Battle of the eggs

 Who are these people and why are they being so nice? 

 

It was a brutal competition, with lots of screaming, shoving and pushing. There may have been some scratching and punching as well. There are no memories about who garnered the most eggs; the hunt was not so much about speed—it was about who was most devious. 

Then Easter was gone, baskets were packed away for next year, and deviled eggs were supper. With no holiday to anticipate, a veil of tedium settled over our farm in a pre-summer heat. A day or two passed, and then?

In the middle of the night, something woke me, something like a POP!  I rolled over, catching just a hint of chocolate.  Then a new smell came in waves---foul, recognizable, nauseating.

It was the distinctive odor of rotten eggs.  Rolling out of bed and looking under it, I spotted a lone Easter basket with the remains of an exploded egg.  One of my three brothers had placed it there before I went to bed. (My bedroom was that clean...seriously...even under the bed...)

Opened the window…threw the Basket out…and heard the muffled giggles from my brothers’ rooms.  They were waiting for my own explosion. 

Well, they did not get it.  I tiptoed down the stairs and slept on the couch.  The rotten egg smell did not limit itself to my room; it traveled to their room as well.

Justice and revenge would wait for another day.  I was the soul of patience.

Those bastards....

This was originally published in 2019, again in 2021 and 2023. I know most of you have read this before. But I really loved the story and the memory. It was one of those things that is never forgotten.

Source etsy

After the egg hunt is over

 

 

This event was before my brothers/bastards found my Superman comics collection , back before I learned just how low and evil my brothers were, and would become.

It was Easter, maybe 1960 or 1959.  Church was over.  Ham dinner was eaten and done. It was time for the egg hunt.  Hard boiled and dyed eggs had been hidden in our vast lawn after we all had in bed asleep.  It was never questioned by whom.

Source

It was a brutal competition, with lots of screaming, shoving and pushing. There may have been some scratching and punching as well. There are no memories about who garnered the most eggs; the hunt was not so much about speed—it was about who was most devious and/or violent. 

Then Easter was gone, baskets were packed away for next year, and deviled eggs were supper. With no holiday to anticipate, a veil of tedium settled over our farm in a pre-summer heat.

In the middle of the night, something woke me, something like a POP!  I rolled over, catching just a hint of chocolate.  Then a new smell came in waves---foul, recognizable, nauseating.

It was the distinctive odor of rotten eggs.  Rolling out of bed and looking under it, I spotted a lone Easter basket with the remains of an exploded egg.  One of my three brothers had placed it there before I went to bed. (My bedroom was that clean...seriously...even under the bed...)

Opened the window…threw the Basket out…and heard the muffled giggles from my brothers’ rooms.  They were waiting for my own explosion. 

Well, they did not get it.  I tiptoed down the stairs and slept on the couch.  The rotten egg smell did not limit itself to my room; it traveled to their room as well.

Justice and revenge would wait for another day.  I was the soul of patience.

Those bastards....


This was posted in 2020, rewritten and here it is now. 

My brothers (whom I love dearly now) were miserable bastards in my youth. They were harshly mean to me most of the time. Revenge would be mine, someday. 

Source etsy

LIfe makes sense, at 16 yrs.

Bella believed she had reached an age of illumination while riding home in a raucous school bus.  Ah ha! Now life all makes sense!

At her age of 16, Bella viewed events with profound insight. Of course!  Wild fires are results of droughts!  Children are monsters because their parents are idiots! Ice cream melts when it leaves frozen conditions! 

Walking home with her insipid brothers, another profound thought occurred. My brothers’ favorite past time is teasing me.  I hope they develop massive face-covering case of pimples, and they could die of septic poisoning. This seems to be a correct punishment, unless they also got poison oak.

The above underlined words are from Elephant's Child. back in 2008,

This was a wonderful writing experience created by Delores  who challenged bloggers to break out of their genre and try something for a break.  Over time, other bloggers have provided words of their own.  Please go to above site, and post your own thoughts in comment section or at your own site. 

 

Superman, how I loved you.

     

strongest heroes

A question was asked about Comic Books recently: Which is/was your favorite comic series?  With all the Marvel Comic movies capturing audiences and making big bucks, that is a good question.

Peter Pan was my hero until I hit age ten.  “Superman” had been a favored television show, which I watched unfailingly.  He almost threw Peter Pan off the throne, until George Reeve’s sudden and questioned death.

Lois Lane

Peter Pan was back in my imagination, until something happened to me at age ten.  I did not know why the change happened (hormones), but Superman was in my head and kicked Peter Pan out.

That might also have something to do with the availability of Comic Books in the Benjamin Franklin 5-and-dime.  Superman was about hand level for me and cost about five cents.  Every first comic in the row had been thumbed to a fare-thee-well, with kid-sized finger prints covering in page.

Although I did not technically get an allowance (on a farm, kids were free labor), my mother did give me a quarter for my own shopping pleasure once a week at the big town fifteen miles from the farm.

At first five cents bought an un-thumbed copy (from the back) of comic book, Superman!!, then it moved up to 10 cents. That left me enough to buy fifteen cents worth of chocolate at the candy counter, which I finished on the way home.

SyFy convention

I successfully hid my stash of Superman comics from my brothers, since they were disrespectful swine who had already destroyed my first five comics.  I had quite a collection hidden away, until I returned from an hour long visit with a neighbor, and found my collection torn and shredded all over the yard.

My brothers waited for sister-explosion, but none came.  What was, was.

This was posted back in 2015, 2019, and 2020.

1958  My siblings: Robert, Don, and me; Mary 2 yr. old, and Bill 4 yrs. old. The boys grew up to be decent adults. My sister was always a marvelous person. 

Revenge of the Easter Egg

For hunting only

It was a brutal competition, with lots of screaming, shoving and pushing. There may have been some scratching and punching as well. There are no memories about who garnered the most eggs; the hunt was not so much about speed—it was about who was most devious. 

Then Easter was gone, baskets were packed away for next year, and deviled eggs were supper. With no holiday to anticipate, a veil of tedium settled over our farm in a pre-summer heat.

In the middle of the night, something woke me, something like a POP!  I rolled over, catching just a hint of chocolate.  Then a new smell came in waves---foul, recognizable, nauseating.

It was the distinctive odor of rotten eggs.  Rolling out of bed and looking under it, I spotted a lone Easter basket with the remains of an exploded egg.  One of my three brothers had placed it there before I went to bed. (My bedroom was that clean...seriously...even under the bed...)

Opened the window…threw the Basket out…and heard the muffled giggles from my brothers’ rooms.  They were waiting for my own explosion. 

Well, they did not get it.  I tiptoed down the stairs and slept on the couch.  The rotten egg smell did not limit itself to my room; it traveled to their room as well.

Justice and revenge would wait for another day.  I was the soul of patience.

Those bastards....

God bless you, Marvel Comics.

A question was asked about Comic Books recently: Which is/was your favorite comic series?  With all the Marvel Comic movies capturing audiences and making big bucks, that is a good question.

Peter Pan was my hero until I hit age ten.  “Superman” had been a favored television show, which I watched unfailingly.  He almost threw Peter Pan off the throne, until George Reeve’s sudden and questioned death.

Sadly, farewell.

Peter Pan was back in my imagination, until something happened to me at age ten.  I did not know why the change happened (hormones), but Superman was in my head and kicked Peter Pan out.

That might also have something to do with the availability of Comic Books in the Benjamin Franklin 5-and-dime.  Superman was about hand level for me and cost about five cents.  Every first comic in the row had been thumbed to a fare-thee-well, with kid-sized finger prints covering in page.

Although I did not technically get an allowance (on a farm, kids were free labor), my mother did give me a quarter for my own shopping pleasure once a week at the big town fifteen miles from the farm.

At first five cents bought an un-thumbed copy (from the back) of comic book, Superman!!, then it moved up to 10 cents.  That left me enough to buy fifteen cents worth of chocolate at the mid-store candy store, which I finished on the way home.

I successfully hid my stash of Superman comics from my brothers, since they were disrespectful swine who had already destroyed my first five comics.  I had quite a collection hidden away, until I returned from an hour long visit with a neighbor, and found my collection torn and shredded all over the lawn.

My brothers waited for sister-explosion, but none came.  What was, was.

Bastards.

Source

U is for...Underneath the House

The farmhouse where we lived

The year I turned 14 years old was memorable on so many levels.  Why, you ask?

First, know that memories are locked into our brains by the sensory experiences involved.  Second, know that these sensory images do not have to be good to be effective.

The north porch, where the air was fresh and cool

At fourteen, I was apparently blossoming into an attractive teenager.  I didn’t know it; my brothers kept me humble by pointing out my faults.  My father helped them.  My mother kept silent.

June 1966--Note that I am hiding on the far right, with my evil brothers around me

It wasn’t until we had attended a sister church’s revival in a nearby town that I met the teenagers from other churches.  Teenage boys…good looking boys.  Many asked to sit by me; many followed me to the car and wanted to know where I lived.  Heck, I didn’t know what they were thinking.  

This is what a revival can look like if we were lucky.

Weeks later on a Saturday afternoon, a car showed up at our farm and two of the cutest boys from the revival got out.  I sat and talked with them for a few hours.

They kept coming back! 

What is so amazing about that?  

No, no.  They are NOT cute.

That summer we were experiencing an infestation of animals under our 120 year old farmhouse:  skunks.  Man oh man.  A million skunks, and we couldn’t get rid of them.  We tried everything.  

How to get rid of skunks!

So while these adorable young men were courting me, we were trying to ignore the perpetual skunk odor that erupted from beneath our house.

That is why U is for…Underneath the House.

The Stylish Blogger

Hmmm...these people don't know me very well.  How much should I tell them?  How deep should I go?  Take a breath.
1.  I grew up on a farm with three brothers and one sister.  I learned how to skin a squirrel and rabbit from my brothers.  I can also clean a fish, pluck and dress a chicken or duck.  I will never again clean a catfish.  From my sister, I learned that I love her dearly.

2.  In 3rd. grade, my teacher Mrs. Mary Ellen Willard called me the 'Class Artist'.   She let me write and write, and draw to my heart's content.  She taught in a way that only exceptional teachers can.

Thank you, Kristina!http://kaykays-corner.blogspot.com 

3.  I didn't learn to swim until I was 32 yrs. old.  I was scared to death, but I saw my youngest child leaping unafraid into the deep end.  That made me jump in, too.
4.  We didn't have a piano (couldn't afford lessons, anyway) until I was 14 yrs. old.  Then I taught myself to play, using math to figure out the notes and their relationship to the keys. 
5.  Migraines have been a factor since I was 4 yrs. old, but I thought everyone had headaches like mine.
6.  Living in Ireland was one of the richest experiences of my life on all levels.  The Irish people are among the finest in the world.  I want to go back.
7.  Don't wish away a single day of your life, not one single day.  Life is too special. I learned this when I lost my brother Robert to a brain tumor at age 46, and then another brother Bill to septic poisoning after surgery, at age 44. 
 I will be awarding this Stylish Blogger Award in a few days to some exceptional writers, of which there are many!  Susan