Unforgettable Jesse ©

Unforgettable Jesse © Tom O'Brien

(U Jesse was accepted for publication in the very respected Nights and Weekends ......http://www.nightsandweekends.com/search/?auth=Tom+O'Brien
and was published in The Mattawa Recorder, April 22, 2007)

I did not think there was much to Jesse when I first met him. I knew he was an ultra quiet widower of 87 years from the farming and logging area of Nipissing and I felt he was more at home listening to others. Then I saw and heard him speak at his great granddaughter's wedding reception.

"And now," said Mary Elizabeth, the master of ceremonies, "would you put your hands together and help me welcome our family patriarch, great grandfather Jesse!" A hearty applause followed from the ninety or so guests. With a spring in his walk, he approached the front table with his bandaged hands held close to his ears. The guests and bridal party, showing plenty of anticipation, leaned forward in their chairs.

He looked every bit an accomplished orator in his new tuxedo. Each strand of his white hair was in its place. He seemed to stare at each person individually as the Legion Hall became 'pin drop' quiet.

He looked to his left, nodded at the bridal party, and waived at two nearby babies in their mothers' arms.

"Gentlemen," he said with the grave and scornful look of a hanging judge, "I was the victim of a terrible crime last evening while hosting the young ladies of the bridal party at my home." He waited for the ripple of laughter to subside. "Now I don't mind waking up and seeing six pairs of panty hose hanging from my shower curtain … and various under garments strewn over my living room furniture." A heavyset man fell backwards from his chair. His wife fell on top of him. Jesse hid a small smile at one corner of his mouth.

"Last evening the bride painted my finger nails as I was enjoying my evening glass of milk. She wanted to see the colours on me and then decide…." The guests broke into sustained laughter while the bride's face reddened.

They then looked at him intently while his front teeth tore away the bandages that surrounded his hands and fingers. He kept his fingernails hidden from view and leaned closer to the microphone.

"Just think of how I now feel after my best great granddaughter and fishing buddy had the absolute gall to do this," and he held up his ten painted fingernails for all to see. Two matronly overweight women laughed and lurched out of their seats. Which one got to the washroom first was never determined.

"I looked up the names of ALL the colours," he said while staring at the guests and fixing the bride with a wry smile. Her veil fell off as the room erupted with table thumping and laughter.

He held up a pink index finger and waited for quiet. Again he leaned closer to the microphone and sounding much like a university scholar, he said, "Hawaiian Grapefruit Polynesian Pink Passion." As hilarity ebbed and flowed, he held up a thumb. A hushed and still silence filled the hall. He waived the blue painted thumb like a hitchhiker begging for a ride.

" Suckee-Wuckee Midnight Reassuring Blue." A mouthful of beer spewed from a bridesmaid's nose. His new great grandson in-law squirmed and laughed while his bride rocked sideways. Jesse then held up a little finger covered with many colours.'

"Gentlemen, this is most unsettling and we shall never put up with any more of this nonsense." His eyes drilled all the wet face guests. He cleared his throat and continued, "I have thirteen more great granddaughters to marry-off, and never, I say NEVER, will there be any more Lovey-Dovey Captivating Rainbow Rapture at any of their wedding receptions!"

How Not To Teach The Greenhouse Effect. © Tom O'Brien

How Not To Teach The Greenhouse Effect gained Honourable Mention in the prestigious Dec/06-Jan07 HumorPress competition and was published in The Mattawa Recorder Mar 3, 2007.

I was reminded last week of a lesson I should never have taught. It was the
greenhouse effect and how light rays are converted into heat while passing
through a layer of plastic or glass. It was the inclusion of how a
particular plant, which thrives in a greenhouse, may have led me into
trouble.

The class, for which I taught the lesson, was known as "The Lords of
Education." The term was appropriate because it described their
arrogant and distasteful attitudes that included learning, the teaching
profession, law abiding society members, punctuality, and armpit hygiene.

M's Wilma Nodblynth, their English teacher, never recovered upon seeing a
young "Lordess" removed from her classroom in handcuffs and leg irons.

I taught that greenhouse lesson during the last class of a March
afternoon. As usual, all fifteen of "The Lords" arrived late at my science
laboratory. I told one that I would only sign his court document of
attendance after the lesson was completed. That upset him and his two
women-friends.

While mustering up some enthusiasm for the lesson, I thought it might
be a good idea to mention one of their favorite subjects never taught in the
curriculum. Marijuana. After all, I assured myself, that is a good example
of a plant with fibrous roots and palmate leaves that are situated at the
far end of a stiff green stalk. Wonderful reasoning, I assured myself while
trying to get their attention above the roar of ghetto blasters and heavy
discussions about who of their jailed comrades merited day parole.

Two thermometers lay on the front desk and one was covered with a sheet of clear plastic film. I looked at all and said, "Now class, come up to the front of the room and see how we get a higher temperature under a piece of plastic than without."

Nobody moved. I should have stayed in bed.

I walked across the room and added, "Here we have a little greenhouse with a
blooming geranium plant." I glanced around. Magnificent Mimi, who had a strong interest in kickboxing, had her hand up and wanted to ask a question. I was momentarily speechless.

"Yes," I uttered, trying not to appear like a stunned Sphinx.

"Ah, . ah .. Huh .. huh huh, do you think Marijuana would grow good in one
of them there things," she asked.

"Certainly, Marijuana would thrive and produce a bountiful harvest."

"Woops," I said to myself, "that answer was not well worded."

With smiling face and gleeful eyes, "Magnificent Mimi" leaped over her desk and onto MINE. Her shouts woke those that were half sleeping. All radio receiving equipment went silent.

"This here geek has a new way to grow better pot," she shouted.

Someone yelled "BONANZA." With flying elbows, the scrambling bodies rushed to the front seats. Mimi grabbed a small "Lord" by his nose and flung him onto the floor ... for attempting to pull her away from my desk and chair. She silenced a noisy "gum clacker" by pushing his wad deep into his throat.

"Now speak slow so's I can copy," she ordered and all the "Lords" copied notes and diagrams as if they belonged in a class destined for a university.

The library-style quiet endured one disruption when Albertus the Fink stole
a pen from Porph. Each promised the other many harms in their future gardening endeavors. Many cell phones alerted brothers and sisters of the greenhouse magic. One caller informed his mother that a greenhouse will double the "dream chemicals" by one hundred percent.

The end of class bell rang and as the happy and smiling "Lords" exited, I felt an arm around my waist and purring lips at my ear. "After I repair our old greenhouse," said Foo Foo the Torch, "I want to ask you more questions. OK?"

The Goat Purchasers © Tom O'Brien

The Goat Purchasers was awarded Honorable Mention in the prestigious HumorPress competition, August-September, 2006.

Surprised and amazed I was last Saturday when goat purchasers arrived at our farm in a white stretch limousine. It had to be thirty-five feet long. As it came closer to our house and barn, I heard the clatter of loose beer bottles inside. A heavy stench filled the nearby air. Before it came to a stop beside our house, three men tumbled from a rear door. Soon there were four more men and four women trying to stand upright in our barnyard. Two showed signs of extreme exhaustion and/or gross hangovers.

Before I could welcome them, they all walked unsteadily to the small enclosure with our well-fed animals that were for sale. I wanted to follow them.

"Hey you," croaked a voice. I looked behind me and I saw a very rattled and disheveled limousine driver leaning against her vehicle. Her forehead was awash in perspiration. Any creature close to her armpits would have drowned. A cigarette dangled in each of her trembling hands. A feather clung in her gray-red hair. As I walked closer to where she was standing, a rooster crowed from inside her limousine. Every chicken for miles around knew its desires. She jammed both cigarettes into her mouth, reached inside the front door, and wrung its neck. Her colourful observations about chicken and goat purchasers will remain with me forever.

As the passengers examined the goats that were for sale, I asked whether she wished to make a purchase. She fixed me with a soul-destroying look. A brain-challenged bee circled her head.

She drew herself upwards making her four feet and eight inches tower above any birdbath.

"Goatman," she said in a low voice, "I was supposed to work a ten-hour wedding today that would have paid my overdue bank payments for the last three months. Instead I had to take on this, this … this bunch of goat buyers who first bought a live chicken from one of your neighbours and now they want one of your goats in my limousine." From that point onward, I experienced an unforgettable screaming tirade that would have bleached a stevedore. Her views about the jilting members of a bridal party were mild compared to her disdain for those present passengers who transport live chickens in her spotless limousine. After I offered condolences about any chicken poops on her dashboard, she stared at me and flicked cigarette ashes near my face.

On hearing a low snore and whistle, I opened a rear door and viewed the source. A very inebriated man lay face-up on the red broadloom between the plush white leather seats. Big bubbles grew and burst on his lips. Without a word, she reached inside and grabbed a fistful of his hair. Then, and without a peep, 'The Body' landed on our driveway.

After she kicked sand and gravel near his face, she pulled at my ear lobe and promised much grief if a goat ever got near her vehicle. I did not question her request.

The goat purchasers shook their heads as they walked towards us. They were upset that none of the goats had horns. One of the purchasers wanted my champion 250 pound buck.

Before I could tell them that the breeding buck was not for sale, the driver approached them on a full sprint and told them where to "put it."

One of their members, a heavyset woman with a very concerned look on her face, approached me and said, "Might you have a small cow for sale." I walked away from her believing that the limousine driver would have strangled me if I appeared in cow selling mode.

Another member, a young man in his late twenties with bloodshot eyes, asked why his friend was "splawled … hic" on the driveway. "Shut up and get in the limousine, NOW," snapped the driver. As the inquisitor fell down beside the rear door, she blew smoke rings while three women placed 'The Body' in the trunk.

Demoted © Tom O'Brien

Demoted was awarded Honorable Mention in the prestigious June/July HumorPress.com competition.


"The British Broadcast Radio News Service now takes you to Cyprus for this important announcement…. Come in Sir Plympton Gnithwold."

There was deepening and fading static, followed by several noise bursts, probably caused by short circuits or loose solenoid transistors and/or leaky vacuum tubes.

"Good evening, this is British Broadcast News …. from Cyprus." Long pause followed by second long pause followed by shuffled papers noises. "British Broadcast News has learned of a dreadful demotion deed. Fourth Lord of The Admiralty, Sir Bammy Parchbald, admitted today that Billy, a goat, was demoted from lance-corporal to fusilier, the same status as an Army Private without privileges while aboard any of Her Majesty's Ships."

"It seems Billy was most unruly while on parade during a ceremony marking Her Majesty's eightieth birthday. Billy is the mascot of the Welsh Guards and is a descendent of The Royal Herd. It was once believed he was a member of the disreputable Gay Gordon Clan."

More papers shuffling and some static.

"Rather than lead the ceremonial parade, he insisted on head butting the drummers and trombone musicians in their waistbands and nether regions. During the playing of God Save The Queen he broke away from his handler, PFC Priscilla Vicky Jenny-Penny Mirthsome, and ran to a nearby flag pole where he relieved himself. What was most dreadful was his lifting of his hind leg and doing it … 'doggy fashion.'"

"Many lads from the Home Office then chased Billy into a circle of Foreign Vice Regals who laughed and joked while exploring Billy's anatomicals. After escaping the ham handed grasp of a Russian Princess, he hopped over a barricade and trotted smartly to a rose bush and again disgraced himself."

"At that precise moment, a person, or persons, probably American, started shouting "Bar-B-Q" "Bar-B-Q" "Bar-B-Q" and soon the whole affair was turned into a Royal Row. The Irish Step Dancers and some French Legionnaires held an impromptu waltz while some low life Australians sang their one and only piece of music, Waltzing Mathilda. Calm was restored when Billy trotted up to his evening keeper and received his ration of two cigarettes …Marlboroughs, … without filters. Not one person in the War Office can give a satisfactory explanation as to why Billy prefers the smelly American brand as opposed to British Consols."

"A Military Attaché, speaking on condition of anonymity in a church graveyard, said that Billy will live at Worcestershire Olmrod, which is home for all military mascots while their platoons are at war. The present guest list includes a ferret, a python, and an elephant with a unexplained pregnancy."

New Yellow Boots © Tom O'Brien

Published in North Bay Nugget, August 26, 2005.




Kathryn and I came to a quick decision last Tuesday. We needed a goatherd reduction and 10 ten had to go to the Ontario Stockyards in Cookstown. We had just spent an hour rounding them up and still they laughed at us while they jumped our electric fences. Even the little ones, born during the last month, snickered as they raced about and nibbled in our brand new rock garden with lots of Hens and Chickens. (Thems are plants, not birds.)

Before loading them into our pick up I put on a brand new pair of yellow boots my brother gave me during a recent visit. These were not your regular piece of fluff boots but real he-man types meant for long years of service. I was certain they were the super expensive ones advertised on TV with a grizzly bear. Often I dug my index finger between the many big chunks of 'real' rubber on the soles. These will never wear out I concluded. Quite often I felt the 'real' cow hide and smelled the heavy insulation. Ah what great luck I pondered, I now possess the best!

Aside from Kathryn's occasional pleading for lower speed, the trip down Highway 11 was uneventful. I honked at a moose that hogged most of the shoulder and some blacktop. "That's right," she muttered as it galloped into the bush, " stay off this road when he's driving."

In Cookstown I dropped Kathryn off at a shopping plaza and continued to the Stockyards. There I sped to the rear of the plant and passed three truckers who were patiently waiting their turn to offload cows. All 3 men were giant sized and wore lots of unhappiness around their eyes. One had a snake tattoo on his scalp. I then realized my parking lot manners needed improvement.

They were standing close to where I stopped. As I got out to get a better idea of where I was going they each began to murmur. Smiles suddenly replaced scorn. Then they laughed. Then big time howls followed uncontrollable laughter fits. I looked at them and asked what was so funny. One pointed to my boots.

I lifted my right foot. The boot was without the sole. Little bits of cow dung mingled with my toes. I saw horse manure too. I inspected my left boot. Much the same. I scratched my head. Hmmm, guess I'll have to start wearing socks. Slowly I looked back towards the open door of our truck. Lots of yellow rubber chunks lay near the brake and gas pedals. Two big slabs of size 12 cardboard littered the ground near the rear tire. Hmmm, I guess my brother stiffed me with bad goods.

"I guess that'll teach ya not to buy cheap boots," said one.

I scratched my neck and thought deeply ... maybe my eye for quality is exaggerated.

"Cheer up, there's no geese here," chuckled him with reptile on his head.

"Come again," chirped the third, "who else gives us big laughs like you!"

-30-

Loss for Words © Tom O'Brien

Published in Mattawa Recorder, May 2005.


I'm not often without the ability to speak. Allow me to inform you of the last time.

It was last Saturday when Kathryn came back from a 2-week job with her previous employer. Before she left, I was given strict instructions not to touch any brand new goat kids as they entered this world.

I had always objected to such curtailment of my professional abilities. After all I had read many Internet articles about the subject. I reckoned the goat meat industry would soon need me for consultations. Over the previous 2 years, I was only allowed to witness the new arrivals. Often I heard that frigid blast, "Tom, ... DON'T touch that BABY."

I accomplished many important things over those 2 lonely weeks of bachelorhood. I did not starve. I kept the kitchen floor clear of barnyard evidence, and, when necessary I washed my fork.

Kaden, our soon-to-be new goat-mother received constant attention. On numerous occasions I ran my expert hands over her flanks and concluded that she was about to give birth to a very large doeling at any minute. It also had a huge head, which meant that I needed new latex gloves, fresh rubbing alcohol, and at least a quart of obstetrics grease. To heck with what Kath ordered. This could be a difficult breach birth and the correct procedures must be followed.

Over that 2-week period, Kaden would often lie down beside the big round bale of hay and moan. Ah, I concluded, now is the time, and I'd clean a long piece of straw to insert into the baby's nose if it was sleepy on arrival. Then Kaden would get up, shake her head, and laugh at me.

I slept with the bedroom window wide open. At the first whimper of any Kaden-sound, I'd run down the slippery stairs to the maternity shed in my housecoat and bare feet. She would wink at me and flash a devilish smile. After three such episodes I knew what she was saying, "Gotcha again eh Tom Tom!"

It was mid afternoon of last Thursday that she started showing the more advanced indications. Lying on her left side, she would make long sweeping movements with her hind legs. Ah, I said to myself, now she is getting real serious. She's nest-making! Yup, she was nest making all right. She swept the floor right down to the mother earth! On Friday she walked. And walked. Around and around she silently trod the clay loam floor without chewing any cud. I concluded she had something on her mind.

On Saturday morning Kathryn called and asked me to get some chicken dinner and that she'd be home in the early evening. Our granddaughter, Rozzy, and great granddaughter Gabriella were coming to spend the week with us. Sure, I said, and I swept the kitchen floor just to show that I am a fully trained housekeeper.

Then at 4 o'clock I remembered that a horse race was on TV and that the house needed a major cleanup. First things first. I said to myself, and out I ventured to cast an eye on Kaden. Hmmmm, I said to myself, why are her eyes white while her one horn scratches her shoulder blade? Why is her abdomen pulsating behind her ribs? I wonder what's going on?

After the race, I peered in on the patient. Oh No! Something must be wrong I thought, as she twisted her head in circles. She bulged. Her tongue wagged at me. I am not the daddy, I yelled. I checked my watch. Goodness. Do I stay with her or go get the chicken. I will get heap big trouble if the chicken shop closes before I get there.

Ahhh, she's chewing her cud so she won't deliver for at least an hour. I jumped into our truck and sped to town. After completing the take-out dinner purchase, I wasted no time getting back to our farm.

Too late.

As I walked close to the wire fence 'Maternity Ward' our great
granddaughter screamed, "Where were YOU?" Our granddaughter said something about men never being around when they are needed.

As Kathryn removed my new latex gloves from her hands, she looked at me with that stern look that makes me feel inferior.

"I had to assist Kaden since the heads on her 2 sons are so big," and she paused, inhaled deeply, and continued. "Believe me, there's nothing to it!"

Then she stopped and struck a pose worthy of any soap opera, "You owe me 10 dollars," she said with a big wide smile while her finger pointed at me, "you TOLD me she'd have ONE big daughter and look, TWO huge sons!"

I tried to say something but the words dried in my throat. I gulped. I stood on one leg, then the other.

-30-