He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. ~ Psalm 147:3

Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category

What’s in Your Heart?

COVID-19 has done a number on hearts around the globe. It’s made them fearful and angry, frustrated and confused. They’re impatient. Restless. Bored and lonely and just want everything to get back to normal again. At least that’s what my heart has been feeling these days. So, to help keep my mind off the bad and the ugly I created some happy hearts that I hope will brighten your day.

Free for you to use and to share
Click on any picture to enlarge or to begin slideshow

 

If You Believe Everything You Read on the Internet, Don’t!

This is an earwig. I was attacked (pinched) by one a few years ago. It was horrible. Like a zillion bee stings. The pain lasted all day.

I never knew such a bug existed so I didn’t know what it was until I looked it up.

It’s harmless, they said. It doesn’t even bite, they said. They pinch, that’s all.

The next day my arm was swollen but that’s a usual reaction for me after an insect bite, so I wasn’t concerned.

Day three my entire arm was red and swollen. And by day four, it was red hot with streaks running up and down and it looked more like a tree trunk than an arm. That’s when I realized the internet lied to me and went to the doctor.

He was quite alarmed when he saw it and thought I should go to the hospital. I had a bacterial infection. But, I had to go to work. So he prescribed a strong does of Amoxicillin and said if that didn’t work I’d have to go to the hospital. Thankfully, my arm got back to normal within a few days.

So, in spite of how harmless these guys are supposed to be, I murdered one on my back porch this morning. With the big rubber chainsaw blade my youngest grandson outgrew, I whacked and whacked the poor little guy till there was nothing left of him.

NOTHING!

I did feel guilty, though.

But, I got over it.

Real quick.

 

 

Say it with Pictures

My first grade teacher taught her pupils the alphabet using big flash cards with pictures. And for some odd reason, the letter S with a picture of a snake on it was my favorite one and the only one that still sticks out in my mind. So, in my case, a picture is truly worth a thousand words. If you like pictures more than words, then you will like my word art creations.

Free for you to use and to share
Click on any picture to enlarge or begin slideshow

Laughter is Good for What Ales You

There’s so much sadness these days that I thought I’d share a little humor. I got a chuckle and I hope you do, too. Happy Monday!

A Crab’s Life through a Child’s Eyes

Talon, my great-grandson is six going on twenty. He is smart and quirky and extremely perceptive for his age. When he looks at you it’s as if he can see into your soul. I love this little boy. He is truly a gift!

With my granddaughter’s permission, I’ve posted Talon’s written school assignment. It is just too darned cute not to share.

Talon’s perception of a crab’s life . . .

I’m Not Stubborn!

I’d rather have eaten a can of worms than have my hair washed. And my parents would have gladly fed them to me rather than wrestled with me to wash it.

We didn’t have modern conveniences like indoor plumbing, walk-in showers, and bathtubs. We had electricity, though, thanks to one of my dad’s many skills.

And speaking of daddy, he rarely ever raised his voice, never lost his cool and never liked whipping us kids. Mom did, though. She liked law and order and didn’t hesitate to exercise her militant authority when needed. You’d have thought she was the one that served in the army instead of my dad.

But to keep peace with mom, during Saturday’s hair-washing night, daddy reluctantly sat beside the galvanized tub with a long, skinny switch; the kind that wrapped around your legs several times like a leather strap. Mom picked it out.

Like a stern-faced Sargeant, mom sat me down on the stool and leaned my head back, allowing my long red hair to cascade into the metal tub. Then the waterboarding began.

As if being electrocuted, I kicked and screamed and wriggled my slippery, half-naked body free from daddy’s firm grip and flew out the door, across the porch, down the steps, and down the dirt lane. If we had had any neighbors, they would have been standing on their porches with shotguns thinking a mass murderer was on the loose.

We lived in the heart of the woods where the only light we had was the moon and the stars. For a little six-year-old with a big imagination and afraid of the dark, that was just a tiny spark in a cave. Every tree was a leaping bear; every sound a prowling monster looking for children to eat.

Suddenly, I came to my senses and decided I’d rather be drowned than eaten alive and shot like a bullet back into the house.

And there they were, mom standing triumphantly with the pitcher of water in her hand and daddy sitting, seemingly amused, still holding the switch.

There were other Saturday night hair washings. But, remembering the monsters lurking outside in the pitch dark, I stayed glued to the stool. That doesn’t mean I didn’t cry and kick and scream and make it easy for my mother to torture me. Oh, no! She always had to pay for her evil crimes!

When Apologizing is like Eating Dirt

I’ll never forget that day. My brother, Kenny and I were left alone while mom and daddy went to the grocery store. Because my youngest brother, Leonard was too young to stay with us, he always got to go and Kenny and I always had to stay home.

Kenny is four-teen months younger than I and a hundred years wiser. Even as a kid he never sassed, never questioned, and never ran out the door kicking and screaming like a lunatic. He was made of moonbeams and stardust and placed delicately in my mother’s arms.

Me? I was made of cowhide and hurled like a football in her lap.

It was back in the day, long before video games and iPhones and five-hundred TV channels, so we actually had to sit and talk to each other or play pick-up-sticks or ball and jacks or tinker toys or build little log cabins out of Lincoln Logs.

Well, that day was one of those days we got bored with all that. We needed some adventure. The kind of adventure we had before moving into that stupid cramped apartment far away from the woods and trickling streams and giant bullfrogs. The bottom line was we didn’t like living there.

While pacing the living room floor, I glanced out the window and saw the landlord working in her flowerbed. For whatever reason, mom and daddy didn’t like the landlords so I didn’t like them either.

Suddenly, as if being poked with the devil’s pitchfork, I talked Kenny into doing something totally out of character for both of us. We raised the window, stuck out our pea-brain heads and yelled, “Hey old lady Brummel! Hey old lady Brummel!”

We lived quite a distance away, so I didn’t think she even heard us until she threw down her garden tools and stormed toward the apartment huffing and puffing and smoke pouring out of her ears.

Oh, no! She’s coming to rip off our arms and legs!

Like a cat with its tail on fire, Kenny ran downstairs and locked the door just in the nick of time before she started pounding on it and screaming like the big bad wolf, “Let me in! I’m telling your parents when they get home!”

True to her word and to my horror, as soon as the car pulled in the driveway, the phone started ringing.

My mother was the warden at our house. A strict, religious warden that didn’t put up with nonsense and expected her brood to follow the rules or else. And that day “or else” meant that we march our little impudent selves over to the landlord and apologize!

I’d rather have shoveled a pile of manure in the freezing cold stark naked.

Yes, she made me go, but I made her pay.

Like a bloody battle between the North and the South, I bawled and kicked and screamed as mom yanked and pulled and dragged me across the field. By the time we got to the landlord’s house, mom needed a long nap and I needed a straight jacket.

I thought that if I rebelled long and hard enough mom would give up and take me home. But, oh no! If it meant waiting for the rapture to take place, I was going to stand there and apologize before I could even think about going home.

Like swallowing a bag of feathers, I finally conjured up the words everyone was waiting to hear and never talked my brother into doing anything that stupid again. But, I just remembered that other time when . . .

I’ll save that story for later.

Isolation Getting You Down? Create!

So, I’m spreading my wings today and trying out the new block editor in WordPress. So far, I haven’t run into any problems. I’ll get back with you and let you know if I like it or not. I tried it once before and didn’t like it. But, maybe I was in one of those moods when I didn’t like anything that day.

Oh, and in case you haven’t noticed, I changed the WordPress theme after a much-needed upgrade.

Okay, Between getting my house back in order and cleaning up the yard, I create. Some days that’s all I do. Okay, most days that’s all I do. That’s why my house is still a mess and hubby is running out of clean underwear. But, I’m retired. I can get to it tomorrow. Or the next day. Or next month. Or never if I don’t want to.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy my creations and that they take you to a happy place. We all need plenty of that these days.

Life Ain’t What it’s Cracked Up to be

Dear Diary,

You’re probably tired of my moaning and groaning by now. Well, get over it! I need to vent.

Today, I’m feeling overwhelmed with everything: The house, the yard, old age . . . life. I’m a prisoner in my own house. Can’t be with my family and friends. Can’t go shopping. Can’t go out and eat. Can’t do anything but sit here and twiddle my thumbs. Well, I used to be able to twiddle my thumbs. They hurt too bad, now.

Anyhow. I took the trash down to the road this morning and to my horror, like an invasion from outer space, clumps of green stuff are taking over the yard. My heart fell out and splattered on the ground. I don’t need this on top of everything else that’s falling apart around here.

Like a bludgeoned, half-dead old dog, I crawled back into the house where I wish I had stayed and let hubby take down the trash. He doesn’t see the stuff I see. He wears blindfolds. Maybe I should.

Life isn’t fun for anyone these days since COVID-19 showed its ugly, sneering face. I’d like to kick it where it really hurts and send it back to hell.

It’s getting past ridiculous, now. Kids are out of school driving their parents nuts. Businesses are closed. People are out of work and getting sick and dying and fighting over toilet paper. You’d think the world was full of crazed animals instead of human beings. Whatever happened to loving your neighbor as yourself and doing unto others as you would have them do unto you?

Anyhow, I just thought I’d fill you in on my little world. This is not my first encounter with feeling overwhelmed and it won’t be my last. I know, that in time, things will get back to normal or at least, better than they are. Till then, I don’t have time to sit here boohooing. I’ve got work to do. Lots and lots of work . . .

When a Tree Becomes a Monster

I love trees. And when we moved here, there were none except for a mighty few. So we planted trees. Lots of trees. Everywhere.

Thirty years ago they were just little twigs. Today, they are monsters . . . especially the one planted right beside the house. A Bradford. With giant limbs stretching across our roof and the neighbor’s house and driveway. It’s a nuisance to us and to them. It’s got to come down. In the meantime, Buck is going to cut off as many limbs as he can. But it’s going to take a skilled professional to take it all the way down.

We didn’t plant trees to cut them down. But we were young and dumb and thought all trees were created equal. They’re not. Some trees are better left in the forest, like the Bradford. It may or may not grow in the forest but if it does, that’s where it should stay.


So, my advice to anyone wanting to plant trees,
do your research and find out what to plant and what not to plant. and trust me, a Bradford is one tree you do not want to plant!

 

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