Adventures with Geannii

  Good Grief It’s a Bow Uncle Ronnie gave Dad a bow set — bow, quiver, arm guard, the whole works. Dad was so proud you’d think he’d been knighted. He took that bow out and showed everyone. If the mailman had lingered too long, he’d have seen it too. Uncle Ronnie was serious about bow hunting. It was his passion. (He was later accidently killed while hunting — the thing he loved most besides his family.) That bow set wasn’t just sporting equipment. It was a piece of him. Then one day… it was gone. Not the guns. Not the ammo. Not the jewelry. Just the bow set.  Dad always believed someone in the family had taken it, he was heartbroken.  He looked like someone had stolen his dog, his truck, and his last slice of pie all at once. Fast-forward to my senior year. I took an Arts and Crafts class — which was a mistake, because we were pouring ceramics and our greenware kept cracking like we were running a pottery graveyard. I knew exactly why: we left it in the mold overnight. B...

   One Wild Ride We had a twin-sized air bed on the top bunk—over six feet from the bunk to the floor. It seemed like a good idea at the time, until the cell phone started ringing. Naturally, it was on the top bunk. Up the ladder I went, but just as I reached the top, Van turned a corner. Now, we weren’t pulling a trailer, which meant the ride was already "bobtail" rough. (Which is trucker-speak for 'bouncing like a pogo stick' because there's no trailer weight to smooth things out). We were also on a very rough gravel road, hitting every rut and bump at about 35 miles per hour. I was instantly off-balance—one hand, one foot, the rest of me swinging out into space like a confused circus monkey trying to cling to the ladder. I managed to scramble onto the bunk for safety, or so I thought. The airbed didn't offer safety; it offered a launchpad. The bed turned into a trampoline. I wasn’t just bouncing; I was a rag doll in a carnival game. I hit the ceiling, then...

    Most people think 80,000 pounds of steel and rubber can handle anything. They’re wrong. On an Oregon mountain pass in February, physics doesn't care about your cargo—it only cares about who’s in charge. And on this day, it definitely wasn't us. I have a fear of driving — or even riding — on icy roads. I didn’t always feel this way. When I was first married, DH was driving a propane tank. He was bootlegging… me. We crested over a hill — a 20 % grade — and at the bottom was a railroad track. The cross arms were down, lights flashing, warning of a train. The road was solid ice . We were in low gear, but eighty thousand pounds of propane and truck don’t care about low gear. Gravity grabbed us by the ankles and yanked us straight down that hill.

  Clothes were scattered along I-5 for miles. At first, it was just a single shirt lying in the shoulder. Then a pair of jeans. Then a sock — just one, because of course it was. You’ve seen it on television: clothes flying out of an upstairs window when a man is in big trouble. But this wasn’t TV. This was real life, and somebody’s laundry was telling a story. I could picture it perfectly. Huge fight.

                                                Welcome to the second half of the funeral that felt more like a comedy tour. In this act, we move from midget giraffes to 'Peasant hunts,' and my grandsons— Capt'n Chaos and Sir WhatTheHeck —officially earn their titles. Catch up on the morning's madness here before you dive into the dinner disaster.   Act III: The Chaos Continued (The arrival of Mom Ralston in spirit)   After the funeral, we all met at a restaurant just like Mom R. had requested years ago. She’d always said she didn’t want a somber dinner; she wanted us to go out, eat good food, and have a good time. I remember asking her, “You know you aren’t going with us, right?” Anita just shrugged and said, “I dunno… I think she plans on it.” Honestly, she might as well have been sitting at the head of the table, because the whole thing turned into a ci...

                                                       Unrestrained Travis   Act I: The Methodist on the Sidewalk The Warning We were all dressed in our funeral best—looking less like a grieving family and more like a local band that had just lost its lead singer. I looked at Travis and gave him "The Talk." “Travis, just behave for today.” He didn’t even blink. “I’ll try, but I’m not making any promises.” The Crime Scene As we walked up to the Apple Barrel, a guy from the Subway next door was out on the sidewalk with a massive industrial mop. Travis stopped dead. “Is that how you get rid of unwanted customers?” The guy looked up, exhausted. “No. It was here when I came to work. No idea what happened.” Travis walked into the café and announced to the table, “Did you see all that blood? That guy is mopping up huge puddles of it.”

My niece, Jana, bought three guppies for her three kids and set them up in a little fishbowl. One day, they got a floater. A fish passed away. Jana did what every good mother does: held a solemn toilet-side funeral and flushed the dearly departed. Down to two. A few days later, Jana walked by the bowl… and there was only one fish. No floater. No hiding. Just gone. She looked down at three-year-old Miss Chief — the only witness on the scene — and asked, “Sweetie, what happened to the fish? There’s only one.” Miss Chief looked up with pure innocence and said,   “It’s in my belly.” Jana blinked. Surely she misheard. “…What did you say?” Miss Chief repeated, slowly, helpfully: “It’s. In. My. Belly.” Horrified, Jana asked, “How did you catch it?” Miss Chief demonstrated: dipped her hand in the bowl, scooped up an imaginary fish, shoved it straight into her mouth. Gobble gobble gobble. “In my belly.” This was not some frat boy that swallowed a goldfish on a dare. This was a toddler ...