When Mighty Oak was but a mere sapling of 5 summers or so, we were visiting my grandparents. The devoutly Southern Baptist grandparents. My grandfather was a Deacon, and they took the whole going to church thing very seriously. So we’re in church one morning. The preacher, who was also a friend of the family, droned on and on and on as Baptist preachers tend to do, and I was getting hungry. Bad combination. But Preacher was on a roll, and wasn’t stopping. The dialogue went something like this:
Preacher: Do you know what’s wrong with the world today? It’s SIN! Blah-blah-Blah Do you know what’s wrong with the country today? IT’S SIN! blah-blah-blah Do you know what is wrong with the church today? IT’S SIN!! blah blah blah Do you know what’s wrong with…
Young Oak: ** YES. IT’S SIN!!! CAN WE GO NOW? I WANT MY DINNER!**
My family: :eek:(:mad::smack:
Congregation, Preacher, and everyone present except my family: ROFLMAO
When I was about 6 and learning to read in school, we were studying phonics. We must have learned that “chi” was sometimes pronounced as “ky.”
One hot summer day the family was out for a drive, and we stopped at a frozen custard stand. There was a list of flavors, and the last one was “pistachio.” Eager to demonstrate my new mastery of reading, I blurted out “What’s pis-ta-KY-o”? For the next several years, my father’s nickname for me was “Pis-ta-KY-o Pete.”
When I was very little my new SIL (my brother is almost “a generation” older than me) had me over to stay the night. She was very sweet and fun but had a lot of rules. Coming from a chaotic household, this wasn’t something I was used to but I tried to go along. It was “Yes, you can play with the ____ but first you have to put away the ." "Wash your hands and we’ll cook some_.” Stuff like that. Then she said “Now it’s time to take a bath so you can put on your pajamas and brush your teeth.” She later told that I looked up at her and said “You make me sweat.”
The one story that is told on me goes back to when I was about 3 or 4 years old. I was in Sunday School at church while my mother was upstairs in the service as she was the church pianist.
The Sunday School lesson of the day was how to say a one sentence prayer. The teacher distributed pictures of various things and the kids were to compose a simple prayer, "Thank you God for the trees."or “Thank you God for the rain.” Basic stuff like that.
My turn came and I flatly refused. No matter how much the teacher cajoled me, I simply would not say a little prayer. The teacher, quite upset, dragged me upstairs and interrupted the sermon as she called my mother from the front of the sanctuary to presumably scold me.
The teacher explained the situation to my mother who turned to me and asked, “Now Iggy, why won’t you thank God for the sunset.”
I replied in my innocent pre-schooler way, “In the first place the sun does NOT set. The Earth rotates on its axis.”
My mother stifled a laugh, discussed the issue with the teacher, and compromise was achieved. I thanked God for the Earth rotating on its axis.
I guess I could tell you about my first sentence I ever spoke. It’s not too much of a funny one, but certainly interesting.
I’m not even sure how old I was, but somehow I earned some money. Maybe my birthday? I’m not quite sure. My mother came and took it from me, telling me that she’ll ‘hold onto it’ for me. Upset that my money was taken from me, I said to her:
“Give me back my money.”
My mom just looked at me, shocked. I repeated it once more, in a more whiny tone. She gave it back to me, then ran to go call my father!
I just found it funny that “Give me back my money!” was the first full sentence I ever spoke. I must have been a stingy one!
When I was 4, my brother and I got to go to a small kiddie amusement part. My brother, being 8, was unhappy being put on some of the rides I was. One of those rides was a train ride that went around the outside of the park.
My brother kept expressing how slow and un-fun the ride was and I, being 4, agreed.
Cue me standing up mid ride and shouting at the engineer,
"HEY MISTER… FLOOR IT MISTER, FLOOR IT!!!
Q: Did you know that engineers on kiddie rides can give the Nastiest looks?
(…well… they can… )
Last week I did a Woody Woodpecker laugh for my six year old granddaughter and asked her if she knew who he is. I described him “red head, blue and white body”. She said “oh yeah, and an orange Pecker!”
Though not easy, I managed not to laugh on the outside.
We lived in Mexico for a year when I was 2. My folks had a party and everyone was drinking rum and cokes. I was the cute little girl visiting all the guests, going from person to person, asking for a taste of that yummy coke drink!
Hours later, party guests had gone home and mom and dad were putting me to bed. I solemnly informed them that “Something’s going HhhhmmMMMMmmmMMM on the roof!”
My brother was in the phase of repeating everything he hard. My mom absolutely hates driving with a clutch. My dad had a late-60s/early-70s Beetle that only he drove. Once, for some reason, he and some others were going to an out-of-town work meeting and couldn’t take the company car, so he’d offered the use ofmy mom’s station wagon. He took her out a few times to get comfortable with his car, and for reasons that I can’t remember, my brother was taken on some of these outings and I wasn’t, or I was and I just don’t remember it.
Mom tried to think of every possible scenario so we wouldn’t have to go anywhere while Dad was gone, but of course something came up. So we trek out in the Beetle, and while she’s grinding the gears, my brother pipes up from the back seat: “Dammit, [Mom’s Name], more gas! MORE GAS, DAMMIT!”
When I was about 12 maybe I got separated from the family on the boarding platform of the train at Disneyland. My mom starts shouting my name, then my Dad, next the sister and within about 10 seconds there were about 10 conductors, the engineer and probably Walt himself all running around and shouting my name. I was maybe 15 feet away.
When I was 2 years old I became extremely constipated. Instead of going to the doctor, my grandmother stuck her finger way up my buttocks and did some grandmotherly magic that got me going again.
When I was about 5 or so, I decided I wanted to play with the boy next door. So I go knock on their door and politely ask his mother if he can come out to play. He did, we walked around fiddling with things and he showed me how to make a rabbit trap with a box, stick, and carrot. Then he told me he had to get home.
This story was retold whenever our moms got together, with laughter, and I didn’t understand for years that it was because he was in college at the time.
When I was around 4 years old I fell when getting out of the bath and split my chin open. The way my mother tells it the bathroom looked like Jack-the-Ripper had been at work (apparently I ran around yelling and spraying blood like a fire hose) and it took her and three other nurses to hold me down while the Doc. at the ER put stitches in.
Another time (again about 3 ot 4) I had to go to our GP for something (I have no idea what, constipation maybe or abdominal pain) but for whatever reason I had to get a rectal exam.
Afterwards, I walked out into the waiting room where my older sister was waiting and announced loudy “He stuck his finger up my BUM!!!”
My older brother, not the sharpest tool in the shed: when he was 12 he got a new 10-speed bike! (this was the late 1970’s in Australia - it was a big deal). We were out riding and he spotted a large mound of dirt that had obviously been used by other kids as a bike jump. He decided to do the same so got a big ‘run-up’ hit the jump at full speed, soared into the air and then rotated forward around his axis so that he hit the ground flat on his back, his head pointed back the way he had come and the bike straight up in the air.
Another time - we were out in the plains country of southern NSW doing some pig shooting, and my brother found an emu egg. Normaly they are a deep green colour but not this one, this one had been out on the ground for so long it was bleached white!
My brother decided it would be fun to break it open, but rather than throw it away from him (or hell, even shoot it from a distance - we had a .22 with us) he threw it straight up! My dad & I were standing well back but he was right next to it when it landed, spraying him from the knees down with rotten egg juice :eek:
We drove back to camp sitting in the cabin of the ute but he had to sit in the tray and then go (a long way) down wind while he got cleaned up & changed into clean clothes. We burned the soiled ones and the pair of runners he was wearing at the time.
My wife still reminds of this even though it’s been over forty years now:
She was in grad school in Kansas (a Jayhawk!), and I would go visit her for a weekend. It was a780 mile drive each way. The first time I made the trip (starting in Toledo, OH) I made it to Effingham, IL, about half way, when it ran out of gas. I was right at the start of an exit ramp, on the top of the ramp was a gas station. So I walked up the ramp, paid some ridiculous deposit on the one-gallon can, filled it up and walked down the ramp to the car. At that point one of Illinois’ finest pulls up. I hold up the can with a sheepish look. The trooper gets out, we chat a bit, I gas the car. I then set the can down, crank the car until it starts. The officer leaves, I shut off the car and pick up the can and walk back up the ramp to return the can and get my deposit back. The guy in the station looked at me funny, at which point I realized what I had just done.
She married me anyway, it will be forty years next week.
When I was about three, my parents had to stop at the junkyard for a car part, and took me with them. We get there, and it’s all a glorious mess - everything you could imagine, miles and miles of junk (It was, in fact, the junkyard featured in this book. Shortly after we arrived, I got very quiet, and started watching something in the distance. It was coming closer, and I watched and watched, but still never said a word. Finally, after we left, I asked my mother what the heck kind of dog those folks had living at the junkyard? Turns out, I’d never seen a sheep up close and in person before!
When I was around five, I was riding somewhere with my mom’s cousin, who was getting very impatient with the Sunday afternoon driver lollygagging in the lane ahead of us. Virginia finally asked the rhetorical question "What’s he doing up there. I popped my head up from behind the back seat, looked at the dash, looked at the roadside sign, and told her: “About 30 in a 45 zone,” and sat back down, satisfied that I’d somehow been helpful. I guess it was helpful - she laughed and laughed, instead of cussing at the moron blocking traffic.
The best, though, was when I repeated something I shouldn’t have. My father’s new boss’ name was Delmus Hale, and the fellows at work weren’t very fond of him. I was about three the first time I met him, but I’d heard about him at one of my parents’ cookouts. When he leaned down to introduce himself to me, I told him I already knew his name: Dumb As Hell. My mother was mortified, but Daddy repeated that story until the day he died.
(:mad::smack:
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