April Fool's

My dad, Willis, was a big fan of April Fool’s Day jokes, much to my consternation. His idea of a joke and my idea of a joke were very different. He loved to prank, and I loved not to be the butt of the joke.

Taquita Ree circa 1977

One of his best April Fool’s pranks he cruelly sprung on me early one April Sunday. I was peacefully sleeping away---as one tends to do early on a Sunday morning, especially if the one in question is a teenager—when I was called abruptly back to earth by the sound of my dad calling my name. He called my name, said that my (redacted) (redacted) (redacted) horse was out, and added a few more colorful phrases about the wicked wiliness of my mare, and then observed that she was out on the road.

That last bit stirred me to action and I scrambled out of bed, felt around on the floor for some blue jeans---yes, I often kept my previously used wardrobe on the floor of my room. What can I say? I was the classic teenaged slob---and hopped out to the kitchen still pulling on my socks.

Where? I asked, squinting out the window, trying to locate the sorrel-colored blob that would tell me which direction I needed to head in to retrieve my wayward horse, shoving my feet into boots and hoping I wouldn’t need to stop and take precious time putting in my contacts. Even with my lousy vision I was pretty sure I could locate a horse-sized blob, if someone would just point me in the right direction.

It was about the time I was struggling into my jacket that I noticed Willis’ swearing was starting to sound a lot more like giggling. “April Fool’s!” he crowed, gleefully, “Gotcha!”

Ah. Yes. He did. What better way to prank your teenage daughter than to cause her to get up at dawn?

Me & the Li'l Trouble Maker

Well played, Willis. Well played.

April Fools

My dad, Willis, was a big fan of April Fool’s Day jokes, much to my consternation. His idea of a joke and my idea of a joke were very different. He loved to prank, and I loved not to be the butt of the joke.

One of his best April Fool’s pranks he cruelly sprung on me early one April Sunday. I was peacefully sleeping away---as one tends to do early on a Sunday morning, especially if the one in question is a teenager—when I was called abruptly back to earth by the sound of my dad calling my name. He called my name, said that my (redacted) (redacted) (redacted) horse was out, and added a few more colorful phrases about the wicked wiliness of my mare, and then observed that she was out on the road.

That last bit stirred me to action and I scrambled out of bed, felt around on the floor for some blue jeans---yes, I often kept my previously used wardrobe on the floor of my room. What can I say? I was the classic teenaged slob---and hopped out to the kitchen still pulling on my socks.

Me and Taquita Ree, circa 1977

Where? I asked, squinting out the window, trying to locate the sorrel-colored blob that would tell me which direction I needed to head in to retrieve my wayward horse, shoving my feet into boots and hoping I wouldn’t need to stop and take precious time putting in my contacts. Even with my lousy vision I was pretty sure I could locate a horse-sized blob, if someone would just point me in the right direction.

It was about the time I was struggling into my jacket that I noticed Willis’ swearing was starting to sound a lot more like giggling. “April Fool’s!” he crowed, gleefully, “Gotcha!”

Ah. Yes. He did. What better way to prank your teenage daughter than to cause her to get up at dawn?

Well played, Willis. Well played.

Weather Talk 2.0

Did you see the sun the other day? It was glorious. There’s nothing like getting a taste of good weather to make me want more of it. The minute the sun comes out in the spring all I want to do is go outside and play. Fortunately for me, there are plenty of outside chores for me to do.

The ridiculous amounts of snow my landscaping received have sculpted my hedge into pancakes and attempted to turn some of my trees into poles. The result of all that is I have a plethora of branches awaiting removal to the burn pile.

Is there anything better than cleaning up winter debris and then getting to set it on fire? Except maybe getting to poke the resulting fire with a stick? I can’t think of anything I’d rather do early spring than work all day and then set fire to my labors as the day chills. And if there is a hot dog, a roasting stick and a few marshmallows hanging around, so much the better!

Because I’m a grown-up---or at least a reasonable facsimile of one—I feel honor bound right now to make a general statement regarding fire safety, country burn regulations, wind conditions and neighborhood relations. Please take all of these things into consideration before torching off your burn pile. Because, if your neighbors are taking advantage of the sunny day to dry their laundry on the line, they’d probably appreciate it smelling like “Spring” and not “Camping.” Or so I’ve heard.

I personally think “campfire” is a lovely scent, one of my favorites. Especially if it carries just a hint of marshmallow, with perhaps a top note of tent and summer nights...but some people have no taste when it comes to appreciating the finer things in life. So I try to stay downwind and not judge. More marshmallows for me!

Spring Ahead

Last weekend we turned the clocks ahead one hour in a barbaric ritual known as Sleep Sacrifice to the Sun God--- because of the constitutional requirement of separation of Church and State-- you might know it as “Daylight Savings Time.”

Now I know there are probably some proud Barbarians out there that will happily make the hour sacrifice with scarcely a murmur, but I am not one of them. I’m not saying I don’t appreciate the “extra” daylight—I do-- but I’m pretty sure you don’t have to make me GET UP EARLIER TO LOOK AT IT.  I promise to look at the sun---or what passes for “sun” this time of year—at a more civilized hour. Actually, I was thinking noon would be the perfect time to rise. That way I can appreciate the sun at its zenith. That seems a reasonable plan.

Alas, such a thing is not to be. No matter how I try to resist acclimating to the barbarous time change I am forced to adapt. Society insists on strict adherence to the earlier start, so unless I’m willing to show up an hour late everywhere I go, I have to conform.

I am, at best, a Reluctant Adaptor. And regardless of the laws separating Church and State, Reluctant Adaptors are treated as heretics. Or sloths. Or worse---People Who Don’t Know How to Change the Clock in Their Car—PWDKHCCC for short. (Short-ish.)

Let me be perfectly CLEAR: I DO know how to change the clock in my car. I do. I just don’t want to. And before you can start poking holes in my assertion - let me distract you with an additional argument: I have far too many clocks in my house---15. What can I say, I like clocks--- to be forced to adapt to changing them all. I’ll lose far more than an hour, I can promise you that. So in order to SAVE time---which is the whole philosophy behind the reset, right?---I refuse to waste it remembering how to reset my car clock just to prove I’m not a PWDKHCCC.

Stop being so judgey.