My Brain, Peanuts, Remembers The City Pool

 

Waitsburg City Pool or Gawdawful like it
The Waitsburg city pool (or gawdawful like it)

 

A Swimming Pool Fool

When I was a little girl, I was a swimming fool even though the pool in our little town left a lot to be desired.  First of all, it wasn’t heated or filtered so they had to drain it every week and refill it with water they piped in from the South Pole.  Not being a filtered pool, you’d think we would have all gotten a horrible disease like typhoid fever, leprosy or at the very least, Polio, but the water was either too cold to sustain microbial life or nobody could ever stay in long enough to catch anything.

The Magic of Turning Nine

Until I was in the fourth grade, all my summer mornings were spent begging and pleading with my mother to take me to the swimming pool.  But when I turned nine, she decided I was old enough to go to the city pool on my own. So every morning I’d get up and kill time by playing hide and seek with the neighborhood kids until the magical hour of 1:00 o’clock when the city pool opened.  My mother would fix me a tuna sandwich and make me wait half an hour before I could head out to the pool lest I get a cramp and drown. For some reason known only to 1950-ites, the most dangerous thing a person could do in the fifties would be to down a tuna sandwich and then dive directly into a body of water.  You would get a cramp and you would drown.  Period.  End of story.

leading cause of drowning in the 50's
Leading cause of drowning 1950-style

The Art of Towel Rolling

The towel you brought to the swimming pool said a lot about how well your parents had their acts together. The parents who had their acts totally together bought their children their own beach towels every summer with a cute picture of a whale or a beach umbrella emblazoned across its front.  Other parents who didn’t have their acts quite as together didn’t mind if their child brought whatever towel happened to be hanging on the towel rack that day.  And then there were the  parents who didn’t have their acts together at all.  These were the parents who were big believers in sun-dried kids.

My parents fell into the middle category.  I would take some dingy towel off the towel rack everyday and fold it in half length-wise and roll my swimming suit up in it.  Then I would put on my thongs (which is the fifties speak for flip-flops)  and I’d head out across town to the city pool to join the small group of children who were also addicted to the swimming pool as much as I was.

The Regulars

Looking back on it now, there were about five of us who came every single day without fail.   Most of them were sun-dried kids and for a while I forsook my towel to fit in.  (I’d tell you their names but I’m not sure they had any.)  Anyway, we would simply find a dry spot on the cement and lay there until we got hot enough to brave the frigid waters of Antarctica for another ten minutes of splish-splashing hypothermia.

Jackknifes, Cannonballs and Cutaways

Most of my activity at the pool was waiting in line to go off the diving board.  My  ‘go to’ dive was a jackknife.  My friend, Susan Weber, was a whiz at a dive called the cutaway. While us girls worked on our dives, the boys were perfecting their cannonballs — a dive that never made any sense to me because why make a big splash if you can’t see it?  But I do remember the boys who were a little on the hefty side being much better at the cannonball than their skinnier counterparts.

After Swimming Hunger

I have never been hungrier than I was in the fifties.  Being a kid lends itself to a lot of hunger.  The hunger you feel from only eating one bite of breakfast before school and counting the seconds until lunch.  The hunger you feel after waiting for lunch to find that you are too finicky to eat hamburger gravy and sandy butter sandwiches. And then there’s the  hunger you feel after school from being too picky to eat a decent breakfast and lunch.

Seven Bowls of Cheerios

But the hunger I felt after swimming all afternoon in the city pool beats them all. It’s the kind of hunger that only seven bowls of Cheerios swimming in a soup of sugary milk can satisfy.  Sitting at the kitchen table, eating Cheerios with the late afternoon sun pouring through the window and knowing that after you finish your last bowl, the Three Stooges will be on.  Does life get any better than that?

I think not.

Cheerios from the 1950's

Until next time . . . I love you

37, Me and The Big D

Welcome Dear Readers to Linda Vernon Humor 2.0!  

Oh happy day! The time has come to start writing again.   The main thing that has happened to me since I last wrote, 1016 days ago, is that I am now divorced from my husband of 40 years who I always referred to on this blog as 37.

You can read about 37 and all the fun we used to have here if you’re curious (but I wouldn’t bother if I were you).

So why did 37 and I get a divorce?

I’ll spare you the gory details, because I honestly don’t know them.  Suffice it to say, it was a mighty big surprise to me when 37 came home from work one night and sat me down and explained he didn’t want to be married anymore. I can’t even remember what he said.  I only remember his explanation didn’t make much sense.  But he wrapped it up in 40 minutes before he left to go to a hotel — so one minute for every year we were married.  I don’t know if he planned it that way, but he is an engineer, and they are known for being precise.

You can read about 37 being an engineer here (but I wouldn’t bother if I were you).

 37 dropped off the face of the planet and is now rumored to be living on the planet’s neck and shoulders (or possibly lower)

I’ve only seen 37 a couple of times since he left.  It’s all very unreal, Dear Readers, and it has taken me 1016 days to get my bearings figured out. (I was a D student in bearings class.) But I’m happy to report that I have decided to have a ball with the rest of my life anyway and that includes writing humor. Because I’ve found that it’s hard to be depressed when you are trying to think up funny stuff.

Divorce Helpful Hints

So what have I learned from going through a divorce after 40 years of marriage?  I’ve learned how to go out on dates.  I’ve learned how to drive places I normally would have never dreamed of driving. I’ve learned how to  open a jar pickles with my own strength.  Okay not really.  But I have learned not to buy pickles anymore. I’ve learned that it’s nice not to have a man in the house who eats  all the potato chips before you get any and much more which I will write about from time to time.

Anyway, thank you for coming to check out Linda Vernon Humor 2.0.  And I look forward to connecting with all of you!

Until next time . . . I love you

 

 

My Most Popular Posts: Pottery Barn Activity Center

Just when you think life has dulled itself down to a stub,  the new Pottery Barn Catalog arrives! Talk about reigniting your passion for living!

Oh Goodie Goodie Gumdrops! Let us rub our collective hands together and start our Pottery Barn discussion with:

The Pottery Barn Activity Center

Clearly Pottery Barn is trying to get us to be a little more constructive in our spare time. To that end, PB has designed this (get a life) activity center. As you can see from the picture, Pottery Barn feels passionately that thread is the KEY FACTOR when it comes to any activity.

What is PB trying to say?

Perhaps The Potter Barn Activity Center is PB’s polite way of telling us that we need to get off our collective squishy bums and start actively LIVING LIFE before Father Time pokes us with a fork, we’re done.

As Dorothy Parker once said, “There will be plenty of time to do nothing once we’re dead.”

Therefore it is imperative that you buy yourself a Pottery Barn Activity Center right this very minute!  Don’t just say, “Oh I’ll  actively fiddle with thread tomorrow.”  What if you don’t make it to tomorrow.  Huh?  Then what?

As Andy Dufresne once said, “Get Busy Livin’ or Get Busy Dyin” . . .  You’re call Dear Readers!

PB wants to know how you would like being on your deathbed never having experienced the activities in their beautiful Activity Center.  So stop wasting time and start flipping through that old Botany notebook ASAP, reread those old postcards, pronto!  Don’t just sit there!  Time’s a wastin’ — for heaven’s sakes at least PUT A CLAMP ON SOMETHING!

Yeah, The Pottery Barn Activity Center is $129.  So What?

Pottery Barn is asking you nicely not to let the $129 price tag deter you from buying their super-duper-essential Pottery Barn Activity Center.  If Pottery Barn has implored you once, they’ve implored you a thousand times not to nickel and dime yourself out of your one true chance at happiness.

Now, stop arguing and go get your purse or wallet and march yourself down to Pottery Barn . . . Ten Hut!

Oh . . . and since you’re going there anyway . . . PB wants to know if you’ve got 44 extra bucks lying around in, say, your garbage can?

If you answered yes, PB wants you to know they have devised  a much more stylish way for you to throw away your money.

And that is by purchasing this One-of-a-Kind, Giant-Fork, Paper-Towel Holder:

The Cucina Paper Towel Holder

The PB Catalog describes this item simply as a Cucina Paper Towel Holder hoping you won’t know what “Cucina” means and will be too lazy to look it up.

Pottery Barn is hoping you will assume “Cucina” means sustainable, recycled, eco-friendly, soy-based, dolphin-free materials hewn by a mystical enclave of  Mastercrafters headquartered in a barn made of pottery deep in the secret sustainable forests that Pottery Barn and Pottery Barn only has dibs on.

TO RECAP:  if tree falls in the sustainable forest?  Back off!  It belongs to Pottery Barn!

Oh, and a word of caution about the Cucina, Giant-Fork Paper Towel Holder.  If Father Time happens to drop by– be sure to hide this paper towel holder quickly.  He gets weird around forks.

Until next time . . . I love you (especially you, Pottery Barn!)

Hey Lookie! Hitler’s Got a Logo

Welcome Dear Readers to my video series called Magazines with Linda.  Join me won’t you as we flip through a magazine from 1931.

 

Until next time, I love you

I, Platypus

Welcome Dear Readers to this week’s edition of Gregory’s Bible Stories. Today Gregory learned about when God had Adam name all the animals.

Let’s listen in as Gregory tells us how it all happened.

gregoryI, Platypus

It was the very first Tuesday right after God had created Adam but just before He created Eve. God took some soil from the ground and formed all the animals and all the birds. Then He showed them to Adam.

Adam:  What’s all this?

God:  I just created all these animals and all these birds. Now I’d like you to think of names for each of them.

Adam:  But there’s so many!

God:  Yup, 1,589,361 to be exact.

Adam:  Okay let me get this straight.  You want me to cultivate the Garden of Eden and guard it plus think up 1,589,361 different animal names for all these animals you created? Not only am I only human, God, don’t forget I am the only human!

God:  LOL

Adam:  What does that mean?

God:  It’s an acronym that means laughing out loud.

Adam:  What’s laughing?

God:  Laughing. That’s  hard to explain.  Well here . . .take a look at this animal, it pretty much sums up my sense of humor.

God has a platypus on a leash and hands the leash to Adam.

Adam:  Awesome!  Fur, a bill, webbed feet!

God:  Yeah it’s venomous too which most people don’t know.

Adam:   Most people?

God:  Sorry, I got ahead of myself.  So what would you like to name it, Adam?

Adam:  How about a glerk or a floob?

God: Meh . . .

Adam:    Oh I know!  How about a  tittlefuzzwamper!

God:  Okay I like the direction you’re going in now.

Adam:  Octopus?

God: You’re getting warmer.

Adam:  Snickerdoodle . . .

God:  Keep thinkin’

Adam:  A platypus?

God:  Bingo! Good thinking Adam!

Adam:  This is fun!  What’s the next animal you want me to name?

God:  How about this one?  As you can see, it has two humps on it’s back.

Adam:  What are the humps for?

God:  Looks.

Adam: Okay then, how about a platypus?

God:  You already named the platypus the platypus.

Adam:  Oh yeah . . . well how about flatypus . . .  or . . . . oh I know . . . the  blatypus . . . oh wait . . . natypus!

God:  Sigh . . .

Adam:  What’s the matter, God?

God:  I was just thinking how long this is going to take.

Adam:  What are you complaining about?  You’re the one that’s eternal!  LOL!

God:  Adam! You made a joke!  There’s hope for you yet, young man. Now think of some more names.

Adam: Okay! How about a klatypus?

God: Keep trying.

Adam:  A blatypus then?

God:  No.

Adam:  A quatypus?

God:  Nope.

Adam:  Oh I know . . . platypus!  That’s a good name, platypus! Or did I already use that one already?  Hey what are you doing, God?

God:  Creating a chair . . .

And there you have it, Dear Readers, what Gregory learned in Sunday school this week.  Please check back next week to find out what happens when Adam finds out all the insects are going to need names too.

Until next time  . . . I love you

Too Many Platypi

How to Be Healthy

Welcome Dear Readers to another video I made.  Today I thought it would be fun to browse through Women’s Health Magazine. 

 

Until next time . . . I love you

Linda’s Bedtime Stories for Grown-up Children: The Cuppencaken

 The Cuppencaken

Roweena Patina was late for tea.   Her mother-in-law, Tulip Aarff, invited her three days ago and yet, somehowRoweena didn’t know how, she completely forgot!

Now Roweena found herself racing through the streets of Van Schmoodenfloffen, at such a furious pace that one of her wooden shoes flung itself off just as she was passing the Van Windenflooffen Bakery.

And even though Roweena felt her shoe fly off — she was in such a tizzy, she didn’t even bother stopping to retrieve it — despite the aroma of Van Boozlephaffen Pie tempting her . . . tempting her . . . tempting her!

For you see, Roweena, had managed to pile on fifty-three pounds during the annual Glockenflockenfluff Fish Festival to the mighty chagrin of her mother-in-law, Tulip Aarff.

In fact, Tulip Aarff found Roweena Patina lacking discipline in every respect — both as a human being, in general, and as a daughter-in-law in particular.  Now, Tulip Aarff could add “fat” to her myriad list of Roweena Patina complaints.

For Tulip Aarff made it her hobby to find fault in the tiniest imperfections of her daughter-in-law’s personage.  And today, Tulip Aarff was about to hit the jackpot when it came to her favorite amusement.

When at last Roweena arrived at the double Dutch door of her mother-in-law’s cottage, she said a prayer for protection, then knocked.

“Enter this instant!” commanded Tulip Aarff.  “For the cold herring is getting warm and the warm tea is getting cold!”

When Roweena stepped inside with her shoeless foot, her disheveled apron and her bonnet hopelessly askew, Tulip Aarff gasped the Great Mother-in-Law Gasp of the Ages.

You’re late as usual! Tulip Aarff barked.

With a hollow smile and a sugary, sweet voice, Roweena said, “I’m only late, my dearest mother-in-law, because I was baking you this  “special” Hagleslagen Cuppencaken!

When Roweena finished her tea, she bid Tulip Aarff a cheerful adieu. A cheerful adieu that Tulip Aarff failed to acknowledge, however, what with her being dead from the poison and all.

Tulip Aarff just before biting the Hagleslagen Cuppencaken dust!

* * *

Until next time . . . I love you