What a menagerie

Holy Cow! The living room is a living example of a cacophony. The oldest girl is plunking out the theme to Beethoven’s Ninth, while the youngest girl is practicing how to make a sound on the piano with every finger at the same time. The youngest of all (one minute younger than his sister) is quiet only because the Polar Express movie is playing so he can watch, “My train! My Train!” The next oldest girl is explaining how the brand new chicks are following the mother hen around like, well, a hen and chicks. The boy that figures everything out too quickly is sure the new rabbit cage is stupid (explained at the top of both his lungs and his speaking range.” The kit is getting used to its cage. Hope it likes noise. By the way for those that don’t know a kit is what a baby rabbit is called. Anyway, we have no idea whether it is a doe or buck yet.

The only thing I know about the little darling is it is the newest member of the household. It was a close contest. The chicks arrived yesterday too. They were incubated at school as a lesson for students, and now they are returned to us alive and, for now, well.

My God, let’s take a census here – ten kids (children not goats) four cats, three inside dogs, two outside dogs, a potbelly pig, a Juliana pig (ugly as hell, but if we hadn’t taken him, the asshole that had him before would have abused him even more). Oh yeah, back to the roll call. Two roosters, two hens, six chicks (I just found out there are more to come today) and finally one lop-eared kit.

I did forget one animal, well three actually, if you include my wife and myself. I forgot the unicorn. She’s not really a unicorn. She is a white pony that my youngest, who loves the mythical animals, calls her ‘corn. She has the one live one. She must think of it as disabled because the horn is missing. Then there are three more stuffed inside. That’s stuffed animal toys. I don’t want anyone to think I’m a monster who goes around stuffing mythical beasts. One of her ‘corns is a rocking ‘corn. Then there is a smaller version about as big as a basketball, and then finally, there is the ‘corn that has to be slept with, otherwise, every bit of the seven layers of Dante’s hell envelops the house. The shrieking alone is loud enough that the corpse of Beethoven probably hears it while he’s trying to rest in his peaceful deafness.

And people wonder why I call this house the looney bin.

Personally, I’m waiting for the day the youngest two are house trained – wait – potty trained. I have spent the last fourteen years buying diapers and/or pull-ups, or cleaning cloth diapers. Do you know at one time we had six, that’s half a dozen, six children in diapers at the same time. That was one full kitchen trash can or rubbish bin of poop catchers a day. Whew, am I glad that’s over. Well, it’s almost over. Two more to go.

I was just informed that we will have more chicks coming home to roost today sometime. No idea how many.

Say, you might want to look up Lisa Towles’s blog. She interviewed me this week and here is the link.


My Family

What Do I Do Now?

Welcome back!

Have any kids, grandkids? I have a large family, ten children living under my roof and two who have their own families complete with their partners who are raising my five grandchildren.

As you can imagine our house is always on the beastly side. Let me back up a bit on that; that may be an exaggeration. There are some days between three and three-thirty in the morning when there can be something resembling a hushed level, although there is one child who only needs about seven point three minutes of sleep every day.

Coincidentally he is also the one who yells at everything, rants, and claims everyone is stupid. Maybe there is a pattern there. By the way, his voice is high-pitched, and when he screams it pierces right through one of my hearing aides, bounces around like a ricocheting bullet that brandishes a bayonet, and exits out the other side.

We love him so much.

We love all of the little carpet devils, named so after the small tornado-like phenomena that rolls across the prairies and deserts, not because of their demeanor. Regardless of how the name sounds they are little angles and I would not trade them for anything. A stiff shot helps a bit though.

Our family is quite the hodgepodge and is about as extended as a family can be. There are adoptees, of which my wife is one as are more than a few children. Of course we have our bio-kids some of whom are louder and more headstrong than others. They tend to surprise me. That started about the time they got started. Genetics can be a bitch. My father-in-law lives in town, my wife’s bio family not a far piece down the road (local talk), and we keep in touch with the surrogate kids too. Those are the children my wife carried and gave birth to in order to help other couples achieve their dream of family.

The aunts and uncles of all the kids stretch out in every direction, especially if you count the half siblings, adopted siblings, and bio siblings of both of us. We have service personnel, teachers, doctors, students, business managers, and truck drivers.

All in all, we have quite the asylum.

Someone told me that in order to write I have to have come from a dysfunctional family. Well, I sprang from a functional, dysfunctional one. Pardon, you say? I know. That sentence alone sounds nonfunctional. One hell of an oxymoron isn’t it. My mind is still boggling.

Imagine living it. I do, and love it, but there may be a clue as to why I don’t have any hair left.


What Do I Do Now?

Welcome to the first post of my blog. I think an apt name might be: What Do I Do Now?

Today’s post is an explanation of what might be expected from visiting here. It will be a multifarious adventure. I would use the word eclectic to describe it, but that is one of my least favorite of words. It sounds good. It trips off the inner-voiced tongue well enough, but I associate it with a negative air of superiority. I’ve seen it on so many websites belonging to Literary Agents just before my query gets sent back to me with a form letter that, after reducing it down to its lowest form, means hell no.

Please let me be clear here.

I’m talking about the association of a word with a bad experience. I’m not trying to debate them. I probably needed, or in fact deserved to be rejected. It takes time and a butt-load of rejections to become a writer. Hell, even J.K. Rowling was told not to quit her day job. (Disclaimer: that in no way means to imply that I am the next J. K. … etc.)

Anyway, back to the blog. There will be many wind gusts my thoughts might blow around on, and I have no idea in which direction they will travel. As I sat down to make a list of the things I might cover, I was enlightened to the proclivity of my mindless wanderings. I should have guessed though. My Great Grandfather had a wandering disposition. Why just the other day while marching my DNA back through history it looked as if I truly descended from a line of bastards. But it was a false alarm. I’m not literally a bastard, although I’ve heard several utterances justifying the name be tattooed on my buttocks. Kind of poetic isn’t it. So, call me what you will.

Oh, wandering again.

Do you see what I mean? At any given moment in time, my mind might dart off in new and unexplained direction. By the way, I will probably talk about moments in time at a later date.

I’ll stay away from politics. There are enough people out there that blog about that, some do it with intelligence, some with as much smarts and mud as the backside of a jackass might have. I see no reason to muddy that field anymore. As it is, hip waders are useless.

That brings me to my last sub-topic for this post. I spent some of my best years in the Army, and while there I earned the equivalency of an advanced degree in what President Truman termed,  cussing. I try to behave, but an occasional expletive (The transcriptions of Nixon’s tapes made that word famous) might fall out of my mouth, or fingers, whichever. If that irritates you, I apologize and ask that you simply redact it. Examples on what that is have been talked about and displayed ad nauseam in the last few months. The gist of this is, I don’t want to offend, but sometimes those words can be perfect descriptions.

To sum it all – come on back. There’s no telling what might be here.


What Do I Do Now?