Monday, September 30, 2013

Ira and Lee

This is a nonsense story I wrote on the way to Nationals this year.

It was a dark and stormy night and Ira Garlett was curled up in bed with his tuba, root beer, and stuffed lizard. Thunder always made him nervous and these three items were a great source of comfort for him. A huge clap of thunder shook the house, and the tuba shivered and crawled under the pillow.
In the next room, Lee sat on the bed with his philosophy, sociology, and molecular chemistry books. he was the studious one in the family and was determined to get his PhD by the age of 19. He didn't dare turn on the light for fear that his mother would make him turn it off, so he read what he could in between flashes of lightning.
There was another tremendous clap of thunder and the root beer began to sob. Ira began a long conversation with the lizard and they talked about pizza and strawberries and kazoos and lions.
A huge flash of lightning lit up the neighborhood and Lee quickly memorized the ionization property of a dormant carbon isotope. After a few minutes, he heard the root beer screaming in fright, so he calmly went into Ira's room to drink it. Ira and the lizard were deep into discussing the best way to slice a lion. (?) When Ira saw Lee reach for the root beer, he began to whimper.
"No! Not my root beer!" he wailed.
"Ira please," said Lee. "Can't you see it's frightened? I'm here to put it out of its misery."
It took some doing, but Lee finally convinced Ira and drank the root beer. It settled down at once and fell asleep.
Lee went back to his room reciting the theorem for cohesive action against a fused sulfur particle.
Ira rolled over and he and the lizard began to plot how to set up a dictatorship over the kitchen.
In the morning, Lee left the house to take his Level 5 Bio-Physics exam. Ira began to morph, as he often did after thunderstorms, and had to be taken to the hospital for a breathing treatment. When he was brought home, he was put to bed, his tuba was confiscated, and he was strictly forbidden to talk to the lizard. The lizard disliked this rule and he growled in his throat and his ears turned orange. Ira took no notice of this, but began to talk to his pterodactyl, which he kept in a small bottle on his dresser. The pterodactyl had found the morph to be extremely funny and was busy giving crude imitations of it.
Lee, meanwhile, had returned home and was celebrating his score of 708 on his Level 5 Bio-Physics exam. He was halfway to his PhD.
Lunch was uneventful.
After lunch, the boys remembered that they had an alligator to mail to the White House. President Obama had specifically requested that it be delivered to the Green Room, for whatever reason. Perhaps he thought it would be more comfortable there than in a swamp. He couldn't have been more wrong. The poor alligator, being used to wet and warm places was quite uncomfortable in the cool, dry Green Room. His skin became dry and crusty and it turned a most horrid shade of yellow. The First Lady came to the rescue with her Exotic Indian Curry and Cayenne lotion. She generously applied three bottles of it to his back and gave him a vigorous massage. The poor creature was horribly allergic to curry and cayenne, and his skin turned blue. He swelled up like a helium balloon and began hovering around about 13 inches off the floor. And there we shall leave him for the first family to find.
But, back to Lee and Ira. They had a terrible time trying to get the Alligator to the post office. First, they had to find him. He was curled up in the dishwasher enjoying the heat and the water. Occasionally, the soap would get in his eyes and make him snort, but for the most part he was ok. When they finally prodded him out of the dishwasher, they ran into another problem as the alligator proceeded to hide under the TV. Ira sighed and went to find the tuba. Lee took the opportunity to review the manipulative propensity of a retrograde moticon. After approximately 26 minutes, the alligator slunk out from under the TV. Quickly, Lee caught him by the tail and sat on him. The alligator, being much annoyed by this new situation, got up and began to sprint. Lee hung on and hollered for Ira, who dropped the tuba and hopped onto the alligator. This effectively prevented the alligator from sprinting and forced him into a slow sort of crawl. He dug his claws into the floor to keep himself from being steered out the door. After the carpet had been successfully shredded and the wood turned to splinters, Lee and Ira finally got him outside. He proceeded to dig his claws into the concrete, but this effort failed miserably and resulted in wearing his claws down to stubs. After that, he meekly allowed himself to be led to the Post Office where the boys ran into the problem of mailing him. The postman took one look at the alligator and fainted. His helper took one look at Ira and retired.
That's as far as I ever got. :)

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Great Uncle Herman and Sammy

Great Uncle Herman and Sammy

“Tell us another story, Great Uncle Herman!” we all cried one night in January.
“All right,” said Great Uncle Herman; and he leaned back in his chair, folded his hands, and began.

“Well now, one cold day in December,” (for that was how he began all stories), “I was opening in the bathroom cabinet to look for my glasses, when I heard a small noise in the shower. I looked in, and what do you think I saw?”
“We can’t guess Uncle Herman! Tell us! Tell us!”
“It was a little elf, just learning how to snap his fingers. Not wanting to frighten the little fellow now, I stood there for some time watching him snap away. After a while, I said:
“Uh, hello sir.”
Well that little elf looked up real quick and said:
“Oh me!” and just like that, he tripped over the drain and fell flat on his stomach.
“Now you see here,” said Great Uncle Herman, “the bottom of that shower was mighty slippery, and as that little man tried to get up, he tripped again and went down the drain.
“Now I was still trying to make sense of all this, but I didn’t want the elf to drown, so I turned on the cold water to float him back up. As soon as the water began to flow down the drain, I heard a shrill cry of:
“Eeeeeyowee!!! That’s cold!”
“I was so startled to hear that, that I turned off the cold water and tried only hot instead. But that only produced another cry.
“Yaaaaa!! That’s hot!”
A little head popped up and then the whole figure appeared.
“Go away.” said the elf. “You’re no help at all. Who are you anyway?”
And I replied:
“I am Herman T. Sherman. And you are..?”
The elf stopped and wrung the water out of his checkered hat.
“I am Samuel The Kindest Of Poor Quiet Santa’s Workers, known to Santa as Sammy T.K.O.P.Q.S.W., and known to you, my dear Herman, as Sammy.
Well I was plumb tired out by this time, so I decided to go to bed, and asked Sammy if he would like to sleep on my pillow. But Sammy said:
“No, you snore. I’ll sleep on the soap dish.” And with one great leap, he jumped off the floor, landed on the soap dish, and fell asleep with his hat over his eyes.
I went to sleep on my bed, because it looked much more comfortable than the soap dish.
At exactly 5:00 the next morning, the elf hopped onto my pillow and called out:
“Wake uuup!! I’m rather hungry, and besides, it’s Christmas.”
“Well now when I heard that, I got up in a hurry and fixed myself a cup of coffee and sat down to consume it. While I was looking around the room at what the elf had done during the night, I heard another screech from Sammy.
“Help! I’m drowning!”
Sure enough, there in my coffee cup, clinging desperately to the edge, hung Sammy. I suppressed a chuckle and gently lifted the poor dripping creature out of my cup and carefully laid him on my napkin.
“I like coffee Mr. Herman, But not that much.
He then showed me what Santa had brought: A bicycle, and miniature sculpture of the Hoover Dam, and a small photograph of Sammy himself.
When I turned to thank Sammy, he was gone. And you know, I’ve never seen him since. But sometimes, I still think I see him wink at me on Christmas morning when I go to look under the tree.

Kaputzka

I can't say that this is completely finished yet, but I'm kind of running out of ideas.


Once upon a time, there was a Kaputzka. Now this Kaputzka was a very gangly creature. He loved eating tennis balls and nuts of a pinkish sort. His best friend was a Slyme, which usually is never described because those who try find it impossible. But the best efforts have described his as about nine inches tall, yellow, and spiny. The Kaputzka often wondered why it was called a Slyme. We now know that it was because of the noise he made when crawling up the wall. It was a bit of a smushy sound, as if one had just walked through a patch of moist socks.

When the Kaputzka and the Slyme first made each other’s acquaintance, it was not at all under pleasant circumstances. The Slyme, being yellow and curled up for sleep, strongly resembled a tennis ball, and seeing as he had not bathed in a week or two, he smelled like a tennis ball too. The Kaputzka took the Slyme in his mouth none too gently and crunched down hard. Fortunately for the Slyme, his spines served as a protection as well as a defense mechanism. The Kaputzka bit down and promptly began to camoil.

“EEENNNNIIIIAAAAAOOOK!”

The Slyme uncurled and wiggled out of Kaputzka’s mouth. He wiped the slime off his spines and glared at the Kaputzka.

“Eeew inak beirh theeeeiiiminameen!” He hollered.

The Kaputzka was scandalized.

“Dano kafinko malinke desrafall!” He hollered back.

And so it went, back and forth, until one or the other of them finally said “Pilaro Mylofarge?” in a tearful sort of way, and so they made up and became friends.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

Stuttering follow-up

Well, I finally got started on a sequel to my essay on stuttering, but I haven't finished it yet. So don't despair, if you were waiting for the follow up to the first one, it's on the way!

Monday, June 1, 2009

Funeral Dirge for Son3

Alas poor child! Poor boy! Poor man!
He hastened to obey the will of his father,
And ended in a fall!
The rock of doom was in his path!
Its presence he did not perceive!
Alas! Alas! It is too late!
He falls! He's down! He's mortally wounded!
The younger brother flies down the path with all possible haste,
But is not in time!
With the great wisdom that younger brothers have,
He bestowed upon our poor injured boy these comforting words:
"Which foot hurts?"
Ah, the wisdom of younger brothers!
Our poor unfortunate fellow was a fabulous fine man!
He excelled at hunting, fishing, and what-not!
(We used to call it debate, now we call it what-not.)
We all shall miss him deeply!
He was a true hero!
We all mourn his passing with tears and black clothing!
We bury him with heavy hearts!
How we will miss him!
Our poor child! Our poor boy! Our poor man!
Our poor friend!




Now that the funeral is over, did anyone bring dessert?

To understand this post, read the two most recent posts at http://jayhawks-quarry.blogspot.com/ .

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Also . . .

I will have to write a "sequel" to this paper. I did, by a twelve day "vacation" overcome stuttering, but I'll make you wait for that until I write the second paper.
:)
Rebecca

To Live With a Stutter/What it is like to Stutter

If you're looking at the title of this post and saying "huh?" don't worry. I did the same thing when I came to that assignment in my English book! It told me to write an interior monologue, but I had never heard of one before!
Anyway, I decided to do my paper on stuttering from the perspective of the stutterer. After all, since I myeslf was a stutterer, I should know what it was like!


To Live with a Stutter
If only I could talk like everybody else does! If only I could sound normal at least once in my life! I am tired of the forced smiles, the awkward nods as responses, and the silly laughs and imitations that come from other people. I am tired of the breathlessness, the tight chest muscles, and the hot flushed faces that come every time I attempt speech.
It really was a lot of fun at the picnic last Saturday, except for when I tried to ask Jacob Mayer how their new baby was. Tight throat, eyes blinking furiously as if I had lived on nothing but caffeine since I was three, words being forced out of the back of my throat and stammering terribly on every syllable. Jacob had given me a weird look and, grinning as if I had just told a joke, had asked me with a deliberate stammer why I talked like that. I had pretended I didn’t care about being teased. After all, he and his brothers were more like brothers to me, and my brothers teased me too, but never about the inability to talk. I had replied as cheerfully as I could that I simply couldn’t help it. Giving me another weird look, he remarked that I always said that, and then ran off to play ball with the other boys.
Mr. Harmon told a really great joke in Chemistry class today. I couldn’t quit laughing about it and I wanted to tell it to David and Mom, but jokes are always a problem. The punch line is always great and goes smoothly every time, but getting up to it poses a huge problem. Once again, my face turns burning red, I struggle to breathe, every muscle in my chest is tight and I feel as though I’m about to burst open. Finally, I get to the punch line. But by that time, something has happened in both the other person and in me, and the joke is no longer funny. Pain and sympathy register in the other person’s eyes and tears well up in mine. The other person manages to recall the joke and laugh at it in an attempt to make me feel better and erase the awfulness of the last few seconds, but it does little good. As I inhale deeply to catch my breath and release the immense amount of tension built up in my chest, neck, throat and face, I choke down a sob. “All I want in the world is to be able to talk like other people! My sister doesn’t like talking to people, why couldn’t she be the one with the stutter while I, who love conversation, speak straight?”
David and I were trying to imitate Pat Brady from the Roy Rogers movies at supper today. I was making funny faces and talking in a somewhat abnormal voice. Whenever I speak in a funny voice, usually much higher than my own, I am, for once, guaranteed fluent speech. After the meal was over, the younger four went into the family room to play, and we soon began hearing a reenactment of the last cowboy film we had seen. Jonathan opened the door and I, hearing the last line spoken, thought of something to follow it up with. I opened my mouth to say “Jonathan”, but something in the back of my throat blocked any sound that might have come. I sat there straining with my mouth hanging open like a dead fish as Jonathan sprinted past me and down the hall to his room. He had no idea I was trying to talk to him.
I worry that I might never get married if I can’t get over this mountain of a problem. I know I’m only 15, but it doesn’t seem too early to start thinking about it, and as I get older, my stutter gets worse, not better. I stutter the worst when I’m talking about something serious, and if I’m ever going to know get to know the guy I’m going to marry, we’ll have to have some serious talks. But who wants to marry a girl who only speaks fluently when she’s being silly? I may as well get used to the fact that I might never get married. But I want to get married! I always take it for granted that I won’t stutter when I grow up, but I don’t know how I’m going to overcome it. I’ve tried for years to overcome it and nothing has worked. I tried adding “um”, “uh”, “and”, or “yeah” onto the beginnings of all my sentences because I didn’t stutter on those words, and if I could get off to a good start at the beginning of a sentence, I was good for the rest of the way. But now I’ve grown so used to saying those little words that I stammer worse on them than I do on the rest of the sentence. I wish like anything that I could just start a sentence with the first word, rather than having to use some other introductory word. It’s been forever since I have been able to do that; I don’t know how long it’s been, and I don’t remember what it’s like. I decided to try it once and see what would happen. We won’t talk about that. Suffice it to say, it wasn’t successful by any stretch of the imagination.
A year or so ago, if I wasn’t thinking about stuttering before I said something, I would be just fine and I wouldn’t stutter. Now, I live in constant fear of stuttering, not just on every word I say, but on every syllable. I often think of something I want to tell Leah at church, and I’ll think about it and practice saying it for a week or so in advance, hoping against hope that it just might go smoothly for once in my life. I am usually disappointed.
Too often, stuttering will become too much for me to bear. I tried to say something to Mom the other day, and begin stammering worse than usual. Every syllable of every word was torture, my face was so hot and I was so tense inside! Suddenly, something inside of me snapped and I let out my breath almost violently. In what was nearly a yell, I exclaimed that I would never stop stuttering and that I was going to give up. Somehow, I never stutter when I am angry. Can I never talk like other people? I often think about and wonder what it would be like to talk without the fear of stuttering. It was a fairytale-like dream. To be able to speak normally. To be able to communicate clearly. To say what I want to say without having to change thoughts, words, or give up altogether. It was wonderful as a dream. It was impossible as a reality.