by Jerry Nelson
“Surgical tape!” the doc barked tensely.
“Where do you want it?” asked the nurse.
“On the father’s mouth!”
The doctor then picked up a pair of shiny little boat paddles. Before I could ask what they were for, he detailed how he was going to use the paddles to assist with the delivery. His description was quite graphic. I inexplicably broke out in a cold sweat, and my knees began to feel rubbery.
I glanced around to see if anyone else had been similarly affected. Nope. But everyone was giving me a strange look, as if I had just slapped on a witch doctor’s mask and had begun to perform some sort of traditional baby-birthing dance.
But then I noticed something: There wasn’t a cable winch anywhere in that entire room. What an outfit. Fortunately, I had come prepared.
“Hold on, Doc. Don’t go and dislocate your shoulder. I got my calf puller out in the trunk of the car, just gimme a minute to go fetch it. I even hosed the puller off the last time I used it.”
As the door to the delivery room closed, I heard a loud CLICK. They had locked me out.
Everything came out all right in the end. But I can only imagine how much quicker and easier things might have gone if they had just let me use my puller. •
Electric Fencing 101
City folks often ask me how it is to live in the country. I tell them it sure is great. Yeah, we don’t have some of the more cultured things that you have in town. Stuff like the opera, cable TV, and that bizarre ritual called “rush hour” wherein drivers sit in their motionless cars and curse all the other drivers. Yep, we miss out on much of the glamour and the excitement of city life. But we have some things that you will never find in the city. A good for-instance would be electric fences.
The first cave-farmers probably had fences made of stone. We know this from cave wall paintings and The Flintstones. This meant that the gates were also probably made of stone, which would have posed a problem for the paleo-farmers. The gates proved too heavy for the cave-farmer’s wife. This deprived him of one of a farmer’s few pleasures—namely, blaming his wife for leaving the gate open.
For untold millennia, farmers experimented with different styles and types of livestock fencing. No real progress was made until the late 1800s, when Thomas Edison tamed electricity. One day, a farmer was prowling about the scrap heap behind Edison’s lab when he came across an aborted attempt at a bug zapper. The farmer instinctively realized the huge potential of this technology and took the thing home.
The farmer hooked the zapper to a bare wire that was suspended by insulators between two posts. An old cow wandered up just then and touched the wire with her nose. When the farmer recovered from his flash blindness, he discovered two things: First, too much electricity was involved. And second, he had just invented a new method of barbecuing.
The farmer fiddled and tweaked with this new technology until hardly anything died when it touched the bare wire. Then, he tried it on his kids, inaugurating the time-honored tradition of farmers using their offspring as electric fence testers.
Many refinements have been made since then. Thanks to fallout from the Star Wars defense program, any farmer can purchase an electric fence charger with the innards of an electron beam gun. Now, the same power designed to obliterate intercontinental ballistic missiles can be used to keep your livestock in check.
Last spring, I bought such a fence charger. When it was all powered up, I called out our older son, a clever lad of nine years, and told him to bring a screwdriver. I showed the boy how, if you hold the screwdriver shaft against, say, a steel post and get the end of the tool to within a quarter inch of the “hot” wire, an electric arc will occur. I let him try it a few times, instructing him to take care that he touch only the insulated handle.
Later that day, the boy said he wanted to show me something. He took me out by the electric fence and called for the dog. The lad plucked a tick out of the dog’s ear, placed the bug on the flat of a screwdriver blade, then proceeded to electrocute the hapless insect via the miniature lightning bolts that jumped from the fence. “Look at that!” he exclaimed. “See how the tick sorta vaporizes?”
The next morning, I was in the bathroom/library when I heard our younger boy run wailing into the house. It’s a good thing his mother was there to interpret his blubbering. I assumed from the volume of his cries that his brother had amputated an arm during a scuffle. I instead heard my wife say, “Well, dang it! You shouldn’t be frying ticks on the fence!”
I later buttonholed the older boy. “Did you show your little brother how to fry ticks?” I asked. The child admitted that he had. “You forgot to tell him to touch only the insulated handle, didn’t you?” He said that it might have slipped his mind.
Kids! Who would have thought?
I have an acquaintance I’ll call Harlan who shared with me an electric fence story. It seems that one autumn afternoon, Harlan espied an unfamiliar vehicle parked near the end of his pasture. In the distance, he could see a pair of trespassing hunters making their way out of his cornfield. Knowing that they had to cross the fence, Harlan switched on the electric fence charger, sending a kabillion volts through the top wire. Harlan was deeply gratified to hear a series of whoops and hollers roll across the pasture.
Minutes later, the vehicle pulled into his yard. To Harlan’s surprise, the hunters were friends of his who were driving a borrowed car. Harlan said he was sorry, that an honest mistake had been made. “That’s okay,” said one of the men, “I was planning on a vasectomy anyway. Would you have any burn balm?” •
Christmas Shopping with a Caveman
Iwas shopping with the wife last weekend when I saw a sure indicator of the upcoming holiday season: a mall zombie.
It’s a certain sign that the Christmas season is just around the corner when you start bumping into these unfortunate men. Or what used to be men. Now, they are the living undead, brainlessly following their wives, pushing the shopping cart, a blank expression frozen on their faces.
What went wrong? How did these once-normal, red-blooded, beer-drinking, football-watching examples of manhood become such tragic wretches? The answer lies deep in human evolution.
15,000 BC: Og, your typical average cave dweller, is living the good life. He hunts and fishes all day while his mate keeps the cave clean. Her duties include gutting and cooking whatever Og happens to drag home. Og does no real work and pays no taxes; in short, he lives in paradise.
One day, the wind carries a bizarre new scent to Og’s cave. Following his nose, Og trudges forth until he at last crests a hill. A bland concrete and steel structure squats in the valley, ugly as a toad. Emblazoned high on its fluorescent facade is the word “Mall.”
Out of scientific curiosity, Og enters this mall place to investigate. He is shocked by what he sees.
Og perceives the masses worshipping the heathen god of materialism. He sees customers lined up at rows of tiny altars where priestesses accept the peoples’ sacrifices. The miniature altars beep and ring with mechanical joy as they receive their offerings. He hears the faithful chant the mantra “blue light special, blue light special” over and over while seasonal Muzak drones in the background.
Og is disgusted as the shoppers pursue some elusive creature called a “bargain,” which always seems to be up the next aisle or at the next store. He vows to quit this wicked place and never return, though he is sorely tempted by the everyday low, low prices in power tools.
A few days later, after a hard day of saber-toothed-tiger hunting, Og returns to his cave to find that a large something-or-other has taken over his living room. His mate enters, smiling.
“What that?” grunts Og.
“Isn’t it great?” replies his mate. “We were going to get one anyway, and besides, it was on sale! I saved a lot!”
Og is pleased with the saving part. But later, Og is dismayed to discover that their s
ecret trove of valuable animal skins has been considerably diminished. His instincts tell him his mate will never master the witchcraft of saving by spending, so he reaches a grim decision: Henceforth, he resolves, he must always accompany his mate to the mall, lest she “save” them to the poorcave.
So it is that the next weekend, Og finds himself at the pagan mall, tailing his mate while pushing a shopping cart.
Og notices a marked difference in the styles of male and female shopping. Lone male shoppers sprint down the aisles, their visits a mission, a purpose, a means to an end. He notes that they will zip to sporting goods and buy a dozen No. 6 spearheads before he and his mate even get to housewares. The shopping ritual seems to be its own reward for females. The women tramp from store to store, searching for the biggest bargain, probably so they can brag to their friends. Og can empathize with the bragging part.
The afternoon grinds on and on, and Og, overwhelmed by all the merchandise, lapses into a stupor. Unaware that he is drooling on himself, he staggers along behind the cart, his mind reeling with sensory overload. When the fog lifts, Og finds himself in an aisle that towers on each side with feminine hygiene products. The top layer of his cart is composed of these products.
Og is certain of three things: First, he is hopelessly lost. Second, all vestiges of his manhood have been stripped away. But third and worst of all, he knows he has missed the game of the week in its entirety.
Og’s mate appears at the head of the aisle and scolds him for dawdling. He is belittled for not having a preference between mauve and teal. None of this bothers him anymore, for his transformation is complete: Og has become a mall zombie.
So this holiday season, as you cruise the parking lot in search of a spot near the entrance, watch out for these poor souls. Do not poke fun at their blank stares, their staggering gaits, the drool marks on their shirts. You may be next. •
Never Sleep with a Baby Chick
I nearly made it big in the chicken business once. But then again, what does a four-year-old know?
My budding entrepreneurial career began when my parents went to town for “Hatchery Days.” This was a gimmick the hatchery used to boost baby chick sales. Coffee and doughnuts were distributed freely, along with one day-old baby chick per customer.
My sister, then age six, and I were delighted when our parents presented us with this cute and fuzzy little bird. We called it Chickie, a name that seemed to suit it perfectly.
We were astounded at Chickie’s intellect. At only one day of age, it already knew how to drink! It would also eat dry oatmeal right out of our hands. The hatchery man had foolishly given away one of the smartest chicks ever, we decided. We chose to keep Chickie’s talents to ourselves and let his loss be our gain.
We began to make plans for Chickie’s future. If it was a rooster, we would allow him the run of the house, patrolling for crumbs we kids spilled. This would save on chicken feed and housework at the same time. We would also train him to roost on our headboard to crow us awake each morning. More savings, having eliminated the need for an alarm clock. (“Waste not, want not” were words we lived by.)
If Chickie was a pullet, all the better. She would reward our love and care each day with an egg, which we would scramble and divide.
Then our plans grew. If Chickie became a mother hen, my sister said, she would someday have a brood of her own. Those chicks would grow up and raise their own families. As our imaginary flock increased, we envisioned truckloads of eggs and poultry leaving our farm every day. Then, said my sister, when the time was right, we would sell all and retire to the life of the independently wealthy. Our names would become associated with those of the Vanderbilts and the Rockefellers. About then, we calculated, I would have to start third grade.
Bedtime brought a problem. Chickie would be scared sleeping alone, we reasoned. We decided that she could just spend the night in the space between us. We tented the covers and Chickie seemed happy, walking around, scratching and peeping. We drifted off, dreaming of poultry profits.
When I awoke in the morning, Chickie was gone. I searched all around in the room, under the covers, beneath the bed. Gone. I woke my sister and shared the bad news with her. She sat up and rubbed her eyes and there was Chickie, lying on the mattress. Her flat, lifeless body looked so tiny and forlorn.
I scooped up Chickie’s corpse and went straight to the authorities.
“Mom! Dad!” I sobbed. “Chickie’s dead!”
The coroner examined the body. “Yep, she sure is,” said Dad. “She looks kinda flat. Did you kids put her in the bed?”
I gave a tearful eyewitness account of the crime and pointed out exactly who the murderer was, but no arrests were ever made. Dad, always the practical one, suggested that perhaps we could salvage Chickie’s tiny drumsticks and perhaps even make a wish with her miniature wishbone. It was years before I figured out that he was kidding.
Later that day, with a heavy heart, I went to the closet and located an empty shoe box. And then, tenderly, lovingly, I fed Chickie to a hungry mother cat. After all, waste not, want not. •
Surviving Parenthood
I don’t mean to brag or anything, but my wife and I are fairly successful parents. And by “successful” I mean “our kids have never been featured on America’s Most Wanted.” Well, not yet, anyhow.
Parenting is one of the strangest jobs in the world. Think about it: You don’t have to do an interview, there is no test or license required, and you need no experience. In fact, the vast majority of us guys launched our parenting careers when we uttered a nearly universal two-word question: “You’re WHAT?!”
Because parenting is basically a learn-on-the-job kind of job, we often tap into our own particular upbringings when it comes to bringing up the next generation.
When our younger boy was about four years old, he and I were sitting on the steps enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Pepper, our blue heeler (who was totally convinced that she was a people, too), sat between us. A childhood lesson suddenly washed over me, so I turned to the boy and said, “Blow in Pepper’s ear.” This he did, and the dog immediately responded by licking his cheek.
“She kissed me. Why did she do that?”
“It’s automatic; she can’t help it. All girls have to give kisses when you blow in their ears.” I felt like a sure-enough parent by passing down this nugget of ancient wisdom.
The boy blew in the dog’s ear again and got another slobbery kiss. He then trotted into the house, climbed onto his mother’s lap, and blew into her ear. “What on earth are you doing?” my wife asked.
“You have to kiss me when I do that. Daddy said so.” This struck her as sweet, so she smooched him on his cheek.
The boy was pleased. “Daddy was right,” he said as he slid off his mother’s lap. “It worked on Pepper dog and it worked on you.”
My wife blanched. “You mean Pepper just kissed you? On that same cheek?”
A few minutes later, I found my wife washing her mouth with soap. “What happened?” I asked. “Did you catch yourself swearing?”
A bar of soap can really sting when it’s thrown at you by an angry wife.
When you stop to think about it, parenting really isn’t all that difficult. For many of us, being a parent means simply imitating the things that were done by one’s own parents. This is certainly true for me.
When I was a kid, Dad would, upon finishing a glass of milk, slam the empty glass onto the table and with much gusto exclaim, “Ah! Whiskey!”
I always thought this was a pretty cool expression, so when the time came, I taught it to my two little boys. It was cute when they first tried saying it and it came out as “Ah! Wicky!”
I don’t know where Dad picked up that phrase, but would guess it had something to do with his stint in the navy during the Second World War. So it was that my boys were learning the mannerisms of some salty old sea dog Dad h
ad once met.
As cute as it was to hear our little boys say that whenever they polished off a glass of milk, I was ordered to break them of that particular habit. My wife pointed out that it probably wouldn’t go over very well with their preschool teachers.
I once met a farmer whose wife worked a full-time job in town. This farmer was somewhat of a stay-at-home dad and was therefore responsible for the potty training of their three kids.
Being a former farm kid himself, he naturally taught his kids—just as his dad had taught him—that it’s okay to “go” outside so long as you ducked behind a tree or found a corner of a barn or some such.
He told me that this practice got him into hot water. “Our oldest was in kindergarten,” he explained, “and was playing hard at recess when nature called. I had trained the kids to ‘go’ outside—and that’s exactly what happened, right there in front of the teacher and the whole playground.”
“You know what they say,” I responded, trying to console him. “ ‘Farm boys will be farm boys.’ ”
“True,” he replied. “And so will farm girls.” •
The Ghosts of Horses Past
It was one of my least favorite jobs, but I knew that I had to do it. The time had come to walk the perimeter of the pasture to inspect its fence and repair any damage the winter snows may have wrought.
I “volunteered” our younger son, Chris, to assist me. We set out upon our journey, each of us taking one side of the pasture. It was one of the first truly warm, sunny days of spring, and the pleasure of tramping across the grassy prairie nearly caused me to forget how much I disliked this chore.
The fence had taken the winter exceptionally well, and we finished our inspection tour ahead of schedule. Chris and I decided to reward ourselves by resting a spell on the rock-strewn escarpment that overlooks our pasture’s slough. We rested on the knoll, soaking up the sun, enjoying the obscenely pleasant weather. We marveled at how it was that a long-ago glacier had hollowed out the slough while at the same time thrusting up this small, sharp rise—all for us to behold and enjoy on this outstanding spring morning.
