Ram Print Loveseat
Reach Out And Touch Faith
Do You Mind?
Politically Incorrect Yearbook Comics 1949
This is all in good fun, but folks would cry “domestic abuse” in this day and age.
When I think of Mary Wana, I think of hippies, not high school students in 1949. My bad.
Fun with intentional homicide!
Uh-oh, bestiality!
Mental illness was a laughing matter.
Hints of polygamy…
And the grand finale of I-Don’t-Get-Itness…a bowlegged sheriff fondling a cactus made of student’s heads, as a vulture flies overhead. Because that’s normal.
Dick With A Box
Yep, it’s another yearbook picture sans caption, so we are left wondering why Dick Van Dyke (or his twin) is carrying a box of problems up the aisle.
And why are there no chairs? And what a pretty cherry dress!
Here is the other half of the picture, showing a man in a cape behind Dick, fanning him with a palm leaf. What the what??
It’s A Bird, It’s A Plane
My Precious
Never come between a varsity cheerleader and her megaphone, or she may go all Miss Piggy karate-chop on
Hi-ya!
All Hail The Queen
No, I don’t get it.
Coots Gettin’ Rowdy Up In Here, Up In Here
This pic might cause Ned to release the squirrel, because only Heaven knows what’s got Granny so riled up. Whatever it is, the woman behind her is not keen on it continuing. Did she find the Willy Wonka golden ticket? Is that her bus pass? Perhaps it’s a not-so-silent auction or a Tupperware bidding war? Shouldn’t they all be playing bingo? And what on earth is Rose Marie doing there?
By the way, you guys–did you know Rose Marie is still alive and kicking at 90? She’s older than Dick Van Dyke! Why does he get all the press? That is not very chim chim cheree.
Vernal Fever
The Heat Is On*
In a few hours, it will be 95 degrees. I dare not doubt the weatherman’s forecast, as I just left the pre-noon outdoors, and it was already volcano-lava-hot. Any exercise must be done in the wee small hours these days.
Despite getting only three hours of sleep last night, and despite the forecast of a Martha Reeve’s heatwave, I donned my jogging apparel, headed to the local soccer park, and began climbing the hills around the perimeter.
Perhaps the path was once grassy, but now it is a knobby rubble of limestone, ripe for ankle injuries and displaced hips. Save a lone runner wearing what appeared to be a long-sleeved shirt made of shimmery black Glad trash bags ( a self-sauna?), I had the path to myself.
As I ascended, I passed evening primroses, Indian paintbrushes, and daisies, bending into candy cane shapes in the 20+ mph winds. I cinched my ballcap tighter, to the point where I almost felt I was being birthed again. Small white butterflies suddenly appeared, staying two steps ahead of me, swerving about like hybrid cars steered by texting teenagers. There must have been a half dozen of them, apparently delighted by spring. So, too, was I, inhaling the syrupy scent of wafting chinaberry blossoms. I love me some chinaberry trees!
Nearby excavators kicked up limestone dust, as they prepared yet another new subdivision, rising like weeds around here. I turned away, shielding my eyes from the dust, avoiding a head-on collision with a shrubby mesquite tree, and noticing my butterfly friends had departed.
The ridge was steep, and my quads ached, but I thought of our friends at church who do marathons in wheelchairs, and, of course, I always think of Nick Vujicic, the motivational speaker who has no limbs. It hasn’t stopped him from enjoying the beach with his wife and son.
When I got to the top, I took in the sight of rooftops stretching to the horizon. There I was, queen of all I surveyed, lording over the peasant village. It felt good, being so high above other things, looking down on the soccer fields, the tennis courts, the swimming pool (getting freshly-chlorinated), and the parking lots. Perspective changes everything.
I jogged my hour, and that was enough. I didn’t want to. But I was glad I did. Did it burn off the calories I ate in a handful of raw pistachios this morning? Probably not. But sometimes Nike is right. Just do it.
* not to be confused with another cattier post, The Heat Is Not On, Glenn Frey.
Verdant Pondside
I Don't Get It 