were all deaf or something. I got the feeling that the Home Depot employees were a little excited to see someone sticking up for them for a change.

The nice clerk then offered to give the lady a note saying that if she did not like the paint she could return it. This whole time poor Brittney is cowering with embarrassment at her father’s conversation with the sailor mouth lady. But I wasn’t done. I made one more comment about how she was cheating the system and that I wondered if this was how she lived her life. It was something like that. I was not going to let her get away without one long look at her ugly self in the mirror. People like that drive me nuts. She swore at me again and paid for paint and was out the door. Good riddance.

Now it was my turn to pay. As I forked over my hard-earned honest cash the Home Depot clerk thanked me. I told her why I did it and she again expressed her appreciation for sticking it to her. It was rather invigorating. Again, Brittney states she wished she could have disappeared.

So now I have this 8-foot long box with blinds in it on my shoulder and we’re headed out the door with another story to tell. Brittney and I giggled about what happened and how horrible it must be to live your life like that mean lady. We’re about 30 feet from the car when I hear a familiar voice shout out, “Bleep you mister!” It was her. And now she was coming straight for us. I switched the big box to my other shoulder to offer some kind of protection. But she kept coming straight at me pointing her crooked finger, “Bleep you mister! Bleep you!” She kept repeating it.” Now a small crowd was turning toward the ruckus. She got within 5 feet of me and something in my brain took over my voice. I shouted the first thing that came to mind. “YOU POOPY PANTS!” She stopped dead in her tracks, absolutely bewildered and disarmed. Then the people in the parking lot started to laugh. I had stunned her so badly she just walked away. Then we heard an older gentleman with his son say, “Did that man just call her a poopy pants?” For the sake of my daughter I thought it best that we just leave the premises.

Brittney then took a vow to never go anywhere with me, ever. I bought her an ice cream for being such a trooper. She made me tell Sheri the story when we got home. I have, since then, repeated it many, many times. I’ve even been accused of making it all up. But thankfully Brittney was there. She has since sought counseling trying to erase the memory of that day. But something tells me when she’s dealing with a nasty customer at Starbucks, she mutters, “You poopy pants,” as they walk out the door. She’s had good training.

Go say hi to Mom

Today you should not be reading my blog. Call your Mom or something. Make her happy.

Mr. Bubble

If you’ve ever swum in a Minnesota lake in the summer, you know that you often swim through spots that are very cool and very warm. Some of the warm spots get very warm, almost hot. And some of the cool spots are like ice. Before my accident I used to swim every chance I could. Now I don’t float too well and with a lung out of commission on my right side, I tend to list to starboard. But I digress.

I also used to be able to hold my breath and swim underwater for long distances. So during my Lake Beauty days I developed a hobby. I used to swim deep and partially blow out my lungs underneath some camper in the swim area. I’d swim some distance away and then slowly pop up. Although some seconds had gone by, the camper would still be freaking out, talking about the mystery bubbles. I’d get a good giggle.

Then one day, Bob, our program director noticed me doing this and he wanted in on the action. Bob could hold his breath for a long time too, so we joined forces. One of us would blow our tanks and the other would watch the reaction and report on all the funniness. I know what you’re saying, “Scott needs to get another hobby.” Well, at the time it was hilarious and, if you think about it, there’s not much to do when you’re swimming besides frolic about. So you might as well blow some bubbles. Again, I digress.

One day I noticed that Bob was out for a swim. It was a very hot day so most of the 100 campers we had seemed to be in the water. This was going to be fun. I carefully snuck into the water without Bob seeing me. It was a hot day and the shallow water was almost like a hot bath. I’d have to dive deep to find the really cool and soothing water.

I took a huge lung full of air and submerged like a U-Boat. I recognized Bob’s trunks so I swam right under him and blew out everything my lungs could hold. Then, instead of swimming far away I planned to pop up right in front of him, hopefully giving him a start. On my way up I swam through one of those warm spots I told you about. Except this was much warmer than warm, it was almost hot. And it stung my open eyes. That was a first.

Popping up right in front of Bob did give him a bit of a fright. He was expecting me to pop up some distance from him, as was our modus operandi. Then I told him, “Man, I just swam through the warmest warm spot I’ve ever felt. It was almost hot. I expected some kind of verbal reaction like, “Wow Scott, that’s really incredible. Twenty five years from now you should write about it in your blog.” But that was not the reaction I received. He just looked at me with a big, stupid grin. It was at that moment I realized that warm spot was not a limnological* phenomena. That hot spot was man made. Knowing I was the source of the bubbles, Bob decided to greet me with his own warm spring.

This is why I detest swimming in pools. It’s one thing to pee in a spring-fed lake. Eventually the pee will dissipate and no longer pose a gross-out threat. However, no amount of chlorine will ever convince me that it is OK to swim in another’s tinkle. Like mixing chlorine with pee makes the pee OK somehow. Think about it. “Mix one part pee, one part chlorine and one part water. Now, let’s go swimming in it.” No. You go swimming in it. Come on folks. That’s crazy talk. So kids, next time your swimming and take a tinkle, think about me. And enjoy swimming in your own water.

*Limnology is the study of lakes. I know this because in college I took a limnology class. I was lab-partners with a Laotian girl named Loat. So when we took lake samples for study, I got to float in a boat with Loat. Once we saw a goat. We got a good grade, which caused us to gloat. She got really tired of that line.

Lime Green Jello

Myke Kudlas was an amazingly funny guy who was on summer staff with me in my early years at Lake Beauty. He’s a brilliant man and one who you would have to watch out for, lest you become the object of his prank. Since this has to be short tonight I’ll tell a quick little funny about Myke.

For weeks during the summer of 1985 he kept telling us he was going to snort Jello in front of the kids during one of our after lunch entertainment segments. He kept talking about it but never actually did it. It was getting really old. Then one afternoon, well into the summer, out of the blue he stood up in front of all the campers and snorted the Jello right up his nose. The lodge was filled with screams, eeews, oh gross’, and laughter. I remember it was Lime Green Jello, no fruit.

We all got a good laugh and were so happy that Myke got to fulfill one of his life goals. I’m certain his parents would have been proud. About ten minutes later we dismissed the campers to their cabins for the state-mandated nap-time. By the way, any of you former campers reading this need to know that state mandated naps was a lie. Sorry, but it gave us a needed break. So, we’re reminiscing with Myke about the green Jello when he starts repeating, “I just snorted Jello. I just snorted Jello.” All we could do was agree. But he kept repeating that phrase. And now he was getting strange on us.

Some switch had turned on in his brain because now he began to convulse just a little. We thought, “Here comes the next joke.” However, it wasn’t a joke. It was green puke. It looked like Jello. And it was everywhere. He barely missed us but we quickly dodged his lime-fragranted emesis. Somehow, his thought process led him back to a place where snorting Jello was actually gross. In fact, it was so gross it was deserving of a good lime green heave… ten minutes later.

Rough Place to be a Swede

Here’s a short story. I was a third-grade recess machine. Mrs. Hjemeland dismissed us for some much needed outside time. I was hanging out by the old willow tree with some friends and we were singing some song we’d learned from the radio. For some reason I remember the tune being, “Seasons In The Sun.” But that may have been another year.

I was minding my own business when some girl I didn’t know walked over to me with a brick in her hand. I had never seen this girl before and she completely caught me off guard. She stood three feet away staring at me with that brick. I should have run but I stayed in place. Suddenly, without warning and completely unprovoked, she threw the brick at my face. I quickly ducked but the brick hit me square in the forehead.

Suddenly my legs gave out and I saw those stars I had seen so many times on the Tom and Jerry cartoons. I was passing out. Mrs. Hjemeland saw the whole thing happen and she quickly rushed to my side. I regained consciousness laying on the grass with Mrs. Bauer now nearby. She was standing way too close and I was scared to death I would see up her dress. I rolled away from her but Mrs. Hjemeland rolled me onto my back. I closed my eyes.

I could hear Mrs. Bauer say, “He probably had it coming.” Those were fightin’ words. I started to yell out my innocence when Mrs. Hjemeland quietly explained what had happened from her perspective. It seems that Mrs. Bauer could not forgive me from puking on her dress. Get over it Mrs. Bauer. If the Purple Cow had not made me eat those fish sticks, your dress would have remained unsoiled. http://www.yahyoubetcha.net/2007/04/puke-palooza.html

They picked me up off the ground. Then one kid pointed at me and yelled, “Look!” For some reason I moved my eyes skyward. I could actually see the bump growing out of my brain. Nowadays a helicopter would have landed on the field and taken me to the nearest trauma center. Back then they sent me to the nurse’s office and gave me a bag of ice.

I never did find out who that girl was or why she wasn’t arrested. I think she was paid-off by Mrs. Bauer. I would never again roam the playground safely knowing that at any moment, Mrs. Bauer would give the nod and I’d be belly-up in the weeds. Buffalo Elementary School was a rough place to be a Swede.

Use The Blue Can

Gather ‘round kids as I tell a story from 1985. A dear friend I have lost contact with, W.C. Hoecke was the maintenance director at Lake Beauty. Earlier in the year he gave the obligatory training lecture to all us camp summer staff regarding how to properly light a fire using Boy Scout Juice.

Diesel fuel, found in the blue cans, was a much safer way to start a fire than gasoline, in the red can. Diesel fuel, in the blue can, burned much slower than gasoline, in the red can. In fact, diesel fuel, in the blue can, is not nearly as explosive as gasoline, in the red can, making it the safer alternative to getting those campfires going quickly. Got the point? Use the blue can. Blue can good, red can bad. Bad red can. Bad. Fire bad. Red can bad. Blue good.

A hundred yards behind the camp chapel was the gravel pit. It had not been used for years so it was decided to throw anything that was burnable into it. We’d wait for the right conditions (wet grass, full foliage on the trees, etc.) and have a giant bonfire. Well, the pile grew and grew into a heap literally the size of a house. But its size would not be a problem because it was in a huge gravel pit, and gravel does not burn.

I was the up-front person in the morning chapel session that day when an enormous explosion completely rocked the building. It rattled the windows so hard we thought they would break. For a second we thought it was a stray bomb from nearby Fort Ripley Army Firing Range. We could occasionally hear explosions and see flares in the distant sky to the north. But nothing nearly this big had ever been heard before. It scared the bejeebers out of us! But whatever I was doing with the campers it was my duty to press on, making them think huge explosions happened all the time.

Moments later, from my vantage point, I saw W.C. wandering dazed, like a drunk hobo trying to stay on his feet. I quickly grabbed a replacement and ran out the back door. Immediately I saw a huge fire in the gravel pit and could see several smoky fires burning all over the field. I quickly made my way toward W.C. One look at him told me something did not go as he had planned. His face was sunburned, his eyelashes and eyebrows were singed, and the front of his hair was curled back like he had used a super-heated curling iron. “Are you O.K.? What happened?” I asked. He just kept mumbling, “I used the blue can. I used the blue can.”

By then the camp nurse found W.C. and started her triage. Other camp staff started running from all over the camp toward the source of the explosion. The campers just kept singing, oblivious to the event unfolding just outside. W.C. had used the blue can. In fact, he used almost all of what was in the blue can. He climbed all over that burn pile soaking to the bottom. But it took him a few minutes to do this. As the diesel dripped down deep into the pile, it slowly vaporized, creating an explosive mixture of fuel and air. By the time he climbed off that pile and ran a thin diesel trail away from it, like a fuse, he had inadvertently created a bomb.

He touched his match to the diesel fuse and it slowly made its way toward the pile. As it lit the deepest part of the pile the fuel-air mixture exploded hurling fuel-soaked timber all over the field. It was truly a miracle he lived to tell us what happened. With W.C. now being cared for, the rest of us ran around the field putting out the flames.

Every summer since 1985, this story has been told to every new LBBC summer staffer as part of the safety training. I am reminded of what Jeff Meyer used to tell us that summer. Indian build small fire sit close. White man build big fire sit far away. Remember to use the blue can. And always remember kids, fire bad.

West Patrol

I was a supervisor with student security at Northwestern College, which was hilarious. This gave me access to all the keys on campus, which we put to good pranking use. But I’ll save that for another time. It was a cloudy, moonless night. However this night began no different than any other. There was about 5-6 of us on duty each evening. Most evenings were boring but the occasional “incident” kept things hopping. And the very real fear of being in physical danger made the job all the more exciting.

A guy named Chip Cadillac was sent on the west patrol that evening. This was a route including some trails and the college football field. Occasionally we’d find a hobo or a couple making out in the poison ivy. That night Chip went on patrol alone as was the routine. My roommate, Tony Deach, was also on foot patrol but he was assigned the east patrol. This included the dorms and the student parking lot. I was on duty at the shack. I was the one who stopped cars and restricted evening campus access to students and faculty only.

Tony stopped by the shack to warm up and chat a bit when suddenly; the quiet evening was shattered by a panicked and frantic scream for help on the radio. It was Chip. We could not make out a word he was saying but could tell something was horribly and perhaps violently wrong. I called him back and told him we could not understand him and to slow down and stop screaming. He tried his best but his panic was overriding our need for clear communication. We didn’t know where he was or how to help our friend.

We could only make out a few words and phrases.
“Chasing me.”
“Child”
“It’s screaming”
“Help me, please help me”
“Catching me”
And then came the sentence that scared us both. “Running toward the shack.” What horrible thing was chasing Chip? Could he outrun it? What did it do that child and why was a child on the football field at two in the morning? We had only seconds to think. We both left the shelter of the shack and alerted the dispatcher who was already trying to make sense of what was happening.

Then we could hear Chip screaming, “It’s chasing me! O my God it’s chasing me!” And we could hear the bloodcurdling screams of the thing chasing him. It didn’t sound human, and yet it was curiously familiar. It was a scream we’d both heard before but was completely out of context. This only heightened our fear and confusion.

Chip and the thing were now really close. Chip broke through the underbrush far away from the usual path and bolted toward the shack still screaming. Tony and I took out our Mag-Lite, our only defense. Chip quickly ran into the shack, leaving him no escape. He was trapped. It was a tactical error he may regret. But Tony and I were now exposed. The hideous screaming now reached the edge of the wood and whatever it was came bounding through the brush.

It had a human form. It was screaming, hunched over, and was jet-black (whatever color that is, it just sounded dramatic). It came right for us and we raised our Mag-Lite in defense. Just as it reached the light of the shack we realized it was a chimpanzee. It bolted right past us, less than 10 feet away, then ran up the road and disappeared into the oaks doing that monkey scream all the way. We could not believe our eyes. It was really a chimp. We called the police figuring they would not believe what we saw. They sent out a patrol. Chip was just recovering from hyperventilating when the squad car rolled in.

Chip explained that he had seen a dark figure at the edge of the football field. As he approached it the chimp saw him and started screaming and chasing him. He had no idea what it was. He thought it was a demon possessed child or something. He ran as fast as he could but he knew a little demon child was outrunning him. Truly, something evil was at work here.

It was our fault. We didn’t pay much attention to the news as college students. We didn’t have time. And since televisions were not allowed in the rooms, the lounge TV’s been rarely on the news. If we had been more informed we would have known all the latest. The officer told us that the Como Zoo in St. Paul was missing one of their monkeys. Somehow the monkey escaped and had made its way to the neighborhood of Northwestern College. They were trying to catch the monkey but had no success because it was so mobile.

The fear of this wild monkey kept Chip off west patrol for weeks. He refused to go outside at night. The rest of us, however, were very keen to get another look at the wild monkey. A kind woman lured the monkey into her enclosed porch using bananas as bait catching the monkey a few days later. But Chip didn’t know this. Silly Chip. Under the threat of losing his job, Chip was forced outside once again. What good is a security person if they won’t go outside, right? But poor Chip never saw us coming.

It was his first night on west patrol weeks after the monkey chase. We used the second channel on the radio he did not know about to coordinate our plan. We waited until he was in the middle of the field. All at once four of us screamed like monkeys and rushed him. Chip’s brain immediately took control of his faculties. He was now only along for the ride. Chip immediately fell on the ground and started screaming like a little girl. His legs were flailing like he was running. We realized he was crying so we backed off and slunk off in shame back into the dark wood. But our shame and guilt quickly went away. We met Chip back at the shack and told him the monkey had been caught. He was not amused.

Chip resigned two weeks later, citing a need to concentrate on his studies. But we knew better. The thought of another unprovoked monkey attack was too much for Chip’s tattered brain to risk. He longed for a monkey-free life. I can only imagine the counseling sessions Chip had to endure. Hopefully, Chip was able to lure his inner monkey into the enclosed porch of his dreams, never to chase him again.

Popcorn Lightning

I was the program director at Lake Beauty when this next story happened. It was after dinner and we had planned, that evening, on playing a classic night game with the campers. It’s the kind of game filled with flashlights, screaming, running around in cabin groups, and lots of fresh Minnesota night air. But the small chance of rain turned into something more ominous.

Just as we were about to end our evening chapel session I received word from one of my staff that a really nasty looking thunderstorm was forming off on the horizon. We would have to resort to plan b. We were ready for it. Quickly I put my staff into action. It would now be movie night. We sent the kids to their cabins to get their pillows. We told them it would be raining soon so they might want their raincoats in case it was still raining at the end of the movie. The kids were great. They got their stuff and made their way down to the gym. We had them wait out on the huge porch, protected from the rain. We could hear distant thunder so we knew we had to hurry. I was not the friend of lightning.

I had been zapped once as a kid. Lightning had struck and cracked our back patio when I was looking out the back window doing dishes. I was actually about 5-10 feet away from the bolt. I saw it in great detail and it surprised me. It looked like a jagged tube of light and it had scales, like a snake. One scale overlapped the other. I discovered the sound of thunder is very different when you are right next to it. First you hear what sounds like a very loud gun. There is no other sound. Then, a couple of seconds later comes the loudest booming sound in the universe. The jolt entered our home’s plumbing system through the highly conductive copper pipes. It zapped me so hard I flew backward flat on my back leaving me tingly and stunned. It would be my first electrifying lightning strike.

Back at camp, I was struggling with our large and quirky popcorn machine. I had repaired that piece of junk so many times I was the camp’s resident expert on its repair. I was popping corn like mad, trying to get ahead of the needs of 150 campers about to enter the gym for movie night.

Then, several things happened at the same time. First the director’s wife got on the phone to tell us that a horrible storm was descending on us. We had better get the campers into a safe place. Her home was on the western side of the same hill we were on. She could see what we could not. It was going to be bad. Second, while she was on the phone, she was given a very severe shock and even suffered burns to her ear, knocking her unconscious falling to the floor. Third, the cause was from a nasty bolt of lightning striking the camp flagpole, entering the camp water well and electrical system, blowing out anything that was turned on camp-wide. Fourth, that bolt entered the gym and blew out some lights and our beloved and very expensive video projector. Fifth, the lightning bolt arched from the popcorn machine to me. I was about 10-15 away from it at the time. It hit my right arm immediately rendering me unconscious.

I was revived by the camp nurse, Twila, shouting my name. I was very disoriented and didn’t remember a thing. Later I was told I was shaking or convulsing, however, I was not sure what to believe. My assistant program director, Ruel, tried telling me a lot of things I did that I do not believe.

They laid in the back of a van and stuck an oxygen mask on my face. Renee was already in the van. Off to the hospital in Little Falls we went. I don’t remember much of the trip. I remember being in the emergency room and getting a lot of attention. Surviving lighting strikes is rare so there were a lot of medical people with a lot of questions. They stuck two IV’s in me, one in each arm, and pumped me full of fluids. They were trying to flush out my kidneys, keeping them from being clogged by proteins released when the body receives a severe shock.

Against my will, they kept me overnight. “You need the rest,” is how they tricked me. You see, in reality I didn’t receive any rest. I had to get up to pee every 20 minutes. It was like clockwork. I would pee, they would replace one of my IV bags. I would pee, they would replace an IV bag. This happened all night. Soon, I was told that word of my accident was on the radio. I prayed it wasn’t Ruel they talked to for their information. Then, throughout the night, one-by-one, the entire hospital staff came into my room to see the guy who got struck by lightning. They each told the same jokes, like I had never heard them, or thought of them myself. Each time I politely laughed. “Wow, that must have been a shocking experience.” And, “I sure your experience was very enlightening.” Insert laughter here.

I went home the following morning once my pee had passed the protein test. Once back at camp, I learned I had missed one of the worst nights every experienced by any LBBC camper. It was, however, a story of creative heroics. Without the video projector, and with the lighst being blown and electricity out for a time, it made programatics very difficult. They quickly tried thinking of every skit they knew, and then performed it. They even brought out the puppets and made up shows on the spot. All this was done by the light of 150 flashlights pointed at the stage. As the flashlights dimmed, so did the energy and spirits of the campers. The storm raging outside was still too nasty to release the kids to their cabins. Maybe someone who was there can chime in here but this went on for more than two hours. They didn’t tell me until the next day because they knew I would feel bad. If you were there, leave us a good comment on your experience that night.

Rumors of my death, paralysis, vegetative state, coma, third degree burns, and conversion to Mormonism quickly made the rounds. The next day, everyone seemed very shocked to see me alive (get it? Shocked to see me. Oh goodness, that’s so funny). So there it is folks. There’s my camp lightning story. I’ve got a couple more for tomorrow. But I’ve got to stop typing ‘cuz I’m really zapped.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

M is for the Million things she gave me,
O is only that she’s growing Old,
T is for the Things she said to save me,
H is for her Heart of purest gold,
E is for her Eyes with love’s light shining,
R’s for Right and right she’ll always be,
Put them all together, they spell MOTHER,
The word that means the world to me!

I would like to wish my mom a very happy 65th birthday! Now you can collect Medicare, wear Depends, take Geritol, and drive like an old lady. So in recognition of my mother, here’s a great story I tell in her honor.

We lived in the country next to a large hay field. This field was freshly cut and the alfalfa was in windrows drying the humid Minnesota air. My brother, Joe, decided to head out across the back field for a trip into the woods. He bounded over each row and was oblivious to the impending adventure that was about to overtake him. But we saw it from the window. Because of our vantage point, my mother and I could see that Joe was headed directly toward a skunk. Yes, a skunk.

My mother sensed trouble so she yelled at Joe to stop but he kept bounding in a frolicking manner. As he jumped the last windrow, Joe saw it too. And then the skunk saw Joe. And then Joe ran away from the skunk. And then the skunk ran after Joe. Run Joe, run. Run after Joe skunk, run fast. You see, what you don’t know about skunks, or any small woodland animal for that matter, is that if they are running after you, they are probably rabid.

And we Petersons knew all about rabid skunks. When he was little, my poor cousin Steve came into my grandparent’s house crying, his hand bleeding. When asked what had happened, he said, “The kitty bit me.” Upon further investigation it was discovered that the kitty had a large white stripe running down his back and it smelled really bad. Steve had pet a skunk. And any skunk that allows you to get that close is either rabid, or hiding under tall grass (see my story, Ninja Powers). Steve had to undergo a very painful treatment of daily rabies shots. We kids never forgot that. In fact, it terrified us.

Mom ran downstairs and grabbed a rifle. It was a .22 caliber. She ran outside and then screamed, “Run Joe, Run.” Poor Joe didn’t know who to run from. Was he running from the skunk or from his mother who was now taking a bead on the skunk from 50 yards? I don’t think Joe had ever seen my mom shoot anything. And, come to think of it, neither had I. I’m not sure what things looked like from Joe’s angle but I’m certain he was scared. Now I’m shouting, “Run Joe!”

Mom took careful aim at the small, furry moving target. She aimed ahead of the creature anticipating where the bullet and the skunk would eventually meet. She took a breath, squeezed the trigger, and dropped the skunk dead in its tracks. One bullet, one shot. For those of you who are ignorant about guns, the bullet from a 22 is about the same diameter as a pencil, only a bit smaller. It would have been impressive enough if she had used a shotgun. But she didn’t want stray shot hitting Joe, ruining his day. Imagine being shot by your mother, falling on the ground in agony writhing in pain and then being devoured by a rabid skunk. You know what I’m talking about.

So, happy birthday Mom! You are my hero in so many ways. You’ve been through a lot of tough stuff. You’ve protected us with guns, Johnson’s baby aspirin, and most importantly, your prayers. You’ve loved us in spite of our adventures and we know you would even give your life for us. My children adore you and speak of you often. You’re my hero, Mom. I’d wish you a hundred more birthdays but there’s no way I’m getting into a car driven by a 165 year-old lady. You’ll have to sit in the back seat and let your 144 year-old son do the driving. I love you, Mom.

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

After a crazy day at work I got to leave a little early to go to a San Francisco Giants game with some friends. Sheri declined the chance to go because we would not be back until midnight. It would seem her rest is more important than watching a sport she cares nothing about. Silly girls.

We got free VIP tickets worth about $300 placing us on the aisle just 8 rows back from the Giants dugout. It was fun to pretend to be rich people. We were in a special fenced-off area only for special rich people like us. We had an area host who made sure we (rich people) were well cared for. She was the one who took our picture. There was even a waiter who gave us menus. We could place orders with him that would be delivered about 10 minutes later. We didn't do it because we thought that was lazy.

After dropping off our stuff we wandered the concession area gathering our food. I had a $6.50 basket of amazing garlic fries, a $5.25 wiener, and a $9 black and tan. Total bill, priceless (plus $20.75). It was robbery. But I did sneak in some peanuts and Twizzlers. We ate our ballpark dinner in the beautiful AT&T park surrounded by the scenery of San Francisco Bay.

The crowd was only 33,000, not a big night as we settled in for the game. The people surrounding us were not rich people like we thought but Giants fans. The two gentlemen directly in front of us were the most entertaining. The team mascot is a Harbor Seal named Lou Seal. He’s a boy seal with a girl’s name. It truly is San Francisco. Our seat neighbors had about 7 Bloody Mary’s each. Then the dad, an older gentleman, started shouting for Lou Seal to come over for a hug. Lou obliged several times. Little did Lou know how much he was being groped. The fan, let’s call him Boris, really fancied placing his hands in Lou Seal’s pocket. At first all the attention was irritating but as the vodka inside Boris kicked in, it became funny. And funny makes everything OK, right? At one point I told Boris that Lou was away getting a restraining order. This visibly upset him and he turned around for a reassuring handshake. I washed my hands shortly thereafter.

The game was great. Barry Bonds was struck out by a kid pitcher from the Dominican Republic. That was really fun to watch. There was one broken bat, about 40+ plus balls that went flying into the stands, and we even got on the JumboTron. One cultured gentleman was wearing one of those beer hats. He went back for refills three times. That’s 6 beers. When he finished that he went for a pee about 9 times. Me thinks there was a correlation. The final time I saw him he stepped over the back of his seat to make a hasty run for the bathroom but he stepped on his beer hat. He forgot he took it off and placed it behind him for safe-keeping. Sorry, no more beer hat.

We were all hoping that Barry Bonds would hit 14 home runs that evening breaking the big home run record. But 14 was too much to ask. One was even too much to ask. The Giants lost to the Colorado Rockies 9 to 6. But we had a great time. I got home at midnight and was at work today at 8 AM. I drank one quad-shot at Starbucks and got a racing heart but I was still tired. Now I’m rambling.

The folks in the photo are all from Redwood Cov. There's me, Wendy the Queen of the Office, Dennis the King of the Paychecks, and his wife, Kathy who used to be my assistant. She used to hand me my jacket and I would say, "Am I cold or am I going somewhere?" I was sad when she left but now I'm happy because she got us the free tickets. Thanks Kathy! Dennis drove us home but got us really lost in Downtown San Francisco. I had to help him out. Wendy behaved all evening. Mostly she stayed inside a sleeping bag sticking her hand out when she wanted more peanuts. We did not see her head most of the game. Have a great night folks and dream about making millions of dollars hitting a ball with a stick.