As I glanced at the calendar this morning it occurred to me that, being the first weekend in June, it would traditionally have been the weekend when the Kipling Lions Club would host the old Stanley Can Slow-pitch Ball tournament. Throughout the 1980’s and early 1990’s slow-pitch was huge. I am not sure when the Lions Club hosted the first tournament but their annual tourney was one of the biggest and best in the area and undoubtedly one of their best fund-raisers for years.
The original slow-pitch games were played with a ball the size of a small watermelon or a large cantaloupe which made it very difficult to hit for any distance and almost impossible to find a glove large enough to catch the ball. I am sure that the first basemen would have had to have a glove the size of a small laundry basket to catch with. Over time the game morphed into a hybrid of the traditional big-ball game to a faster paced game using a standard softball sized ball.
Back then there was quite a league going in our area during the late spring and early summer, too. Kipling had three teams alone and the area towns of Kennedy, Glenavon and Windthorst fielded teams as well, with a wind-up tourney being held at the old Coronation School Fair Grounds, come rain or shine, for the league finale at the end of the season.
One particularly memorable finale was hit by a ferocious thunderstorm which brought over an inch of rain in a very short period of time and stopped the ball playing long enough for everyone to seek refuge in the old school house, and thereby allowing too many to over-imbibe on the ol’ wobbly pops, resulting in some very entertaining ball to be played once the games were reconvened. Oh, those were the days my friend.
Because of its huge popularity slow-pitch tournaments were often used as fund-raisers for many causes. Area community groups could host a tournament every weekend from the beginning of May until the end of July, it seemed, and have a very successful turnout. Every tournament would have anywhere from sixteen to twenty-four, or more, teams entered in their events. When some Kipling area residents banded together to raise funds for the community swimming pool one of the first fund-raising events that they hosted was the “Great Western Weekend Splash Slow-pitch Tournament”.
The first swimming pool tournaments were held a month or so after the Stanley Can and because Saskatchewan’s Great Western Brewing Company was also just a fledgling group they were keen to sponsor events to get people to try their products and the partnering of The Great Western Brewing Company and the Kipling and District Swimming Pool Committee began.
Remember those fluorescent coloured hats and t-shirts with the first Swimming Pool mascot, Ozzy the Otter on them, which stated “Be Cool Support the Pool” that were sold at that first tourney, too? Wow.
I was a member of that pool fund-raising committee and I had volunteered the use of the forklift, from the lumberyard where I worked, to handle the full pallet of Great Western Beer which the committee hoped to sell throughout the tournament weekend. By the way, there were only too types of weather for this tournament: too hot and dry (too seldom) or too cold and wet (too often).
That first “Splash” tourney was of the too cold and wet variety. It was pretty foggy on that particular early morning drive from the lumberyard to the ball diamonds while I transported that full pallet of beer down the street with the headlights and hazard flashers going on the forklift. As I was slowly driving down the street I saw a particular member of the community, who was known for his love of the drink, if you know what I mean, walking towards me out of the fog, (and in a little fog of his own from the night previous), when he stopped and gaped at this wonderful image of a machine delivering a full pallet of the golden fluid he so loved coming right towards him out of the mist. I am sure that he had to check his pulse to see if he had died and gone to heaven. Alas, to his dismay, it passed him by.
Over the years the participation waned and the Stanley Can and Splash tournaments were amalgamated into the “Stanley Can Splash Tournament”. Slow-pitch tournaments have been held in various forms for special events over the years but nothing compares to the old days when every diamond, (and some make-shift ones too) were full for two-and-a-half days and the beer tent was constantly hopping and the cabaret was a wall-to-wall crowded blast. As earlier stated…those were the days, weren’t they?
“Slow-pitch is life, the rest is just details,”-Author Unknown. Might have been Larry Savage, though.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Friday, June 3, 2011
Scary Harper
"Be afwaid...be veeewwwy afwaid!"I am serious though. One always knew that the snake wearing the centrist skin would shed that cover once he had a majority and his real full right wing colours will finally be shown in all its scary glory. The old reformer who has no intention of reforming anything will be exposed. Fill the jails, pad the corporate bank accounts, do nothing for the environment and reform nothing...are what's in store for Canadians in the next five years. Scary... very scary.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
The Critics Poem
Here is something that everyone can do,
The task is simple, the qualifications are few.
There are many subjects, of which you can choose;
There's fashion and films, you can even do booze.
Just take your subject and pick it apart.
Now your job as a critic has got a good start.
Politics, books, TV and news,
Teachers, mayors and especially Tom Cruise.
When Britney and Paris are acting all sleazy
Then a critic's job becomes way too easy.
From the critic's position, it's not hard to judge,
Particularly when they are holding a grudge.
Watching sports in my favorite chair,
My coaching mistakes are always rare.
I'm batting 1000, I can't miss a shot,
Every swing of my club hits the sweet spot.
I can never lose, while I'm sitting here,
I don't even sweat or wear any gear.
We are blessed to live in a country so free,
But not even Canada escapes scrutiny.
Our roads, our weather and our wages, too;
Immigration and healthcare we all like to boo.
Like armchair quarterbacks our decisions are right.
But the greatest calls are usually hindsight.
Critics can ruin a politician's life,
For his choices in clothing, or even his wife.
Policies? Platforms? We don't care.
"Look at that hat! And who cuts his hair?"
I'd laugh out loud, if it wasn't so sad,
That nobody cares if they're good or bad.
Thanks for your patience, while reading my rhyming,
It just felt like, you know, the right kind of timing.
Now, go ahead, and critique if you must,
Into your hands, Dear Reader, I trust.
Pick it apart, tear it to shreds.
It's too late anyhow, it's already read!
"Honest criticism is hard to take, particularly from a relative, a friend, an acquaintance, or a stranger."-Franklin P. Jones.
The task is simple, the qualifications are few.
There are many subjects, of which you can choose;
There's fashion and films, you can even do booze.
Just take your subject and pick it apart.
Now your job as a critic has got a good start.
Politics, books, TV and news,
Teachers, mayors and especially Tom Cruise.
When Britney and Paris are acting all sleazy
Then a critic's job becomes way too easy.
From the critic's position, it's not hard to judge,
Particularly when they are holding a grudge.
Watching sports in my favorite chair,
My coaching mistakes are always rare.
I'm batting 1000, I can't miss a shot,
Every swing of my club hits the sweet spot.
I can never lose, while I'm sitting here,
I don't even sweat or wear any gear.
We are blessed to live in a country so free,
But not even Canada escapes scrutiny.
Our roads, our weather and our wages, too;
Immigration and healthcare we all like to boo.
Like armchair quarterbacks our decisions are right.
But the greatest calls are usually hindsight.
Critics can ruin a politician's life,
For his choices in clothing, or even his wife.
Policies? Platforms? We don't care.
"Look at that hat! And who cuts his hair?"
I'd laugh out loud, if it wasn't so sad,
That nobody cares if they're good or bad.
Thanks for your patience, while reading my rhyming,
It just felt like, you know, the right kind of timing.
Now, go ahead, and critique if you must,
Into your hands, Dear Reader, I trust.
Pick it apart, tear it to shreds.
It's too late anyhow, it's already read!
"Honest criticism is hard to take, particularly from a relative, a friend, an acquaintance, or a stranger."-Franklin P. Jones.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
MRI my head!
May 30, 2011
A little over a year ago I “bit the bullet”, as they say, and I finally went to find out how bad my hearing actually was, or, more appropriately, is, or should it be isn’t? Whatever. Anyway, in an effort to defy nature and not grow too old too fast I had been determined to put off the inevitable. I knew my hearing wasn’t good but I didn’t necessarily want to find out how bad it actually was either. I had been in denial because of the fact that growing deaf was, to me, another sure sign of growing old. That along with the sagging skin, the grey hair, the uncontrollable hair growth in numerous areas of the body that previously lacked any hair, the expanding midsection, the mid-night runs to the loo and many other indicators, too numerous to mention, which were also being ignored. But constantly saying “huh” apparently gets on everyone’s nerves, including mine, so I had to go through with the full investigation.
It took a year, but I recently got to see a specialist about my hearing, or lack thereof, to be precise. My hearing loss, to “the experts”, is unique in ways I am unable to fully explain. However in an effort for “the experts”, and me, to completely understand it I was sent to have an MRI done on my head.
First, it struck me as extremely odd that in an effort to find out why the hearing in my left ear had deteriorated in such a weird way, (and to also search for the reason for the constant ringing in my head, kind of like the ringing one would hear for a day or two after a good rock concert but mine just never went away and, apparently, not everyone experiences this), that they, “the experts” again, would stick you in a tube that emits noises at a 100+ decibel level to find out why you can’t hear. Huh? Sure, they give you hearing protection, but still!
For those of you who haven’t had the unpleasant experience of an MRI let me inform you that you haven’t missed a thing. They lay you down on a morgue-like table and clamp your head into Hanibal Lecter type head gear and then insert you into a claustrophobic’s nightmare of a place, (THE TUBE), and tell you to be perfectly still, like there’s an option, and then proceed to lambaste you with noises that one could only imagine originating in some science fiction freak’s mind, thus making you want to confess to numerous atrocities so the nightmare will end, all the while they’re giving you indecipherable instructions that nobody, good hearing or bad, would be able to understand, so then you think that maybe you’re doing something wrong or that they’re telling you, God forbid, the machine is on the fritz, or something, or maybe when the technician said, “Wumprh gnadelcrmf dnonble grmxlet”, she was really meaning “We’ll give you some ointment for that”, until they finally slide you out about twenty minutes later ending your terror and leaving you thankful that you haven’t messed yourself.
Yes, okay, you’re right; I may have embellished that a little. Too much literary license perhaps? Maybe the MRI will reveal my too-developed imagination. It wasn’t THAT bad, but it sure wasn’t pleasant either.
The second thing that I was curious about was what the MRI results would show. In between the squeals, siren-like blaring and horn blasts, I was trying to think of something, anything, to take my mind off of the procedure and all I could think about was what Dizzy Dean said after he got hit in the head with a baseball, which was, “They x-rayed my head and didn’t find nothin.”
“It takes about ten years to get used to how old you are.”- Quoted by Raymond A. Michel in The Leaf.
A little over a year ago I “bit the bullet”, as they say, and I finally went to find out how bad my hearing actually was, or, more appropriately, is, or should it be isn’t? Whatever. Anyway, in an effort to defy nature and not grow too old too fast I had been determined to put off the inevitable. I knew my hearing wasn’t good but I didn’t necessarily want to find out how bad it actually was either. I had been in denial because of the fact that growing deaf was, to me, another sure sign of growing old. That along with the sagging skin, the grey hair, the uncontrollable hair growth in numerous areas of the body that previously lacked any hair, the expanding midsection, the mid-night runs to the loo and many other indicators, too numerous to mention, which were also being ignored. But constantly saying “huh” apparently gets on everyone’s nerves, including mine, so I had to go through with the full investigation.
It took a year, but I recently got to see a specialist about my hearing, or lack thereof, to be precise. My hearing loss, to “the experts”, is unique in ways I am unable to fully explain. However in an effort for “the experts”, and me, to completely understand it I was sent to have an MRI done on my head.
First, it struck me as extremely odd that in an effort to find out why the hearing in my left ear had deteriorated in such a weird way, (and to also search for the reason for the constant ringing in my head, kind of like the ringing one would hear for a day or two after a good rock concert but mine just never went away and, apparently, not everyone experiences this), that they, “the experts” again, would stick you in a tube that emits noises at a 100+ decibel level to find out why you can’t hear. Huh? Sure, they give you hearing protection, but still!
For those of you who haven’t had the unpleasant experience of an MRI let me inform you that you haven’t missed a thing. They lay you down on a morgue-like table and clamp your head into Hanibal Lecter type head gear and then insert you into a claustrophobic’s nightmare of a place, (THE TUBE), and tell you to be perfectly still, like there’s an option, and then proceed to lambaste you with noises that one could only imagine originating in some science fiction freak’s mind, thus making you want to confess to numerous atrocities so the nightmare will end, all the while they’re giving you indecipherable instructions that nobody, good hearing or bad, would be able to understand, so then you think that maybe you’re doing something wrong or that they’re telling you, God forbid, the machine is on the fritz, or something, or maybe when the technician said, “Wumprh gnadelcrmf dnonble grmxlet”, she was really meaning “We’ll give you some ointment for that”, until they finally slide you out about twenty minutes later ending your terror and leaving you thankful that you haven’t messed yourself.
Yes, okay, you’re right; I may have embellished that a little. Too much literary license perhaps? Maybe the MRI will reveal my too-developed imagination. It wasn’t THAT bad, but it sure wasn’t pleasant either.
The second thing that I was curious about was what the MRI results would show. In between the squeals, siren-like blaring and horn blasts, I was trying to think of something, anything, to take my mind off of the procedure and all I could think about was what Dizzy Dean said after he got hit in the head with a baseball, which was, “They x-rayed my head and didn’t find nothin.”
“It takes about ten years to get used to how old you are.”- Quoted by Raymond A. Michel in The Leaf.
The End of The World Again?
May 23, 2011
Were any of you surprised when the world didn’t end on May 21st, 2011 at precisely 6:00 pm local time? I myself wasn’t surprised or disappointed for that matter. I’ve still got some stuff that I want to do, and, to be honest, I really wasn’t even paying attention to the clock as the second hand ticked by the predicted hour.
This was the second inaccurate prediction from Harold Camping, the 89 year old broadcaster for the Family Radio Service, his first inaccurate prediction date being September 1994. To me, predicting Armageddon or The Apocalypse is the ultimate in “The Boy Who Cried Wolf” story considering there have been no less than 200 recorded predictions regarding the end of the world. So far, all of them wrong.
With recent natural disasters of floods, tornadoes, earthquakes, volcanoes and tsunamis, not to mention numerous human frailties, it’s hard not to get caught up in the Doomsdayer’s thinking. But the record of inaccurate predictions hasn’t been the most reliable has it?
I am not sure I even want to know when the final second will occur, if, in fact, someone or something is able to correctly determine that particular moment, which is highly unlikely given the 0 in 200+ accuracy of past predictions.
Harold Camping did not release a statement after the non-event, but one of the board members of his Family Radio International organization said he was "mystified" and "a little bewildered." Ya think?
No one was exactly sure what was to be done with the 120 million dollars that his radio network received in donations to “spread the word” regarding the End of the World either. As with many of these predictions, and predictors, one is left to wonder if the saving of our collective souls was the real motivation behind the numerological equations used to determine the timing of this “End of the World” event.
No doubt Robert Fitzpatrick, a retired MTA employee, was “a little bewildered” himself after he had spent his entire life savings, about $140,000.00, on placards on subway cars and bus shelters around New York city warning people of the impending doom. ”I see that we're still here. I don't understand it,” Fitzpatrick said shortly after the predicted time passed. “I just don't understand why nothing has happened.”
My personal feeling is that if you treasure every day that you have here on Earth and you treat others as you would want yourself treated (the good old Golden Rule) then it really shouldn’t matter on what day or in what way your impending doom does come. At least that’s my humble opinion on the subject.
“Don't worry about the world coming to an end today. It's already tomorrow in Australia.”- Charles Schultz (1922-2000).
Were any of you surprised when the world didn’t end on May 21st, 2011 at precisely 6:00 pm local time? I myself wasn’t surprised or disappointed for that matter. I’ve still got some stuff that I want to do, and, to be honest, I really wasn’t even paying attention to the clock as the second hand ticked by the predicted hour.
This was the second inaccurate prediction from Harold Camping, the 89 year old broadcaster for the Family Radio Service, his first inaccurate prediction date being September 1994. To me, predicting Armageddon or The Apocalypse is the ultimate in “The Boy Who Cried Wolf” story considering there have been no less than 200 recorded predictions regarding the end of the world. So far, all of them wrong.
With recent natural disasters of floods, tornadoes, earthquakes, volcanoes and tsunamis, not to mention numerous human frailties, it’s hard not to get caught up in the Doomsdayer’s thinking. But the record of inaccurate predictions hasn’t been the most reliable has it?
I am not sure I even want to know when the final second will occur, if, in fact, someone or something is able to correctly determine that particular moment, which is highly unlikely given the 0 in 200+ accuracy of past predictions.
Harold Camping did not release a statement after the non-event, but one of the board members of his Family Radio International organization said he was "mystified" and "a little bewildered." Ya think?
No one was exactly sure what was to be done with the 120 million dollars that his radio network received in donations to “spread the word” regarding the End of the World either. As with many of these predictions, and predictors, one is left to wonder if the saving of our collective souls was the real motivation behind the numerological equations used to determine the timing of this “End of the World” event.
No doubt Robert Fitzpatrick, a retired MTA employee, was “a little bewildered” himself after he had spent his entire life savings, about $140,000.00, on placards on subway cars and bus shelters around New York city warning people of the impending doom. ”I see that we're still here. I don't understand it,” Fitzpatrick said shortly after the predicted time passed. “I just don't understand why nothing has happened.”
My personal feeling is that if you treasure every day that you have here on Earth and you treat others as you would want yourself treated (the good old Golden Rule) then it really shouldn’t matter on what day or in what way your impending doom does come. At least that’s my humble opinion on the subject.
“Don't worry about the world coming to an end today. It's already tomorrow in Australia.”- Charles Schultz (1922-2000).
Nicknames
May 14, 2011
The other day I was filling in an online application and for security sake they ask you to answer a particular question as an identifier that you, the user, are who you say you are. The questions are like “What is your mother’s maiden name?” or “What is/was your nickname”? So I was going to go with the nickname thing, but then I wondered which one would I use?
I guess the very first nickname given to me was by my oldest sister Betty (short for Elizabeth) when she named me “Pinky”. I know, I know, never mind, I was a baby! Boy am I glad that one didn’t stick! Anyway, later on, when I was carrying about 125 lbs on my 6’3” frame a buddy of mine named me “Bennie the Bonerack” and the Bennie/Ben part stuck with me for a long time within a certain circle of friends. But the one nickname that I’ve had the longest was just a shortening of my last name from Hubbard to Hubb.
I’m not sure if it was a sports or a hockey thing but many of my sports playing friend’s nicknames were derived in the same way-just a shortening of the last name. Jerry Wasnik was Waz or Wazzy; Jim Welykochy was Welo and Rick Metzler was Metz, or to be correct, it was actually “The Amazing New York Metz”.
A lot of other nicknames are given by adding a “y” or “ie” or an “o” to a name to give someone a nickname like Sproaty or Jonesy or Deano.
A few years ago I had worked at Don “Bronco” Horvath’s lumberyard in Wawota. Wawota, like many small towns, gives a nickname to everybody and although I worked there for nearly a year I don’t think I could name many of the locals by their actual given names. I knew Twiggy and Soupy and Coyote and Radar and Hawk but I’d be hard pressed to come up with their real names.
It’s not so different here in Kipling, though. I recall stopping in at one of the local watering holes and taking a chair at a table with Gooch, Gub, Goose and Junior.
In Canada, with our diverse ethnic backgounds, (around Kipling it’s usually something Hungarian), a nickname can come from a word in the old tongue like “Kakas” (pronounced something like kaukaush, if that helps) which, in English, means cock, as in rooster. Then there’s the old country name translation thing like Pista (peeshta), which is Hungarian for anyone name Steve.
Some given first names have many different variations like Rich, Ritchie, Rick, Dick or Dickie for Richard or Will or Willy, Bill or Billy for William. In my family alone we’ve got a Jack for John, Betty for Elizabeth, Dot for Dorothy, Margo for Marguerite, Jeannie for Mary Jeanne, Gordie, Gord or Gordo for Gordon and Shelly for Michelle. I think Judy and I were the only ones that went by their actual given names most of the time. Actually, for the first six years of my life I thought my name was “Stop That!”- Ba-dum-DUM-TSH!
Today, many kids use their peer’s last name as their nickname-like Kish or Vargo or Kertai- which, if you are a regular reader of this column you’ll know my feelings on that subject, (see In My Humble Opinion-March 18th edition of The Citizen), which, to me, not only shows a lack of respect but little imagination also. Mind you, Hubb, Waz and Metz aren’t stretching the imagination by any means, either.
The following are a sampling of the nicknames of some of the people that I have come to know in my lifetime. If your inquiring mind needs to know, and you don’t know who the following are, you can contact me for their real names if necessary. In my time I have known a Schlaps, Spy, Smoothy, Moose, Orca, Scrag, Poots, Turk, Nellie, Zipper, Muck, Doc, Roter, Hopper, Gonzo, Birdie, Viggy, Bugsy, Mo (more than one), Bubba, Crow, Koochy, Zuggs, T-Bone, Pepitone…
“Nicknames stick to people, and the most ridiculous are the most adhesive.”-Thomas C. Haliburton (1798-1865).
The other day I was filling in an online application and for security sake they ask you to answer a particular question as an identifier that you, the user, are who you say you are. The questions are like “What is your mother’s maiden name?” or “What is/was your nickname”? So I was going to go with the nickname thing, but then I wondered which one would I use?
I guess the very first nickname given to me was by my oldest sister Betty (short for Elizabeth) when she named me “Pinky”. I know, I know, never mind, I was a baby! Boy am I glad that one didn’t stick! Anyway, later on, when I was carrying about 125 lbs on my 6’3” frame a buddy of mine named me “Bennie the Bonerack” and the Bennie/Ben part stuck with me for a long time within a certain circle of friends. But the one nickname that I’ve had the longest was just a shortening of my last name from Hubbard to Hubb.
I’m not sure if it was a sports or a hockey thing but many of my sports playing friend’s nicknames were derived in the same way-just a shortening of the last name. Jerry Wasnik was Waz or Wazzy; Jim Welykochy was Welo and Rick Metzler was Metz, or to be correct, it was actually “The Amazing New York Metz”.
A lot of other nicknames are given by adding a “y” or “ie” or an “o” to a name to give someone a nickname like Sproaty or Jonesy or Deano.
A few years ago I had worked at Don “Bronco” Horvath’s lumberyard in Wawota. Wawota, like many small towns, gives a nickname to everybody and although I worked there for nearly a year I don’t think I could name many of the locals by their actual given names. I knew Twiggy and Soupy and Coyote and Radar and Hawk but I’d be hard pressed to come up with their real names.
It’s not so different here in Kipling, though. I recall stopping in at one of the local watering holes and taking a chair at a table with Gooch, Gub, Goose and Junior.
In Canada, with our diverse ethnic backgounds, (around Kipling it’s usually something Hungarian), a nickname can come from a word in the old tongue like “Kakas” (pronounced something like kaukaush, if that helps) which, in English, means cock, as in rooster. Then there’s the old country name translation thing like Pista (peeshta), which is Hungarian for anyone name Steve.
Some given first names have many different variations like Rich, Ritchie, Rick, Dick or Dickie for Richard or Will or Willy, Bill or Billy for William. In my family alone we’ve got a Jack for John, Betty for Elizabeth, Dot for Dorothy, Margo for Marguerite, Jeannie for Mary Jeanne, Gordie, Gord or Gordo for Gordon and Shelly for Michelle. I think Judy and I were the only ones that went by their actual given names most of the time. Actually, for the first six years of my life I thought my name was “Stop That!”- Ba-dum-DUM-TSH!
Today, many kids use their peer’s last name as their nickname-like Kish or Vargo or Kertai- which, if you are a regular reader of this column you’ll know my feelings on that subject, (see In My Humble Opinion-March 18th edition of The Citizen), which, to me, not only shows a lack of respect but little imagination also. Mind you, Hubb, Waz and Metz aren’t stretching the imagination by any means, either.
The following are a sampling of the nicknames of some of the people that I have come to know in my lifetime. If your inquiring mind needs to know, and you don’t know who the following are, you can contact me for their real names if necessary. In my time I have known a Schlaps, Spy, Smoothy, Moose, Orca, Scrag, Poots, Turk, Nellie, Zipper, Muck, Doc, Roter, Hopper, Gonzo, Birdie, Viggy, Bugsy, Mo (more than one), Bubba, Crow, Koochy, Zuggs, T-Bone, Pepitone…
“Nicknames stick to people, and the most ridiculous are the most adhesive.”-Thomas C. Haliburton (1798-1865).
Tribute to Mother's Day
May 9, 2011
OMG! What was I thinking, or not thinking, as it were? Blame it on The Blackout, blame it on the pain, blame it on the medications or, maybe blame it on a bit of all of the above, but whatever the reason, there can be no excuse for missing Mother’s Day!
That’s the problem with writing a weekly newspaper column, if you don’t keep a keen eye on the calendar you can miss some very important events and one should never, ever forget Mother’s Day!
There are many important days throughout the year but, to me, the most important day would be Mother’s Day. Without your mother then you just wouldn’t be, would you? So, although it’s a week late, I am making this my Mother’s Day tribute column. Here are some quotes regarding Mothers. Enjoy.
“When I was six months pregnant with my third child, my three year old, came into the room while I was dressing and said, 'Mommy, you are looking fat!' I replied, 'Yes, honey, remember Mommy has a baby growing in her tummy.' 'I know,' she replied, but what's growing in your butt?'”
“Youth fades, love droops, leaves of friendship fall. A mother's secret hope outlives them all.” - Oliver Wendell Holmes
“A mother understands what a child does not say.” - Jewish proverb.
“Of all the rights of women, the greatest is to be a mother.”- Lin Yutang (Chinese writer).
“A man loves his sweetheart the most; his wife the best, but his mother the longest.”-Irish Proverb.
"I want my children to have all the things I couldn't afford. Then I want to move in with them." - Phyllis Diller.
Children say the darndest things and here are some questions and answers about their Moms:
Q.) Why did God make mothers? A.)She's the only one who knows where the scotch tape is.
Q.) How did God make mothers? A.) Magic plus super powers and a lot of stirring.
Q.) What ingredients are mothers made of? A.) God makes mothers out of clouds and angel hair and everything nice in the world and one dab of mean.
Q.) Why did God give you your mother and not some other Mom? A.) God knew she likes me a lot more than other people's moms like me.
Q.) What kind of little girl was your Mom? A.) 1-I don't know because I wasn't there, but my guess would be pretty bossy. 2-They say she used to be nice.
Q.) What does your Mom do in her spare time? A.) 1-To hear her tell it, she pays bills all day long. 2-Mothers don't do spare time.
Q.) If you could change one thing about your Mom, what would it be? A.) I would like for her to get rid of those invisible eyes on her back.
Q.) What's the difference between moms and dads? A.) Dads are taller & stronger, but moms have all the real power 'cause that's who you got to ask if you want to sleep over at your friend's. Moms have magic; they make you feel better without medicine.
"My mother had a great deal of trouble raising me, but I think she enjoyed it." - Mark Twain
OMG! What was I thinking, or not thinking, as it were? Blame it on The Blackout, blame it on the pain, blame it on the medications or, maybe blame it on a bit of all of the above, but whatever the reason, there can be no excuse for missing Mother’s Day!
That’s the problem with writing a weekly newspaper column, if you don’t keep a keen eye on the calendar you can miss some very important events and one should never, ever forget Mother’s Day!
There are many important days throughout the year but, to me, the most important day would be Mother’s Day. Without your mother then you just wouldn’t be, would you? So, although it’s a week late, I am making this my Mother’s Day tribute column. Here are some quotes regarding Mothers. Enjoy.
“When I was six months pregnant with my third child, my three year old, came into the room while I was dressing and said, 'Mommy, you are looking fat!' I replied, 'Yes, honey, remember Mommy has a baby growing in her tummy.' 'I know,' she replied, but what's growing in your butt?'”
“Youth fades, love droops, leaves of friendship fall. A mother's secret hope outlives them all.” - Oliver Wendell Holmes
“A mother understands what a child does not say.” - Jewish proverb.
“Of all the rights of women, the greatest is to be a mother.”- Lin Yutang (Chinese writer).
“A man loves his sweetheart the most; his wife the best, but his mother the longest.”-Irish Proverb.
"I want my children to have all the things I couldn't afford. Then I want to move in with them." - Phyllis Diller.
Children say the darndest things and here are some questions and answers about their Moms:
Q.) Why did God make mothers? A.)She's the only one who knows where the scotch tape is.
Q.) How did God make mothers? A.) Magic plus super powers and a lot of stirring.
Q.) What ingredients are mothers made of? A.) God makes mothers out of clouds and angel hair and everything nice in the world and one dab of mean.
Q.) Why did God give you your mother and not some other Mom? A.) God knew she likes me a lot more than other people's moms like me.
Q.) What kind of little girl was your Mom? A.) 1-I don't know because I wasn't there, but my guess would be pretty bossy. 2-They say she used to be nice.
Q.) What does your Mom do in her spare time? A.) 1-To hear her tell it, she pays bills all day long. 2-Mothers don't do spare time.
Q.) If you could change one thing about your Mom, what would it be? A.) I would like for her to get rid of those invisible eyes on her back.
Q.) What's the difference between moms and dads? A.) Dads are taller & stronger, but moms have all the real power 'cause that's who you got to ask if you want to sleep over at your friend's. Moms have magic; they make you feel better without medicine.
"My mother had a great deal of trouble raising me, but I think she enjoyed it." - Mark Twain
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