Stupid Electrical Things

Last week, the Midwest was on the bad end of an ice storm as often happens this time of year. My home was spared the damage many others got; we didn't even lose power. All we had were some downed tree limbs. And therein lays a problem.

You see, one of the limbs is resting on the power line going into my home. I skated through my back yard (there's something special about buying an old home that rests at the bottom of a poorly draining hill) the other day to ascertain whether the limb was in fact resting on the power line or on the phone line. Or even the cable TV line which taunts me daily since I do not have cable but periodically long for it.

Why couldn't the limb have been hanging over THAT line? At least then I could laugh and say it doesn't matter, and also feel like I'm sticking it to The Man. But no. The limb is perfectly forked over the power line like some kind of evil, giant, Deadliest Catch-SportsCenter-History Channel-sympathetic wishbone.

Now I'm no electrician, but I've concluded that if I try to remove the limb myself, I put myself at risk for a shock at least as bad as 240 kelvins or volts or kilotons or whatever they measure electricity in — which is the amount my clothes dryer supposedly runs on — or probably more.

I know this because in a past life, I changed out an old-fashioned dryer power cord for a modern one. I had to because at that time, I had an old dryer, a new house (one that thankfully had cable TV and no ice rink aspirations) and a new dryer outlet. So I called the Sears helpline people and this is how the conversation went:

Me: "I'm changing out my old dryer power cord for a new one. I'd like some advice."

Sears: "Sir, we recommend you hire a qualified electrician for this type of work."

Me: "Hey, it's three wires, I think I can handle it. Now just tell me, which screw thingy does the red wire hook onto in the new cord?"

Sears: "I'm sorry, sir, we cannot advise you...[long silence and big sigh]...and...sir...you're probably going to electrocute yourself. Do you know that 240 volts can kill you?"

And then the Sears guy politely and wisely ended the call. For the record, I was successful in changing out the cord. So you see, I DO have experience doing stupid electrical things. (As an aside, I'd like to thank that Sears guy for his prayers when we got off the phone.)

Nevertheless, this clear stroke of past luck and my college degree did not stop me from furtively reaching out to jiggle the ice-encrusted branch — to see if perhaps I could jar it loose. Or award myself the shock of a lifetime. Now I know what you're probably thinking. "This guy is an idiot." And you would be correct.

But I did make sure I was safe. Against her wishes, I insisted that my girlfriend, Mary, watch me from the kitchen window. That way, she could save me if something happened. This makes about as much sense as following a drunk friend home in your car to make sure he doesn't have an accident.

It was almost dusk and the neighborhood Christmas lights were starting to twinkle on, house by house in the icy beauty. I'm sure I would've made a fine Christmas display myself. Rivaling the plastic Santa that I rescued from an impertinent roadside death has long been a goal of mine.

And speaking of death — giving the branch a tap did NOT send electrical current coursing through my veins, thank you very much. But all it took was one good jiggle for me in Mary's rubber dishwashing gloves to realize this was not a good idea. Dying in yellow gloves with pink-polka-dotted fringe at the ends just didn't seem like a good way to go.

After the jiggle, I quickly removed my hand. The branch did a little see-saw action and I had visions not of sugarplums, but of my skeleton break-dancing like GrandMaster Flash. For a moment, I imagined I'd be lit up like an old cartoon for Mary to see from the kitchen window. No sparks or electrical snarls were even necessary for me to slowly back away from the branch. And the power line. At that moment, I realized that I was pretty lucky to be retaining my hand. Let alone my conciousness.

So today my plan is to call and have a professional remove the branch. Somebody with some big, thick rubber gloves...and maybe a rubber suit to match. A helmet would also be good in case that branch decides to get smart.

I need to call the power company to do this. Except now the power company sends me online billing which goes into my junk box. And I can't remember what their name is to look it up. They used to be simply called, KCP&L, for Kansas City Power and Light. Now they're called one of those weird merger / bottled water / prescription drug names like Avaya or Avendis or Awwecouldn'tthinkofanythingEASYlikeKCPandL.

So here I sit, with power to spare, a branch threatening to end it, no cable TV, a tacky Santa, and a definite loss of memory. Hey, care to join me in some ice skating? Just don't run into that...ZZZZT...ZZZZT...


Copyright 2007 by Steve White. All rights reserved in all media, not to be used or reproduced without the author's express written consent or Plastic Santa will come after you.

How I Lost My Way in College

I have a friend whose daughter leaves for her first year in college next week. My friend is of course both excited and ambivalent about it. She recently told me there are moments when she wants to hold onto her daughter for fear of the inevitable...losing her little girl...but then there are other times when she wants to show this headstrong young woman the door. It got me to thinking.

I remember when I left for my freshman year. I was the third kid in my family to fly the coop so there wasn't a lot of ceremony. Thankfully, my mom did make my favorite dinner, chicken and dumplings and lemon meringue pie. Then I gave the requisite (and heartfelt in this kid's case) kisses and hugs and left for my university and my new life in my rusty, '79 Toyota Celica.

It was only a two-hour trip but it ended up closer to three as I drove around lost that evening. Near but somehow not ON the beautiful Mizzou campus. I was plying a residential street, car still loaded down, rear and side windows crammed with clothes crates, stereo speakers, rolled-up posters, a pillow and a lava lamp — clearly the carriage of a scholastic vagabond. I drifted past folks in front porch swings as the sweet August dusk fell upon us and the singing locusts like orange cotton gauze.

Baffled at how I somehow kept missing my FIVE-STORY destination, I finally, furtively chatted up one of the mothers who seemed to be multiplying in front yards left and right.

"Um...ma'm? Um...which way is the, um...Wolpers...dorm?"

The kindly woman in front of me chuckled and put her hand on my arm in a soothing manner. (Luckily she didn't do that thing where a mom licks her thumb to remove chocolate from a child's chin, although it would've been justified.) Then she blurted, "Oh, honey, we were WONDERIN' when the hell you'd stop!"

It seems I was on Stewart Road, an innocent mistake as it ran all the way into campus near my elusive dorm. I had the address wrong and was only short by about two miles. Regardless, I'm sure that neighborhood was somewhat...apprehensive...about my future that evening. And perhaps our nation's.

So I'll assume as you pack them up and see them off to the heady adventure we call "college"...that you've already given your son or daughter good direction. Now just make sure they have good DIRECTIONS...

Christmas Past

Sorry no recent posts, I've been busy writin' ads for The Man. So here's an essay from my first book (the second is in the works, stay tuned!) that I thought you might enjoy this time of year. Be Merry!

Personal note: This essay is dedicated to Jean Shepherd. He's the guy who wrote and narrated the stories (among many others) that the film "A Christmas Story" is based on. He is also a BIG reason why I enjoy writing. Unfortunately Jean passed away shortly before I could ask him to write the foreword of my book. So I named a certain mischievous friend in the book after him in homage to Jean and his wonderful talent.

I'd also like to acknowledge my buddy Paul who called me last night to say hey after a long absence. Paul brings a lot of light to the world. Plus he's a GOOF. And hey, that's cool.

Christmas Past
by Steve White
excerpted from the book Family Vacations & Other Hazads of Growing Up



If you pull and pull and pull, you might finally rip Stretch Armstrong in half. Which is what my brother Jeff and I finally did on one rainy afternoon. He was constructed of one of those space-age polymers and filled with a purple gel, his “giving” lifeblood. Not my brother, mind you, but Stretch Armstrong.

You see, Stretch arrived three years earlier, courtesy of Santa, back when Santa was special to me, must have been about Christmas 1975. It was Christmas Eve, and all four of us kids (besides my brother and me, two other humanoids — often referred to as sisters — shared my parents’ abode) gleefully anticipated the booty to come.

Rumor had it that Santa was on his way for a personal appearance. My folks had even gone so far as to put a blue bulb into our porch light, signaling the big galoot (Blue Light Santa, not to be confused with K-Mart Santa) that ours was definitely a place to stop for milk and cookies and good cheer.

Our pine tree glimmered in front of the living room window. It had these fun little horn ornaments that I’d always try to belt out a tune on. At least ‘til I got that Smoky Range Rifle. The one I couldn’t live without. I fired it in the front hall and watched in awe as the blue wisps poured out. (Right before I got my fanny smacked for doing so in the house.) That Stretch-Armstrong year, my mother came home one frosty evening and issued her standard request to me, with a twist.



“Stevie, please bring in the groceries but DON’T look in the bags.” There was just one problem with that. His name was Pulsar. Pulsar, the only action figure ever with a see-through chest, allowed you to pump a button on his back and make his heart pump and blood flow. You could see inside his whole chest cavity, guts and all. A hero to the free world and another of my must-have requests, he beckoned to me from a sack that fell over sideways on the seat. Honest, I didn’t peek in that bag or even cause it to fall over.

But it was at that moment that I began to gather Santa and my folks had a lot more in common than being older than me. The handwriting on Santa’s gift cards looked suspiciously like my mother’s. Now I had nearly irrefutable evidence that it was indeed my mother’s shopping that cued Santa.

So what did I do? I told Jeff. How could I not share this breakthrough with my older brother and best friend? Being the wise eight-year-old that he was, he wisely suggested we investigate this evidence when it was safe...when our folks were gone for the night.

It didn’t take long for my parents to disappear. With four bratty kids, you’d be headed out the door, too. We must have been good little detectives that Friday night, because we unearthed a ton of loot. Of undeniable proof, once and for all, that Santa really was a myth, a fake, a chump. Oh, the disappointment. The pain! The lies! The new electronic baseball game we found hidden in the top of my parents’ closet!

“Batteries, batteries! Go get the batteries from Snoopy!” Jeff excitedly whispered.

We got over that Santa thing real quick. Carefully so as not to attract any undue attention from the humanoids — who would gladly have us thrown into an alligator pit for peeking at our presents — I jogged up to the bedroom Jeff and I shared. Where’s my Snoopy radio? Where is my Snoopy radio? Think, boy, think! Where did you leave it?



Ah, yes — in the basement, behind the furnace. The one place in our home full of eerie darkness and assorted spiders. The one place where my sisters would never dare to tread upon a peaceful afternoon with Snoopy, WHB-71 Oldies and me. I jetted to the basement and discovered Snoop just where I thought he’d be. Deftly removing the nine-volt battery from his tail, I flew back upstairs. By this time I had attracted the interest of certain other parties. But before they could say anything, I put on the turbo again and left them in my Oscar-the-Grouch slipper dust.

I flipped the light on in my room and closed the door to make my sisters think I was hiding there. But then I doubled back and dashed into my parents’ closet instead. Where I found my brother waiting patiently. Approximately 17.5 seconds had passed since I left him.

“Wow! That was fast! Did you get — ”
“Shhh! Chris and Bree are out there!” I warned.

We huddled in silence behind a rack of my Dad’s dress shirts as our sisters frantically searched the house for us.

“Steve! Jeff! Where are you guys?! Where are you!” Shrill voices pierced the air. Followed by customary threats. “I’m tellin’! You’re gonna get in biiig trouble if you don’t tell us where you are! I’ve got your Snoopy radio!”

Fools! That “I’ve got your...” was the oldest trick in the book. They had no idea where Snoopy was, and if they ever dared to take him they knew the reign of terror that awaited their precious little dollies. ‘Twas of no consequence, though. Thinking we had somehow escaped into the night, they abandoned the search. Besides, Donny and Marie were waiting on TV downstairs. Free at last!

“Okay, here, you be the pitcher, and I’ll bat!” my brother grinned. The game was on Jeff’s Christmas list, so childhood etiquette naturally let him bat first.

I had my choice of screwballs, change-ups, fastballs. There must have been five or six pitches. This truly was an excellent electronic baseball game, though kids today would consider it an Ice Age connect-the-dots. We played six action-packed innings before we decided it was time to put it up ‘til Christmas or the next time our folks left, whichever came first.


It wasn’t easy getting that contraption back in its box, cords and all, but we managed it without attracting an interrogation later that week. When we put away the baseball game we discovered Pulsar again, and some girly stuff for my sisters. It was going to be a happy Christmas at our White House.

A few weeks later, Santa made his Christmas Eve appearance. He brought me Pulsar and Stretch Armstrong and a Big Bird watch which I still have. He brought Jeff Stretch Monster (Armstrong’s nemesis) and a baseball game that we somehow already knew how to play. And he gave my sisters a bunch of girly stuff which didn’t mean much to me except that it presented another opportunity to torment them.

Jeff and I did our best to act extremely surprised that year. To this day, I have no idea whether my folks ever knew about our pre-season peeking. And I’d rather keep it that way. Call it the magic of Christmas, the magic of childhood or both...but some things mean more when they’re left to glisten in the cobwebs of time.

Copyright 2001, 2005 Steve White. All rights reserved in all media. Okay to forward but please keep author and copyright info intact or you will face stiff penalties, including my older sister's Grizzly Claws of Death. Like the story? Order the book at http://www.SteveWhiteWrites.BlogSpot.com

Back from Katrina; MOOF! in tow

This is the gang of nefarious animal rescuers I hooked up with. Can you pick out the two Canadians and the Iowan? Answer at bottom of post.




Famous Amos and me (cookie in hand) corral one of the "vicious dogs circling in packs" on the streets of The Big Easy. Photo: Alex Brandon, New Orleans Times-Picayune







Left KC on Saturday, September 10, arrived Sunday afternoon via my trusty Honda Element.

I cannot describe the stench of massive death, but those of you who know, understand. We managed to rescue about 100 dogs and cats in the three full days I was on the ground there. I would have stayed longer but one of my own dogs was just diagnosed with cancer and I had to come home as she needs 24-hr care now. It was a heartwrenching decision, but I took solace in that there were many vols to replace me in the field. I might try to go back in a few weeks, we'll see.

Many parts of Orleans seem totally unsalvageable. I can only imagine they will have to bulldoze and start over. The homes I was in (and had to break into to pluck out nearly skeleton-ized but somehow alive dogs and cats and oh yeah, a goose and some parrots, and a cayman alligator) were covered in mold and nasty Katrina bile from floor to ceiling, especially the ones that had been sealed up.

To my great and excited surprise, my rescue partner and I were picked up Weds by the military and a SWAT team (from a state that shall remain unnamed to protect these guys whose orders were NOT to pick up pets), all packing very serious heat. We were driven around for several hours on what is called a "6-by" -- a large flat-bed military truck -- and guided to homes/apts where guardsmen, etc. had heard/seen pets in distress. One of these guys was about 6'3" and every bit of 250 lbs of muscle. He was especially effective at swinging what must have been a 40-lb sledge over his head and breaking down iron gates. In that building, we found a beautiful Husky and a Golden who were oh-so-glad to meet us.

That one rescue made the day for these guys; they were snapping photos like there was no tomorrow and I believe I saw more than one moist eye among the seven pairs that escorted us. Knowing they witnessed so much death, I was glad they had something positive to take home. They also took the Husky back with them to their barracks.

I decided that the official dog of poorer NO is the Pit Bull, with Rotty being a close second. We picked up a ton of each of these breeds, most of whom were completely friendly. I cannot tell you how gratifying it felt to see two Pit Bulls running excitedly down a deserted, decrepit street to meet us. We had been trying to get this couple for two days, but the male was in an upstairs apartment and fiercely defended his territory whenever anyone approached. The street was neutral, so they were happy to join us there.

Those two were in really good shape. A lot of the others were not. My partner and I freed another Pit that was chained up with one of these "I have a small penis" chains (an overly heavy, huge chain) along with his brother. These two were in five to seven feet of water for what must have been a week or so. They had to clamber atop a pile of, literally, JUNK to keep from drowning. The one we snagged was nearly skin and bones; the other one, well, he suffers no more, that's all I can say.

I hooked up with a great group out of Seattle called Pasado's Safe Haven. They have a triage facility southwest of NO in Raceland, with vets, techs, and their own vols, in a big horse barn that is ideally suited to housing Katrina's smallest victims. The people who are loaning the use of their property have a permanent good karma ticket as far as I'm concerned.

I made the NO Times-Picayune (see photo at top of post) with a rescue of a rat terrier. (Can anyone say MOOF?) A couple of NO utility guys grabbed me and drove me to another dog they saw but which we did not find, then I spotted this MOOF dog. I am calling her Opal but heck I should call her MOOF! Ha. (For those who don't know, MOOF! is an old-school Apple Computer character.)

I have this dog home with me now in KC as well as another one who has a large flesh wound on his back from God-knows-what. I'm calling him Louie in honor of that NO hornblower. They will go to great homes until/if/when they are claimed by their owners. Which imho is highly unlikely as I found these guys in a 'hood which will likely be 'dozed.


This is Louie, the lab/border mix now in KC with me along with Opal/MOOF!. When we found him, he had about 3' of chain hanging from his neck (somehow he had broken the chain, or more likely Katrina did it for him) and a 4"x5" open wound on his back. He is getting surgery Monday to close the wound.

In times when we could not capture an animal, we did open doors/windows and leave food and water. One house had five cats IN A CAGE with small, empty bowls and a lot of feces. Those ones we did retrieve. Thank God they were somehow still alive 16 days out. I'm not making any judgements, but please, if you don't/can't take your pet/s in a disaster, leave at least A MONTH of food and water and an open egress for them.

If you want to help, please foster/adopt a Katrina pet, adopt ANY pet from your local shelter, go down there and volunteer at a shelter in MS or LA, and/or make a donation to these
folks. Pasado's group is the real deal and does a TON of great advocacy and care for animals who would otherwise be mistreated or worse.

Unfortunately I had never been to the Big Easy, but I will be back for the rebuild celebration whenever that is. I know it is a dangerous city with a bad reputation, but the people we encountered met us with open arms and hearts; I cannot say enough about the kindnesses I witnessed and received. God bless and steady every last one of them from this terrible shock. The great majority of rescued pets met us with wagging tails and a shower of kisses, even in their weakened condition. God bless them, too. Like the great people there, they are survivors and will be stronger for having made it through.

A big God bless to the military and police who are there as well, doing a great job of securing and helping, with great concern along the way. I met people from NJ, NY, OK, WA, CO, and saw a convoy of Minneapolis emergency vehicles en route while on my way home. It was all a powerful reminder to me of our great capacity for HUMANITY in the worst of times.

I was also amazed and honored to meet two guys from Denver who loaded a large farm tractor equipped with a bucket on the front for plowing debris. On their trailer was spray-painted: Team America Katrina Clean-Up. They stayed for two weeks which means they arrived just a few days after Katrina hit.

The air was fetid with sewage and death; a mask was needed in many areas. A lot of the homes looked as if people had left in the midst of dinner -- pots with food in them on the stove, plates on the table, rubber boots by the door, attic accesses open with ladders hanging down. The flood lines were clearly visible on the homes and businesses. Many buildings had missing roofs and sides. There was muck, flotsam and jetsam nearly everywhere. I saw colossal barges, 500' x 200', aground and piled up on one another like so many toys a quarter mile from the lake/river. It was unbelievable.

Golden found running crazy in apartment building; this guy was lucky enough to have food on hand. Er, paw.




Here's the huge dude with the wonder sledge; all these guys worked unpaid OT to take us around. America's finest. Shot while truck was in motion. Actually worked out better since the cutoff hides his identity and the other guy's a bit. The guy in back said that in five years of being a cop in some of the worst disasters our nation has seen (ahem), he had never seen anything like the destruction Katrina wrought.


And a sunset on the farm that hosted us the first afternoon I arrived; after that, I was well occupied at day's end. At first I thought those weeds were BUDS. No such luck, ha. A sugar cane field is right behind them.

Sorry I didn't get much/any of the destruction; I didn't really want to remember it and there wasn't much time for shooting.
May God help New Orleans. In the meantime, please do what you can as well. She will soon fade from the headlines, but it will be a long time before she's back on her feet again.




Now for the answer to the Canadians and Iowan question: Ken, the gentle but certifiably wry fellow (he writes computer programs that map the brain's neural pathways, or something like that) in the green shirt, is originally from one of my favorite cities that I have yet to visit: Vancouver. Kim, in the white tee and specs, leans on supercool Amber the wonder tech who's next to wildchild Tracy who's holding her purse, I mean, pet carrier. Kim is sweet as pie and hails from one of my other favorite cities, Toronto. Go there if you get the chance, it is beautiful. And the Iowan, well, isn't it obvious? Brad is the giant-hearted vet in the SAMPLES Colorado shirt. It's an Iowa thing. Raised on flat land, you long for mountains. Which is probably why he chose to move to Seattle. And why I want to move in that general direction. All great people, these. I was honored to meet and work with them.

Laugh So Hard Milk Flies Out Your Nose.

If you're looking for something fun to read, or for info on the book Family Vacations & Other Hazards of Growing Up, you've come to the right place. What is it? It's a book about growing up and all the silly stuff that happens along the way. Here's what a few people have said about it:


“Charming...fabulous...beautiful. Better than anything coming out of New York!”
— Judith Regan, host of Judith Regan Tonight, Fox News Channel, NYC


“Hilarious! Reading this book is like walking into a sitcom. I didn’t think anybody else’s family was as crazy as mine!”
— Debbie Darr, Kansas City


“Funny, charming, warm and well-paced. White has done everything right.”
— Winner, 10th Annual Writer’s Digest International Book Awards


“Steve White takes the most mundane items and turns them into moments of hilarity. It’s Leave it to Beaver meets The Wonder Years.”
— Joyce Dixon, Southern Scribe


“If you’re looking for a great read and a good laugh, take this trip back to a time you will remember fondly.”
— Nan O’Connor, Atlanta


“To wit, lots of miles and tons of smiles. Readers of any generation will identify with his tales of growing up. This author takes you on a welcome and gentle journey.”
— Omaha World Herald


“It’s great nostalgic humor...because we were all there. All of these adventures are like new episodes in a favorite TV show that has been off the air for years.”
— Bill and Gayle Sutcliffe, Berkeley, California


"Family Vacations is all about growing up in the Midwest, pestering sisters as an art form, and dealing with wacky parents. Many of the essays are of the laugh-out-loud variety, while others will merely cause one to snigger and snort."
— Bob Spear, Heartland Reviews


If you'd like a signed/personalized copy (in crayon, no less!), just email me at steve [at] stevewhitewrites.com and I'll take care of you. Quantity discounts are available. Retailers welcome. And thanks for taking a look. If you've already read it and are wondering when my next book will arrive, hang tough; I hope to complete it in the next year.

Read on for an interview conducted by book maven Joyce Dixon of Southern Scribe. Joyce is also a member of the National Book Critics Review Circle.



FEATURED AUTHOR
 
The Guy Who Never Grew Up

An Interview with Steve White

by Joyce Dixon  
 

There's a lot to be said for not growing up.  I'm not talking about the Peter Pan Syndrome, because Steve White has dealt with life's tragedies in a very grown-up fashion.  What I am talking about is hanging on to boyish charm, creative spirit, fearlessness, and a sense of fun.  Steve White takes the most mundane items and turns them into moments of hilarity. His memoir Family Vacations & Other Hazards of Growing Up is "Leave it to Beaver" meets "The Wonder Years".

Steve White splits his time between advertising and writing projects. He is an independent contractor, who has built quite a reputation.  His advertising campaigns for Pro Skate Shop, Pratt Corporation, the Indiana State Fair, Hoosier Lottery and FUZE Design have won Addy Awards. His own site FamilyV.com won a Gold Addy Award and the Judges' Award. 

He has also done successful campaigns for philanthropic organizations.  White created a record-setting United Way television/radio campaign, which raised $32,000,000 ($250K over goal).  His print campaign for the Governor's Council on Drunk Driving was awarded the Citation of Excellence.  Literacy is an important issue for him.  He has been a literacy volunteer, and while on his book tour, encourages others to become involved.

Steve White was born in Knoxville, Tennessee and lived a time in Memphis, before his family settled in Kansas City, Missouri when he was six.   Steve was lucky to have parents who encouraged creativity and nonsense.  Being allowed to let his imagination flow, with the drive of his late wife Jennifer, has made Steve White a writer to watch.

You seem to find humor in every situation.  I have never laughed so hard reading the copyright/legal page of a book.  Is it hard for you to be serious, or do you naturally see everything from the funny side? 

-- First, thanks for laughing at the copyright page. I put that stuff there as a little reward for folks who venture so close to what is usually boredom. Yes, I try to find the humor in life where possible. Even dark humor -- I sometimes call myself a widower just to see how people react. It's kind of hard for them to laugh, because they're really laughing at me, at my situation. But I try to show them that I can have a sense of humor about it, too, as tragic as it is. And widower is such an old term, it's kind of lost in modern language. No, it's not hard for me to be serious when I need to be. But again, I do try to find a smile where I can. 

In your book, it is clear that your sense of humor is a trait from your mother.  Besides plastic ants in the food, what did she do to set you on this twisted course? 

Ha, yeah, I get a lot of humor from my mom. My dad can be funny, too, but my mom has the Goof License. It's really fun to watch her (and join her) in messing with really serious people. Her sister, my Aunt Connie who is also in the book, in the story about where my mom asks her "Does he have hair under his arms yet?" -- my Aunt Connie is the type of person who always blushes at these types of questions. They're not even about her, but they make her blush, so it's just a lot of fun to watch that or simply watch her wheels turn (and spin) as she tries to decipher whatever practical joke we're playing. It's also fun because I see a lot of my dear grandmother in Connie's expressions of "Ohhh -- you guys!"  -- my grandmother is also in the book's dedication along with my wife.

Regarding what else my mom did besides the plastic ants, that one essay sums it up pretty well...the race-car noises, the cheerleading, the Shel Silverstein books, giving my dad a breath mint meant for dogs and watching his mouth get all frothy (okay, that wasn't in the book but may be in my next one), the Oreo sickness (see Vacation Aggravation), and just her everyday humor. She's about the most disorganized person I know next to myself, but she is golden.
I have another Aunt, named Debbie, who is also real sharp, a real goofy gal. But even then, there are opportunities. On a recent Kansas City visit from her home in Omaha, Deb left her cell phone at my folks' house. I happened to be there to answer her call (she borrowed my cousin's phone to make the "Have you seen my phone?" call); so my little sister and I were both on the phone there with my mom just chuckling in the background, firing all kinds of inane questions at Deb in a very serious manner.
 
Like "Can you please describe the ring tone? What kind of buttons are on the phone?" We had her going on that for like three minutes before she realized we were just being REALLY obnoxious. Turns out the phone was in her purse the whole time, which made it all the more uproarious.

On that note, Deb was married [to my mom's and Aunt Connie's brother], Denny, for nearly 20 years. Besides being close to them from the family connection, Deb and Denny both also have a wacky, witty sense of humor which fortunately has also been inherited (indoctrinated would be closer to the truth in my family) by their two kids. Denny is the kind of person who can walk into a room and make you laugh just by looking at you.

Deb and Denny would visit us when we were kids and leave behind these "Stupid Family" books -- "The Stupids Step Out" was one title. These books are packaged like kids' books, and they are to an extent, but they are also hilarious for adults. One time, my little sister Bree and I walked up the street to visit our parents at their friends' home...wearing socks on our ears. This is something they do in the Stupid series. So you see Deb and Denny were/are another twisted humor influence. Sadly, though, Denny was killed in a car accident seven years ago. But through that, Deb has maintained her humor, as I have through losing my wife. I think losing one's spouse tempers you like steel in fire -- you're stronger as a result or you just fall apart. Either way, you have a challenge -- as my mom wrote to me in a card she gave me last week to mark the second anniversary of Jen's death. That challenge is to live, to continue with your life so that you may honor your lost loved one, so that only one person and not two have died.

It is also not lost on me that Deb and I and the rest of my family are IN the same family, share the same humor and have endured these tragic losses...we are definitely meant to be together, to try to shine our light on each other and outward. It's a soul group kind of thing.

My wife, Jen, also has this wacky sense of humor, or at least an appreciation of that. She was also a speaker and trainer; watching her on stage was like watching live electricity -- she would have an entire room smiling within moments. A lot of her training aids were kids' toys -- bendable monsters, rubber balls, etc. She even made people wear safari hats in one of her last trainings. Whenever something funny happens, I know Jen is there laughing with us.

Tell us about your screenplays.  Are they sitcoms or feature length?

My screenplays are features. Only one is a comedy, and a dark one at that. The other two have some comedic moments, but one is a suspense sci-fi and the other is a historical drama. Yeah, I'm all over the place with my scripts, but I like those other genres, too. I haven't written any sitcoms.

Have you done stand-up or comedy writing? 

A lof of people ask that, as I guess my book kind of reads like stand-up: I did co-write and act in a couple of comedic shorts several years ago. One was a Monty Python-esque thing; the other was an Entertainment Tonight kind of send-up. I'm sure they were funny, but only to my friends and I who put them together! But when I speak on my book, I try to throw in some humor, even outside of the reading. I feel life should be stand-up comedy; it's too short not to smile when you can.

Your wife Jennifer died from a clot following an international flight (The problems with blood circulation and cramped space on long flights are now being addressed).  How did she affect your writing? 

Jen was and is my inspiration, along with a few other close people in my life. She was my sounding board. When I finished an essay -- and I wrote the book an essay at a time, in one essay per sitting -- I'd always have her read it. She'd say, ehh, this doesn't work for me, or this, this is good, etc. Sometimes she would also hear me working. I might be giggling in my office at some story, and she'd go, "Working on your book again? Hurry, I want to read what your writing!"

She also loved the essays where she was a player. She once said, "I think I should be in ALL your essays!"  Of course she was kidding, but it was funny. I had to explain to her that this was a book about growing up, and she didn't come into my picture there until the end of that.

Jen was also instrumental in the book coming to fruition. It took me four or five years to finish writing it -- I did it at night and weekends -- and went through some agent adventures, personal doubt, a million edits, procrastination, the usual writer stuff. One of my big regrets is she didn't get to see it produced (at least while I had her with me in physical form) -- the proofs arrived while she was in the hospital, right before she died. They sat unopened for a few months while I decided if I was going to stick around or not. I chose to go forward with the book and with my life as a tribute to Jen.

Even with the donation of Jennifer’s organs, you made it humorous with sending a warning label with the transplants.  The warning label read -- "Watch out: infectious enthusiasm will invade the recipient's body with this transplant."  How is laughter a healing tool for grief? 

Laughter is definitely a great tool for grief; I think the words "healing force for grief" fit better in my situation because both laughter and love have allowed me to continue with my life. I know that for me -- and this might sound corny but it is just how I feel -- my goal in life is to make other people smile. I feel that is why I was put on this Earth. The more people I make smile, the closer I feel to my wife and to my Creator and to my fellow man/woman. Think about it; when you're having fun, time passes quickly. When you're angry, upset, depressed, the clock does not move. The faster time moves for me, the more fun I can have, the sooner I will be with Jen again. Sometimes I feel selfish (I even feel selfish giving you my outlook on this)  because it's so much fun to make people smile, and if it's so much fun, how can it be good? Well, I just know it must be good to try and brighten someone's day.

One of my favorite stories was where you (age 8) got a chance to be an altar boy and came out in the priest vestments.  Catholic humor is not new, but is there something about the Catholic experience that sets up comic situations?

Thanks, that is also among my favorite essays in the book. I wondered about the Catholic humor thing, it isn't new, but I decided if I can put my own twist on it, it can still be fun. I think everyone can relate to going to church or religious training as a kid and at some point NOT wanting to be there, so I don't know that it's so much a Catholic humor thing as a religious humor thing...people remember the revivals, the Sunday School, the temple, bar-mitzvahs, whatever the religion, organized religion can be overbearing at times -- especially when you're a kid. And everyone knows someone Catholic with crazy stories, or perhaps has been to a Catholic wedding or funeral wherein the non-Catholics try to follow along with the sit-stand-kneel gig.

What are family reunions like?  Do you see the humor cycle continuing in next generation?  Are plastic ants still appearing on the dinner table?

My mom's side of the family gets together en masse at Thanksgiving, and has since before I was born. Today, that makes for about 40 or 50 people. Family reunions are a lot of fun. There is a lot of silliness that goes on; for instance, the past few years have seen dinner-roll vandalism. That is, one of my cousins (and this 40-year-old could have easily written Chapter 5 -- How to be Annoying) buys about a hundred extra rolls and surreptitiously decorates the home of whoever is hosting TG that year -- with the rolls. They find rolls for months afterward. He's going to have to find a new gig, though; people are onto him. He also has two teens who are witness to this activity, but I haven't seen any mischief from them yet. My sister's kids, though, yes, I think they will make fine jokesters if not actual entertainers. The five-year-old, Savannah, insists on performing song and dance numbers at any family and/or public gathering. I think she was in vaudeville in a previous life.

Back to Thanksgiving: we also have deer rides. For that one, my other cousin has this huge house, and she puts these giant reindeer figures in her front hall for Christmas decorations. So a few of us usually ride them like cowboys; we take pictures, too. The ants stay home for Thanksgiving; it's been a while since my mom has gotten them out, but it wouldn't surprise me to see them again. They have kind of been usurped by my little sister's remote control whoopee cushion. Which was banned from her workplace. Yes, Joyce, this is my family.

My other cousin, Chris, or Chrisser as call him...he's my Aunt Connie's son, and he definitely is a carrier of the silly gene and is passing it onto his son, Drew. Tracy, his wife, is also a nut. Chrisser and I have this ongoing gag called the Vollmer Millions. Our grandparents were anything but wealthy; they lived in the same small home for over sixty years in the middle of Omaha. But Chrisser and I always joke about finding clues to where the Vollmer Millions are socked away in that old house (which has now been sold outside of the family).

On your book tour, you are promoting literacy volunteerism.  How did this become a cause for you?  What has the reception been so far?

I've been doing literacy work for about five years now. As a writer, I cannot imagine what my world would be like if I couldn't read. We live in a written-word world. For those who are functionally illiterate, life is a series of compromises. You become totally dependent on luck, survival skills and the kindness of strangers, who aren't always that. The closest comparison I can come to is remembering bits of your Spanish or French language you took in high school -- and then living in a world where all you see are those few words you can recognize. You know those few words, MAYBE, but what about the rest?

Before moving to Kansas City, we lived in Cincy. I worked with three guys there. They were preparing to take their GED exam. All very bright people, ages 17 to 47. Also very nice. And patient with me as I studied the math examples. It was ironic that a writer who abhors math would end up tutoring folks in exactly that. But that was part of the GED.

The gentleman I'm working with right now is named Ken. He's about 65 and didn't go to high school. He started at the first book in the Laubach program three years ago -- that is basically first grade for the adult learner. Today, he's on Book 4 in Laubach and we're halfway through MY book, which is an exciting honor for me. What is also neat about Ken is that he's a kidney transplant recipient. I started working with him about six months before Jen died. I didn't know he was an organ recipient until after Jen died. Didn't know, or at least didn't put it together until he thanked me for donating her organs. It was quite a sight to see a 65-year-old man and a 33-year-old, in tears at the library. Ken is an amazing person. He is the stereotypical man's man, real matter-of-fact. But beneath that is this shiny, sparkling, seasoned soul who frets over his kids' decisions and wants only good for them, no matter how much they frustrate him at times. He also works with kids who are on dialysis at a summer camp every year. And does a lot of volunteering with Alzheimer's patients. And he even likes my book. Wow.

The reception I've gotten has been good, except from, ironically enough, my hometown KC Star book critic. He won't review my book, even though I have a lot of events where I speak on literacy and hand out info on how to volunteer. And the Star featured one of my essays in their own book The Best of Remember When. Everyone else I've spoken with has been quite receptive to my literacy push. In each market on my tour, I try to get in with the media via the local literacy push -- I lean on my wagon and talk about how one in 10 drivers can't read road signs, then I give out a local phone number for people to call so they can volunteer or come to the book event to learn more. That's television. Radio is the same, but talk radio is different. Those guys usually try to berate me as if I'm some kind of left-wing lunatic; I get a lot of "No way! You made that up, that 1-in-10 figure!" It can be pretty odd to get that kind of reception, but I always just stay cool and rebut them. I guess it's their job to question anything of social value. Newspaper and print media are a little tougher -- they need a lot of lead time and I haven't been as organized there as I'd like to be. I do get some feature coverage, especially on my literacy efforts.

Besides your mother, who inspired you in writing humor (authors, TV shows, etc.)?

I come from a wacky family, even besides my mom, but outside of that...I grew up reading Lewis Grizzard. I thought he was hilarious. His articles were the ones my mom used to rip out of the paper and save for me. Jean Shepherd is another writer who inspired me...I didn't read his books until after I had written mine, but he wrote the movie "A Christmas Story" which always enthralled me and still does. I named characters in the book after Grizzard and Shepherd and also mentioned them on the acknowledgments page. Gary Larson (creator of The Far Side cartoon) was also an influence; My mom always had his cartoons on our fridge and of course all his books. I also thank a few of my high school English teachers in the book. Mrs. Berryman and Mrs. Page-Edwards both encouraged me to write, though I certainly wasn't awake enough at the time to realize it.

Jules Verne and Edgar Allan Poe were also influences in that I love that they take me places I've never been -- and I also strive to do that in this first book, but to the opposite end: taking folks where they've been but have long forgotten. I even aped a little Poe in one of my essays. These guys I also thank on the acknowledgments page, but I only used Jules and Allan to identify them.

To a more subtle degree would be Charles Schulz, Peanuts creator. I also grew up surrounded by all things Schulz, and his observations on life always bring me a smile. Same with Erma Bombeck. My mom always had her books around the house. I can't deny Dave Barry also inspired me. He is a funny guy. Also, Bill Cosby. I grew up listening to his comedy albums from the late '60s...great stuff. I'm sure you could find a little of all these people in my writing.


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