As I mentioned last week, 2024 has been a crazy year filled with big distractions—the most debilitating of which was my ankle getting carved up like a Christmas ham. Another distraction, no less huge, was that my boy headed off to college.
This boy! Right here!
I know, right? That wee little fella, best known as my Semi-Annual Blog Raffle Winner Picker Outer, somehow grew up and graduated high school without me noticing.
He looks like this now.
All right, I did notice. How could I not? There is just so much to do when a kid is college bound. The applications, the scholarships, the campus visits and the jillion other things that take up way more time than you could possibly imagine.
And then there’s all the things you gotta buy. Expensive things. Like a $195 online textbook.
Yes.
A $195 textbook.
That’s online.
Call me old fashioned, but if I’m gonna spend $195 dollars on a book, I want the creation of said book to be a big rigmarole. It should involve the murder of trees and the noisy operation of an offset printing machine. A $195 book should be big, heavy, hard to find,and exist in three dimensions.
Not gonna lie. I feel a little violated here.
We bought other stuff, too. Clothes, for example, because Alex thoughtlessly decided to grow again. And he didn’t just grow, he grew taller than me, which is disrespectful.
And we bought luggage to hold those big clothes.
And we bought a fridge and a footlocker and all the other whatsits and provisions that everyone says you can’t head off to college without.
Then I had to buy a big thing to strap to the roof of my car to carry all those things.
Okay, I’ll just come out and say it. I consider Alex’s desire to further his education both selfish and cruel to his old father, who finds him much too fun and interesting to leave home.
He’s my good boy.
And I think I have a little dust in my eyes.
My eyes have been getting pretty dusty these days.
This doodle of mine, titled “God Knows You Farted,” is only tangentially related to the post you’re about to read. But it is also one of my favorite doodles of all time, so it stays.
Many years ago, when my niece, Lauren, was about two years old, she coughed.
Perhaps the cough was a bit louder or longer than usual. Maybe it was a tad phlegmy. Perhaps it was followed by a hiccup. I’m not sure, I didn’t notice anything unusual.
But something about that cough made it significant to my sister, Gina.
Gina proceeded to feel Lauren’s forehead; press her ear up against her chest; and look in the child’s mouth, ears, and nose.
My grandmother and I watched all of this with fascination. When Grandma and I weren’t staring at Gina, we glanced at each other, chatting telepathically:
“The kid only coughed, right? Did I miss something? Is she bleeding out her eyes? Is her skin sloughing off? Did she accidentally hack up a less essential internal organ—like a gall bladder or a meatball-size chunk of liver?”
Eventually, Gina completed her examination and declared that an appointment with the pediatrician was necessary.
“Why?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Just being safe,” Gina replied. Then she scooped up her befuddled child and strode off with motherly purpose.
At that, Grandma turned to me, shook her head and said, “That sister of yours takes those kids to the doctor when they fart crooked.”
I laughed nonstop for the next three days.
That line, in my view, is the quintessential Grandma quote, a fine example of the old gal’s crass and caustic German humor. I love it.
But the writer in me loves the line, too, because it says so much without saying much of anything. “That sister of yours takes those kids to the doctor when they fart crooked,” does a terrific job in describing who the speaker is.
First off, doesn’t that statement seem tailor made for an old person? “Fart crooked” has a do-it-yourself, old-timey energy to it. (It reminds me of a similar bon mot from an elderly work colleague who described her junky car as a “turd boiler.”) Someone who says “fart crooked” (or “turd boiler”) might also say “clicker” instead of “remote” or “ice box” instead of “refrigerator.”
“Fart crooked” suggests a working-class background to me, too—though I’m not exactly sure why I feel this way. Maybe I’m stereotyping, but “fart crooked” doesn’t sound like something The Lord of the Manor might say. It’s too earthy a phrase to be associated with Old Money.
Also, a line like that can only be uttered by a parent, I think. It suggests a certain type of parent, too—one who wakes you up early on a Saturday morning and says, “Get outta my house and don’t come back ’till supper.” Such a parent does not take a kid to the doctor because of a cough (and is more than happy to roll her eyes at a parent who would). Grandma’s line declares, “I speak from experience, and you know nothing.”
See why the writer in me loves the quote? It’s not just a fart joke. It’s a fart joke with subtext. It establishes myriad facets of Grandma’s character in ways other statements such as, “Your sister worries too much,” or “Lauren’s not sick,” or “Why is Gina taking her to the doctor?” never could.
These are the unique expressions I look for when I write characters for my stories. I love to discover lines that not only show a character’s personality, but also suggest a character’s life story.
Like most writers, I have notebooks filled with Story Ideas, which are invaluable to me and serve as a regular source of inspiration. Similarly valuable is my binder of Meaty Quotes. In it are overheard remarks that tickle my fancy.
Most of the quotes in my Meaty Quote binder have been uttered by members of my family. My wife, for one, comes out with wonderful things all the time. Sometimes I say things that surprise me so much I lunge for the binder to scribble them down. Many of these quotes find their way into my stories, which is wonderful. (My wife’s use of the term “booty bottom,” for example, ended up in my most recent picture book, Sleepy Happy Capy Cuddles.) Most of the quotes, however (like “fart crooked”), do not. But that’s okay; my Meaty Quote binder serves a second function: it transports me back to the time when the words were first said. It’s an instant time machine, a photo album without pictures—and it’s a delight to flip through when I need inspiration or just a short mental break from the writing task at hand.
My Grandma has been dead for many years now, but thanks in part to her unique and unfiltered wit, her memory (and her granddaughter’s crooked farts) will live on forever.
I’ve never been a big fan of birds. I’m unnerved by the parts of them that are dangerous. Look at those feet! So pointy! And their faces also come to a point! A super-sharp, eye-pecky point! Seriously, they’re like little, feathery weapons of war.
They’re monsters!
I also dislike birds because in the movie, The Birds, those avian psychopaths killed sexy schoolteacher Suzanne Pleshette while sparing the lives of personality vacuums Rod Taylor and Tipi Hedren.
I mean, really, birds? Really?
But the main reason I’ve never liked birds is because they poop. They poop on my car, they poop on my lawn furniture, and, many years ago, when I was window shopping in Ridgewood, NJ, a pigeon pooped on my head.
So birds suck. Everyone who knows me knows that I think birds suck. The innate suckiness of birds is one of my favorite discussion topics.
So you can just imagine my wife’s and son’s surprise a few months ago when I told them what I wanted for Fathers’ Day.
“A birdbath?!” Alex sputtered. “You want a birdbath? I thought you hated birds because of that movie where they pecked Suzanne Sommers or whatever.”
“Suzanne Pleshette,” I sighed. “Birds can peck Suzanne Sommers every day for eternity, for all I care.”
“They poop, you know,” Ellen added. “I vaguely remember hearing a story about a pigeon pooping on your head. I might be misremembering it. You’ve only told me about it four million times.”
“The birdbath wouldn’t be for birds,” I explained. “It would be for my squirrels. I want a birdbath without a pedestal so it can be on the ground, near where I throw their peanuts. They can drink from it.”
Oh, how I love squirrels. Everyone who knows me knows that I love squirrels. I love them almost as much as I hate birds. They’re so sassy and funny and full of personality. I could watch them all day.
Also, squirrels don’t poop on my car, so they’re kind of perfect.
“Birds are gonna show up,” Ellen warned.
“Not if my squirrels have anything to say about it.”
The squirrels in my yard are ornery and territorial. I’ve personally seen my favorite squirrel, Serpentine Shel, backhand a crow. I knew I could depend on my rodent pals to maintain the status quo.
Fathers’ Day arrived and I got my birdbath. I was ecstatic. I wasted no time setting it down and filling it up. I tossed a few peanuts nearby and waited for my squirrels to enjoy their new watering hole.
And they couldn’t have cared less.
Even lazy Fatty McGee, a squirrel seemingly designed to lounge poolside for hours on end, wanted nothing to do with it. Fatty and Company just ate their peanuts and split.
I was miffed.
But not nearly as miffed as I was when all the birds showed up.
They came from everywhere. Robins, cardinals, blackbirds, blue jays, doves, a woodpecker, and a bunch of tiny yellow and brown ones I couldn’t identify. Jillions of them! A simple cement saucer turned my side yard into Bird Disneyland.
“Dangit!” I grumped.
“Told you,” Ellen said.
So now I was stuck with a bunch of stupid birds fluttering around right outside of my kitchen window. Worst Fathers’ Day ever.
But as I crabbily watched them each and every morning, I noticed, perhaps for the first time ever, that birds are kind of pretty.
I also noticed that they were kind of fun to watch, too. They were messy, splashy bathers, yes, but I was charmed by their enthusiasm. They loved my birdbath. They appreciated its existence. And because they appreciated it so much, I started to put in an effort to maintain it. I kept if full of cool water, I scrubbed out the algae.
And maybe I’m reading too much into this, but I could totally tell that they were grateful.
Dang! I thought, birds are kind of cool.
I soon started to recognize the regulars. I’m especially fond of a chunky robin who shows up every morning at the crack of dawn to avoid the crowds. He plants his butt in the water, floofs his feathers, and zones out.
If I have a bird spirit animal, he’s the guy.
Long story short, I’m a changed man.
I have been unfair to birds. They’re not as bad as I thought. Not even close. I’ve even come to accept that the reason Pleshette died in The Birds and Hendron didn’t was because Alfred Hitchcock had a thing for blondes.
I guess she’s pretty.
Every morning I take pleasure in peeking out of my kitchen window to see my birds all happy and flappy. They make me smile. I like birds. I like them a lot.
But if any of them even thinks about pooping on my head, all bets are off.
Hey, Look! A Writer Fellow! 