Who am I?

Convicts I have Known

Linda Vernon Who am I? , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Hello Dear Readers!  Today, I thought it might be fun to talk about convicts I have known. 

When I was 19, I was a waitress in the coffee shop of the Marcus Whitman Hotel in Walla Walla Washington.  For those of you unfamiliar with Walla Walla — besides hearing it referred to as the town they liked so well they named it twice, Walla Walla is also home to the Washington State Penitentiary.

The Walla Walla State Pen
(P.S. I got such a kick out of stealing this picture!)

In the early seventies, somebody (probably one of the “Screws”) said, “I know! Let’s take hardened criminals who have made a few tiny mistakes in their lives like perhaps pillaging, raping and murdering and let them out everyday to go to work as cooks at the Marcus Whitman Hotel!”

The Marcus Whitman Hotel — it’s not really this tall, the photographer must have been lying flat on his back when he took this picture.

And so that’s what they did and that’s how I got to know a few of our nations finest criminals.

George

George was a sweet little man, polite, personable and quiet. All the waitresses really liked George.  One day somebody got up the nerve to ask George why he was in prison.  Turns out retiring, polite, little George had murdered his wife with a butcher knife.  But not to worry there were extenuating circumstances.

It seems George had been a cook in the army for 20 years where he had developed a horrendous drinking problem.  One morning after a night of heavy drinking, he woke up to find he had stabbed his wife to death and he didn’t remember a thing.  He said he had no idea why he did it — because he didn’t remember having any problem with his wife.

Nine out of ten Washington State Convicts prefer butcher knives for all their murdering needs!”

Unfortunately, George eventually discovered that the Marcus Whitman Hotel Bar was 20o feet away from the kitchen.  One day George went into the bar and squirted the nozzle of whiskey directly into his mouth for a really, really long time.  We didn’t see George anymore after that. On a bright side, he didn’t use any of the kitchen knives to stab anybody.

Pineapple

Pineapple was a big tall guy with a crazy look in his eye who could barely string  two words together.  I don’t know why they called him Pineapple.  Maybe he was from Hawaii, or maybe it was because he had the IQ of a pineapple either way, one day he got a toothache while he was working in the kitchen, and so he decided the best course of action would be to extract his own tooth with a butcher knife.  We never saw Pineapple again after that.

Nine out of ten Washington State Convicts prefer butcher knives for all their tooth extraction needs!

Billy

Billy was a smooth talker who got “sent up” for possession of pot or so he liked to tell everyone.  And the pot wasn’t even his, he was just holding it for a friend.  Billy was like the smart prison guy in movies who was the mastermind behind the scenes and who got the likes of Pineapple to implement his schemes.

One day Billy talked one of the waitresses, Robin, into driving him to the airport after his shift.  The authorities were waiting for him when he got off the plane in the next town, and we never saw Billy again.

“No of course the prison won’t mind if you take me to the airport! Trust me Robin!”

Robin said the authorities came to talk to her but she didn’t get in any trouble for helping Billy escape.  Probably because they could see that in a game of Jeopardy between Pineapple and  Robin, Pineapple’s IQ would have won hands down.

Then there was the guy who got drunk, put on a Cher wig and wandered around the coffee shop incoherently until the police finally came and took him away.  Oh, but that wasn’t a convict, that was the hotel manager.  (But that’s another story for another day.)

The Manager of the Marcus Whitman Hotel

Until next time . . . I love you

My Butler’s Toupee or Living in Hotsy Totsy Land

Linda Vernon Who am I? , , , , , , , , ,

Welcome!  Isn’t this a fine June morning Dear Readers?  I’m leaving for the mall in just a few minutes to meet a very good friend where we will shop for items that we will eventually donate to the thrift store and later inadvertently buy back again.  I’m sorry to have to say I didn’t have time to cook up a new, fresh essay for you, but I have taken a leftover essay and stuck it in the oven at 350 degrees. 

This, Dear Reader, is the view from my Morning Room.

Ok, I don’t really have a Morning Room, as such, it’s actually just a fancy way of saying a chair by the window in the bedroom.

But I like to refer to it as my Morning Room whenever I am giving instructions to my Butler.

Ok, I don’t really have a Butler, as such, it’s just a fancy way of referring to my little dog who looks like a really bad toupee that a Butler might wear.

Picture of a yorkshire terrier
My Butler’s Toupee

So this morning, Dear Reader, whist sitting in my Morning Room admiring the view, I soon found myself ringing for the Butler with the Butler Bell.  Which is to say,  I called at the very tip-top of my very best lung,

“Here Chancey!  Here Chancy!”

. . . because what I refer to as my Butler’s Bell isn’t really a Butler’s Bell, as such, but just a fancy way of saying ‘calling the dog’.

To which my Butler responded by running over and jumping onto my lap —  or at least his toupee did.

Twas shortly after that,  I instructed my Lady-in-Waiting to bring my breakfast to the Morning Room for my Butler and I — that we might dine whilst partaking of the View of the Estate from the Window of the Morning Room,

Ok, it isn’t really an Estate, as such, it’s just a fancy way of saying ‘tree’.  But a pretty one it is.  I would even go so far as to say that my Butler’s Toupee and I think it very grand indeed!

But alas, all good things must come to an end.

It seems my Lady-in-Waiting refused to serve us our breakfast due to the fact that she isn’t really a Lady-in-Waiting, as such, but just a fancy way in which I sometimes refer to myself.

And I never make breakfast.

Until next time . . . I love you

My Internally Grateful Organs

Linda Vernon My Brain, Peanuts, Who am I? , , ,

I haven’t got anything against my brain (who insists on calling itself, Peanuts, btw).  It’s just that when Peanuts tries to take over for me, it sometimes gets ahead of itself and does the dumbest things.

Yesterday, I attempted to write an essay about how comical it was that my crooked tooth is now the new beauty trend in Japan.  Japanese women are paying for crooked teeth to make themselves appear more approachable.

I know it’s funny, right?  And since I have a this humorous crooked tooth that sticks out in front, I thought it would make a hilarious essay!

Little did I know that my brain, Peanuts, unbeknownst to me, didn’t think it was funny at all because when I went to edit the crooked-tooth essay  this morning, Peanuts hit the “trash” button instead of the “edit” button before I even realized what was going on!

Oh I get it!  Obviously, Peanuts feels a little self-conscious about the whole subject of “our” crooked tooth  Well, who knew?

So then I thought, well if my brain, Peanuts, feels that way about “our” crooked tooth, how do my other organs feel about it?  So I decided to survey my organs.

My Heart

As for my heart liking my crooked-t00th essay, well it feels like my heart didn’t like the fact that I was pointing out “our” flaws to the world. But it tends to be a softy so I can’t really take its opinion all that seriously.

My Spleen

Frankly, I have no idea what my spleen’s opinion is about the crooked tooth essay, but does it really matter what a spleen thinks?  I mean, sure, the spleen is in there chuggin’ away day after day, but don’t you get the feeling it’s just performing busy work?  If my spleen went away tomorrow, I doubt I’d even notice. No offense to my spleen, of course.

My Stomach

Oddly — even though my stomach is the most demanding organ in my body — it could care less about my crooked tooth. But it’s a self-centered little thing that just sits there waiting for the world to come to it.  In fact, sometimes my stomach makes me sick.

My Liver

My liver doesn’t have time to even have an opinion about anything as it’s been backed up with work since the 70’s and I hate to bother it with trivial matters.

My Kidneys

Well, they’re just a couple of snooty twins who think they’re god’s gift just because they are always in such high demand transplant-wise.  I’m sure they disapprove of my poking fun at any parts of the body that they are affiliated with. I have a good mind to tell them they’re just a couple of glorified garbage sifters, and knock them off their high horses!

My Appendix

My poor pathetic appendix.  How can you have any respect for the opinion of an organ whose sole purpose is to sit there and be quiet in case anybody wants to remove it.    I assure you,  if I could think of some way to boost the self-esteem of my appendix, I would.  But until people start needing appendix transplants, my lowly appendix’s opinion about anything is totally inconsequential — sorry to say.

In Conclusion

I’d have to say that perhaps my brain, Peanuts, isn’t so dumb.  After taking the above survey, it seems Peanuts threw itself over a grenade in the form of a crooked-tooth essay that would have done serious damage to the self-esteem of most of my internal organs had it been published.

It’s funny the way life turns out sometimes.  Isn’t it?

Until next time . . . I love you

Clip Clopping Down Memory Lane

Linda Vernon Pets, Who am I? , , , , , ,

In Third Grade, Nothing Worth Mentioning Had Been Invented Yet

Today I had to google how to get the number “6” from appearing when pushing the letter “o” key on my Zagg/mate keypad for my Ipad.

Now this got me to thinking.  If my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Buoy, would have read the above sentence to us back in 1962, I would have thought she was speaking to us in another language. (If I would have been listening, that is.)

Turns Out Mrs. Buoy Was Not Full of Hooey

I guess I thought of Mrs. Buoy (whom I loved like a grandmother) because she was definitely a person ahead of her time. I’ll never forget her saying that most of us would  be working in careers some day that hadn’t even been invented yet.  And she was right!  Unfortunately, that’s about the only thing I can remember about third grade. Aside from the fact that I loved Mrs. Buoy.

That’s because third-grade was the year I became a Horseback Riding Junky.

My Spiral into Addiction

It all began innocently enough with an overnight stay at Ann Payne’s house where I experienced my first ride on a horse named Sweetie.  One time around the pasture and I was hooked. From that moment forward, I HAD to have a horse of my own, even if I had to beg borrow or steal. (In the end I chose the latter, but more on that in a minute.)

Anyway, after that my life was reduced to a series of horse-related activities including drawing horses, dreaming of horses, staring at horses and being jealous of kids who had horses.

This is a perfect example of the horses I drew in third grade. I say perfect example because, as you can see,  I don’t draw any better now than I did in third grade.

Festering Pestering

I began my quest to get a horse by suggesting to my parents that perhaps they should buy me one.  When that fell on deaf ears, I stepped it up to logical reasoning, followed by persistent pleading; until finally I was reduced to relentless begging.

Then, a Possible Breakthrough!

One evening, I thought I had my mother convinced.  I was begging for a horse, as usual, when she finally said, “Why don’t you go to bed, and we’ll talk about it tomorrow!

TALK ABOUT IT TOMORROW!! I couldn’t believe my ears!   Suddenly, I had gone from no chance at all to a legitimate snowball’s chance in hell. I was elated, and I went to bed that night dreaming of a 35-year-old nag named, Prince, who was for sale for fifty bucks.

A Bitter Setback

Sadly, the next day, when I found out that I merely was “over hoping,”  I packed my yellow shortie pajamas into a 45-record record case and threw it out the window in a short-lived plan to runaway from home. (I forgot about it until the following summer when my Dad found it in the bushes beneath my window while he was mowing the lawn.)

A Happy — Even Though It Took Long Enough! — Ending

Nevertheless, I am happy to report that my dream of horse ownership finally did come true! I finally got my horse!  Oh sure, it took from third grade until I was 50. But better late than never I always say.

Joey a.k.a. Sedintariat

And a beautiful treasure he is too!

Until next time . . . I love you

Rewriting the Story of My Life

Linda Vernon Baby Eating and Whatnot, Who am I? , , ,

Hello my fine feathered whippersnappers!  Lately I’ve been bingeing on pre-20th century English movies and have decided that the story of my life just won’t do.  And so I have decided to change it thusly:

Linda Vernon was born Linda Cathleen Carlotta Loretta Pansy Rose Petunia Hollandaise Sauce sometime in March or April around or near the Year of Our Lord 1536(ish).  Linda (who went by the nickname of Linda) suffered early psychological trauma  due to the fact that she was told by her parents that she was the youngest of 14 children, but later found out that she was instead  the oldest of 14 children (quite by accident). Plus the fact that her mother died in childbirth from consumption vexed her greatly.

This so upset young Linda that she became a recluse.  She took all her meals in her room and refused to come out even on Reformation Day.  Many people thought this is where she honed her writing, but once, when she left her room momentarily, her family rushed in to read what she had written but found only the largest collection of sharpened pencils in the Moors.

It wasn’t until her pet leopard died of consumption that she roused herself out of her pencil sharpening stupor and made her debut in the village of which the family estate was located next to.  Unfortunately all the villagers had just that morning died of consumption.

Linda was briefly engaged in the position of Chief Wig Powderer at Drowning Downs Hall until Lord Drowning drowned down the hall when a careless servant left the window open during an unseasonable monsoon season. Lord Drowning’s wife (or mistress–they were never sure which) died later that afternoon of consumption.

"Love your wig! Who powdered it?"
This left Linda quite shilling less.  She packed her pencil collection in her trunk and summoned a chaise and four to take her to London where she planned to obtain a position as a governess.  She waved goodbye to her family from the Barouche Box in which she rode, but they didn’t wave back having all succumbed to consumption moments earlier.

Soon after she arrived in London her destiny took a little turn when she was hobbling over the cobblestones and  got the toe of her foot stuck betwixt a cobble and a stone which caused her to fall down in front of polite society.  Indeed, her reputation was completely ruined to the extent that no one would have anything to do with her except for people who pronounced governor “overnor”.

Undaunted because she was a feisty, independent woman who didn’t care what polite society or even rude society thought of her, she managed to obtain a position as a seamstress for the Duchess of Pid.

The Duchess of Pid with Her Kid
She saved up her money and later bought Drowning Downs Hall. She was also able to revive Lord Drowning somehow by drawing on her feisty independence.  When someone asked her how she managed to revive a man who drowned none too recently, she scribbled down the instructions which were later published by Snussington, Hughhee and Flebberhower-hower, Inc. and the book enjoyed worldwide success until she keeled over into her porridge from consumption.

Her last words were believed to be:  “If I’m not famous after I die, shoot me.”  Which was weird because she is still alive to this day.

Until next time, I love you . . . .

Turning 59 . . .

Linda Vernon Lists, Who am I? , , , , , ,

First, thank you for taking the time to come here.  My goal is to make it worth your while.   So without further adieu . . .

Today is my 59th Birthday, and I ran across this apropos quote by Dr. Suess which really says it all about turning any age:

“Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.”

So with those words to lean on, and it being my birthday and all, I guess it’s as good a time as any (or maybe even a better time than any) to launch this new blog, lindavernon.wordpress.com — where I’m going to be honest and true to myself.  This is the blog to find my voice and to voice what I’m thinking.  Perhaps it will be little more than a recepticle for “Brain Slosh” but at least it will be my very own, honest brain slosh.  Right now, I feel a little like a public speaker with an audience of none.

That’s ok.  I’ll build my courage as I build momentum.  Before you know it I’ll be blabbing about all kinds of things and there’ll be no shutting me up.  When my kids were little, they had a little friend over who talked my ear off.  Even at the tender age of 3, she was apparently aware of her propensity to chatter.  After talking for about an hour straight she finally said, “Why don’t you give me a cookie, that’ll shut me up.”  So just for future reference. . . my favorite cookie is chocolate chip.

These are the things I have come to terms with concerning turning 59:

Turning 59 is alittle worse than turning 58 and a little better than turning 60.

You’re only as old as you look and you probably look 59.

You’re only hope now is that you’re a late bloomer.

You might be getting more wrinkles, but at least  . . . uh . . . well I’ll get back to you on this one.

If you say you’re 59 years young, you’re only drawing attention to the fact that you’re 59 years OLD – because nobody is buying that. “years young”  hooey.

If you live to be a hundred you still have more years ahead of you than behind you . . . no wait a minute . . . nevermind.

At least by the time you’re 59, you know how to adjust your head for photos to minimize your double chin – unless you don’t have a double-chin in which case oh shut up.

Once you’ve reached 59, everyday is a new beginning (of the end).

And so it goes for my very first post into this new realm of reality in the form of virtual-ness.  Stay tuned tomorrow where I will be thinking up a nickname for my brain.

Until then . . . I love you.