Family Life

Grey Pride

2008-02-05T20:27:00.000-05:00

Having grey hair has never bothered me. Actually, I’m quite proud of my grey hair. After all, each strand of grey has been hard earned—I raised three sons. Take, for instance, the case of the slanting couch.

It occurred to me one evening that something wasn’t quite right with our davenport. I noticed that a guest sitting on one end of it was higher in the air than a guest on the opposite end. I also noticed that same guest grappling with the couch in an effort to keep from sliding downhill into the lap of the person on the other end.

At first an explanation for this phenomenon escaped me. But after thinking on it a few days, I stumbled upon a possible answer. The house we lived in had two stories--the upper floor a huge loft with a railing across the opened end of it. Below that railing, and against the staircase, sat our couch on the ground floor.

I gathered my sons and asked them if they’d been jumping from the upper floor onto the couch.

“No way, Dad,” said eldest son.

“Hmmm,” I mumbled, standing there, arms folded, rubbing my chin. “Have y’all been jumping from of the top of the stairs onto the couch?” I asked.

Again, eldest son answered for all three of them, “Nuh, uh.”

I could see this investigation could take a while unless I found a shortcut to the truth. I found that shortcut in the form of another question.“Well, did you jump from any of the steps onto the couch?” I inquired.

Grinning widely, and between giggles, second son answered my question, “Yeah, we jumped from the third step.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me that right off?”

“You didn’t ask about the third step,” he answered.

Geez, talk about splitting hairs. The kid probably has a great future in law, don’t you think?Another incident happened one night when former Mrs. Bagley and I returned from the supermarket. Upon entering the house, we found ourselves locked out of our own bedroom and could hear the vacuum roaring from behind the door.

“Wow!” I said to ex, “the kids are cleaning our room to surprise us.”“What great guys,” she responded.

Well, that wasn’t exactly what went down. Come to find out, while the former Mrs. Bagley and I were gone the boys had been horsing playing in our bedroom. Somewhere amongst the pillow fighting, the wrestling on our bed, and the Nerf ball throwing, a reading lamp on the nightstand was knocked over, shattering the bulb and spraying glass everywhere.

They replaced the bulb and then got busy cleaning their mess, hoping to finish before we got home. In other words, they were only trying to save their sneaky, disobedient little hides. ARGH!

So, you see, I wear my grey hair with pride. Each grey strand serves as a medal of honor for the many battles fought in the war known as child rearing. And though I might be through raising my own children, Sweetie still has young’uns at home so . . . hey, what was that crash?!

Ooooh, I feel another grey hair coming on.

6 comments:
Little Wing said...
I had to track you down and tell you that the comment you left on a blog, Viagra Falls was damn funny!I shall be back, great blog you have!

Monday, January 28, 2008 11:27:00 PM EST
skrpndiva said...
I wish I could be so positive about grey hair, but alas, I cannot be as I've been somewhat grey since the age of 25.Jacquie

Tuesday, January 29, 2008 12:38:00 AM EST
Jamie Dawn said...
I know that feeling of hearing a crash and wondering who broke what and how bad the damage is.When my kids think they've cleaned something up, it's never really cleaned up. I always have to go back over it to really get the job done.I don't have gray hair yet, but I'm working on it. When the gray does show up one of these days, I'll just keep coloring over it and pretend it's not there.You wear your gray hair well. Luckily for you, it hasn't aged you. I love the story of your lopsided couch.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008 12:48:00 AM EST
Sharon said...
Oh, I am SURE I have been the cause of a great many grey hairs!!

Thursday, January 31, 2008 9:23:00 AM EST
JunieRose2005 said...
:) So- you're in for some more adventures...AND some more grey hairs!Junie

Thursday, January 31, 2008 9:58:00 AM EST
Britmum said...
OMG now I know whats wrong with Scraggy....way too funny!!

Just Call Me Bubba, Y'all

2008-01-28T20:35:00.003-05:00

You know, I never considered my family as backwoods but after a recent incident, I think I’m going to put in my “bubba teeth,” buy back my old truck, and return to talking with a thick hillbilly accent.

On a Sunday evening, eldest son and his wife were on their way home from my place when, in an attempt to enter his neighborhood, Drunky the driver made a left turn at an intersection . . . right into eldest son and daughter-in-law (at the time, daughter-in-law was 7 months pregnant with my first grandchild).

BAM! They collided. Thirty-something-year-old Drunky kept going, straight home to hide under momma’s skirt! Unfortunately for him, there was only one way in and one way out of his subdivision and, also unfortunately for him, when you mess with one Bagley you mess with the whole Bagley clan.

After a frantic call from eldest son (paramedics were taking them to the hospital to make sure daughter-in-law and baby were OK and would the family come down to find Drunky the driver and keep him from evading police?), I spread the word and Bagley’s poured into the area like vultures on road kill. The scene resembled something like the movie Next of Kin with Patrick Swayze.

It didn’t take long before we found Drunky’s damaged vehicle--it was parked in the driveway of his residence. Now, I was content to just stay in the car and await the arrival of the police. But ooooh noooo, not Billy Bud and Bubba Junior, referring to younger brother and youngest son, respectively. Positive it was Drunky’s car, they headed straight to the front door.

So, being that I’m a little more level headed than the rest of the clan (that’s a scary thought, isn’t it?), I quickly hopped out of the car and caught up with them, hoping to keep the dogs (sort to speak) heeled.

We knocked on the front door. Drunky’s momma answered. Yes, she knew what her son had done. He’d told her everything, but she didn’t know what to do—perhaps the person she was on the phone with at the time we knocked on her door could’ve advised her. I suspect that person was the family attorney.

Or maybe the person Drunky was talking to on his phone while we were talking with his momma could’ve advised them of what to do—I doubt he was talking to Aunt Betty about a recipe for fruitcake.

Our little wait for the cops went along pretty much without incident, unless, of course, you count Billy Bob Junior’s little outburst in the driveway.You see, he was on the phone talking to eldest son. Eldest son called from the hospital to give us an update on daughter-in-law and unborn grandson.

“Does the guy show any remorse?” Eldest son asked youngest son.

And that’s when Drunky the driver almost got an education about what can happen when you hit-and-run a member of the Bagley clan.

“You think an [expletive extracted] who’d hit a vehicle with a pregnant woman in it and then run to mommy would feel any remorse?!” Youngest son loudly replied.

It was then that Drunky sauntered over to the doorway. He heard every word youngest son had just said to eldest son.

“Hey, Cuz!” he slurred. I guess he didn’t appreciate the adjective youngest son used to describe him.

Drunky started to say more but upon hearing the deafening click of shotgun hammers being pulled back, the rattle of Diamondbacks in the burlap bag of our cousin “the snake handler,” the whirling of axes spinning in hands, and the sounds of bow strings being pulled back, arrows at the ready (OK, so I’m exaggerating; it’s called poetic license, folks), he hesitated. That was the opportunity younger brother and I needed to quickly convince Drunky that in the interest of his health it would be best to not interact with youngest son. He went back to hiding deep within the confines of Momma’s home.

After awhile, a sheriff’s deputy arrived. He gave a quizzical look at the Bagley clan, so we quickly told him who we all were and what we were doing there. Our job being done, we left . . . or at least tried to.

You see, though we made no verbal or physical threats to Drunky or his family, I guess the sight of all those Bagleys on her property made momma drunky a bit nervous and somewhat timid. But once the cops were there she became a bulldog, demanding to know our names and phone numbers.

We curtly told her it was none of her business, that she had no need for that information. Evidently Drunky’s momma thought otherwise for she followed us to street.

This time more of the Bagley clan got into it with momma drunky and their voices got louder and louder as the merits of her request were argued back and forth. Finally, a police officer stepped in and told us we needed to leave. We filed back into our vehicles and did just that; we left.

Whew, glad that’s over with. Now we can let the law take it from here, I thought. I was soooo very wrong.

We didn’t even get out of the neighborhood before eldest son called us from the hospital asking us to return to Drunky’s.

“Um,” I said, “that might not be such a great idea. The police asked us to leave. Things got a little heated between Drunky’s momma and the family.”

“Well I have some information they needed and I want to know if it’s OK to take our valuables out of our vehicle,” he responded.

“OK,” I said, “We’ll go back, relay your info., and check about retrieving your stuff.”

Sheepishly I drove back to Drunky’s house, pulled the car to the curb, and cut off my lights so momma Drunky couldn’t read my auto tag. Younger brother exited the car to deal with the cops.

We were told that even though the incident took place in a residential area the Florida Highway Patrol would be in charge of the actual investigation. We should go back to the scene of the wreck and await the F. H. P.

FHP arrived. We told him who we all were, gave him the information eldest son had given us, and were allowed to gather valuables from son’s SUV. Then the officer made a request that made me snap my neck in his direction, wondering if I’d heard him correctly.

We'd told the officer that we'd found Drunky and his car and that we'd sat on him until the sheriff arrived. The officer then made a request that made me snap my neck in his direction, wondering if I'd herd him correctly, “Can you show me where he lives?”

Are you kidding me? I thought. Stalking laws were coming to mind.

But I have to admit, the thought of making Drunky’s family nervous with our constant presence made me smile. For sure, three trips to their house (the third time leading a FHP officer) in a matter of hours let them know they were dealing with a family that was angry and would not rest until Drunky received his just dues—hey, it’s the code of the hills (insert a recording of Dueling Banjos here).

I once again cut the lights to my car, cut them back on after we drove past Drunky’s residence, then skedaddled out of there as fast as I could. But that wasn’t the end of the visits by our clan.

At 1: am, when eldest son and wife were released from the hospital, eldest son asked his uncle to drive by Drunky’s so he could get a picture of the damage to Drunky’s car before he could have it repaired. Younger brother was more than happy to oblige.

By now paranoia had set in on Drunky’s family. When brother and eldest son were snapping pictures of the damaged car, Drunky’s sister (she was sitting in her car near the corner, guarding her parents’ home) drove up and testily asked what they were doing.

The deafening click of shotgun hammers being pulled back, the rattle of Diamondbacks in the burlap bag of our cousin “the snake handler,” the whirling of axes spinning in hands, and the sounds of bow strings being pulled back, arrows at the ready, soften her stance and the clan left without incident.

The next day everyone scrambled back to their homes, a little disappointed they didn’t get to give Drunky the driver an education.

As for me, well, this whole incident has left me a bit rattled. Every time the phone rings I break into a cold sweat, worrying it’s the producers of Jerry Springer calling to see if our family would like to be on the show.

Well, we certainly wouldn’t oblige them . . . unless, of course, we could tote our homes behind our trucks on the drive there.

Posted by Doug Bagley at 10:09 PM

6 comments:
kristi noser said...
Doug, you're one of the few people I know (and I don't even knowya) that can make an DD accident funny. To tell the truth, even before your "dueling banjos" comment, I was hearing the music in my head. I'm glad everyone is ok, did Drunky get what was coming to him? (and I'm not talking about youngest son giving him an "ass whuppin'")
Sunday, January 20, 2008 6:48:00 AM EST
cmk said...
That was one funny, great read! :D
Sunday, January 20, 2008 1:19:00 PM EST
skrpndiva said...
OMG, too funny. Sounds like something I'd do, but I don't think I would have made it out of there without popping drunky a good one!Jacquie
Sunday, January 20, 2008 8:10:00 PM EST
LZ Blogger said...
Doug ~ So... Southern justice prevails? Drunky looks around at Bagley's and they all say... "NO! IT'S JUST US!" ~ jb///P.S. ~ I hope your "grandson to be" will hear this story and keep the tradition GOING for many more generations!
Friday, January 25, 2008 6:21:00 PM EST
Suzy said...
I love your stories Doug. So descriptive.Glad son and pregnant DIL were OK anyway. Good on you Bagleys for protecting your own I say!
Sunday, January 27, 2008 12:08:00 AM EST
Renae said...
Did drunky get what was coming to him? Hopefully something was done. I'm glad your son and daughter in law were ok.
Sunday, January 27, 2008 2:07:00 PM EST

My New Year's Resolution

2007-12-30T20:04:00.000-05:00

This year my New Year's resolution is a no brainer, one for the eternities: make my new bride the happiest woman alive for the rest of her life by my words and deeds.

And speaking of my sweetheart, here's some of the first pics of our wedding that I've received. As for our honeymoon, all I'll tell you is we didn't have the time nor the money to honeymoon in Intercourse, Pennsylvania; drats, that would've been so perfect, don't you think?

For those of you who have been following baby Jayden's arrival to earth, click onto "Eldest Son's Blog" (to the right) and watch the musical slide show that eldest son made of Jayden's first days on earth. It made this softy of a grandpa tear up.

Evening the Score

2007-10-07T22:06:00.000-04:00

Part of being a good parent is supporting your kids’ as best you can in their various activities. Sometimes this can be very excruciating painful.

I don’t know how many Cub Scout Pinewood Derbies; grade school, middle school, high school basketball and football tournaments; swimming meets; church and school programs, etc.; my parents attended over the years as they raised four boys, but the number is high, maybe too high to count.

Certainly many of the activities in which they supported us were painfully boring, perhaps uneventful, and unintentionally comical. And I’m fairly certain that if they’d had a choice (in their minds they didn’t, for they felt that that choice was made when they decided to raise a family), they would rather have flossed their teeth with piano wire than be in some hot, smelly, musky gymnasium/auditorium or standing on the sidelines of a football field in the sizzling, ruthless, August heat, cheering on one or more of their sons.

But being the petulant turd of a child that I sometimes could be, I of course didn’t appreciate my parents’ sacrifices during those times. Heck, I didn’t even see those as sacrifices. In my mind it was my absolute, God-given right to always have at least one parent at all events I was involved in.

Anything less was unacceptable.Ahhh but life, karma, the universe, whatever you choose to call it, has a way of evening the score if you will.

In a cute little song recorded several years ago, The Statler Brothers expressed this sentiment better than I ever could. See if the lyrics to it don’t put a smile across your face (for the purpose of not spoiling the inpact of the content of the song, I’ve purposely left out its title. It was written, however, by Don Reid of said group).

I just spent an unusual evening
At a banquet that still won’t digest
Watching this year’s high school heroes
Get awarded for what they do best
There’s a letter for the one that jumped highest
And one ran faster by far
One broke the 200 meters
And one broke her arm on the bar

The baseball team took the honors
The MVP stole the show
The coach looked scared with a tie on
Swore next year they’d be 15 and 0
And in tomorrow morning’s newspaper
There’ll be pictures that surely reveal
Young men looking strange with no caps on
And tomboys in dresses and heals

And I've stood up there where they’re standing
And never once thought I would be
Sitting out here where I’m sitting
Looking more like my daddy than me

Twenty some years from tomorrow
These same boys and girls will find
An old faded newspaper clipping
Yellow and torn up with time
Their daughters and sons will be standing
Up there where they used to be
And only then will they know what I’m feeling
When they’re sitting out here with me

And I've stood up there where they’re standing
Behind the MVP
But it’s late; I’m tired and still hungry
Acting more like my daddy than me
I’m getting more like my daddy than me

Confessions of a Mr. Mom

2007-09-23T22:15:00.000-04:00

NOTE: This piece was written back when I was married and earning my degree at Weber State University.

At first it seemed like a perfectly sound idea but now, a year later, I'm beginning to feel the decision to do it was a terrible mistake. The doctor said it was a necessary procedure and in time I would be glad I did it. But was it worth losing my identity?

In support of, and to encourage all men who find themselves in similar circumstances, I've decided to come out of the closet and admit to the whole world, I'm . . . a house husband. That's right. I'm what's referred to as a Mr. MOM.

On the advice of our physician my wife and I decided I should leave the labor force and return to college to finish my education. The route we chose to accomplish this was to reverse our roles at home; she would work full-time, I would care for the house and children while earning my degree. After all, I only had a couple of years left in college, how bad could it be?

LITTLE DID I KNOW! Not only have I found that it takes me three times longer to do house chores than it does my wife, but I'm also beginning to sound like my mom when I was a kid.

"Get off that kitchen floor. I just mopped it and it's not dry yet!" Or, "Who left this mess on my clean counter?"

Oh yes, I've even used that favorite super stand-by: "If you don't like what I've fixed for dinner you can go hungry. I'm not running a restaurant!"

What worries me more is I once caught myself saying to my wife, as I bolted out the door, "The kids are all yours; I've got to have a break or I'll lose my sanity.

"Now when we argue over how to raise children it's my wife who says, "You need to be more patient," and me who says, "You haven't had to put up with their nonsense all day. You've been at the office."

I went to the doctor a while back for knee trouble. He told me I had what is known in layman's terms as the House Maiden Knee Syndrome from too much kneeling and squatting while cleaning the home.

I've started examining my physic in the mirror before I step into the shower--just to make sure I still look desirable.

When my wife speaks of her male co-workers, jealousy strikes like a ten pound hammer. When she's really late coming home from work I become suspicious of her explanations, yet don't pry too hard for fear of what I might learn.

Recently it dawned on me that each morning I anxiously await the arrival of the mail; walking to the mailbox has become the high point of my day.

It's turning out that I'm now the one who's too tired at night for romance. And it seems every 30 days or so I'm easily provoked and I swear, I bloat and gain a few pounds for the better part of a week.

Finally, I knew I was going through an identity crises when I realized I was able to converse intelligently with my friends' wives about the topics discussed on the Oprah, Geraldo, and Donahue shows. I only hope I'll graduate before the temptation to watch soap operas overpowers me.

The Circle of Life

2007-09-23T22:04:00.000-04:00

One of the most important lessons I've learned is that life comes full circle.

When I was a toddler, my grandparents would take me fishing with them. Often, after they had caught a few fish from a lake, Grandma would divert my attention. As she did so, Gramps would take my fishing pole, grab a fish and attach my hook to its mouth. He then would slide the fish back into the water. Next, my grandparents would whoop and holler, "Dougie, you got one!

They would then help me reel in my catch and spend the rest of the trip bragging about what a good little fisherman I was.

Later, the trips mainly consisted of Grandpa and me. Though I was no longer a toddler, I always talked Gramps into tying and baiting my hook. He seemed happy to oblige, and, truth be told, I think that he preferred it that way--it kept me close, allowing him to keep an eye out for my safety.

Finally, I learned to tie and bait my own hook. Shortly thereafter, when we would go fishing, Gramps and I would split at water's edge, one heading up stream and the other down. Gramps was still a little nervous about my safety, and it wouldn't surprise me if the noises I sometimes heard in the bushes came from him, as he tried quietly to check on me.

Time passed; we both grew older; and I became reluctant to separate from Gramps while fishing. Age had taken its natural course. His heart grew weaker; his sight faded; and he became less agile on his feet, often stumbling among the rocks in a stream, falling into the water.Soon, I found myself wanting to keep him by my side, under my watchful care. But there was no chance to accomplish this without insulting his pride. So, after we would split at a stream bank, I often would sneak to some foliage behind Gramps and peek out to be sure he was all right.

Finally it happened.

It was one of our last outings before his death. It was late afternoon, and we were standing on his porch, rigging our poles. I noticed Gramps having difficulty threading his line through the hook's eye. Finally, with a sheepish grin, he asked, "Guess my eyes ain't what they use to be. Think you could tie my hook for me?"

I stood in silence at the wonderment of how life comes full circle. A smile spread across my face as I recalled the many years he had tied hooks for me and worried for my safety. It was now my turn to tie his hook. It was my turn to worry about his safety, to care for the caretaker.

It was a privilege to do so.

Now, when I tie a hook or bait a line for my sons, my thoughts turn to that last outing with my grandfather. As my soul fills with warmth, I thank the Lord for the opportunity to experience the circle of life.

I Wear My Gray Proudly

2007-09-01T23:32:00.000-04:00

When I was a school teacher my students often remarked that I should dye my hair and beard.

“You’d look so much younger,” they’d say.

They couldn’t understand that I was proud of my gray hair. Gray hair is like a badge of honor, earned for performance above and beyond the call of duty on the battlefield of life.

I’m reminded of the time eldest son passed on some information to me that caused me severe mental anguish—he told me that within a few months he would be old enough to apply for a driver’s permit.

I wasn’t sure he was ready for that, and I knew I wasn’t. I was still experiencing post tramatic stress syndrom from the first driving lesson I ever gave him.

On a Saturday afternoon we drove to an empty high school parking lot where I commenced to teach eldest son how to drive. At first, things went rather smooth, but upon reaching the end of the parking lot he tried to turn the truck around at much too high of speed and almost rolled my new pickup truck.

So I decided to take my son to a long, straight stretch of road, where he could drive a far piece without being forced to attempt a “U” turn. My plan was a good one except I had forgotten one important fact—there was a fifteen m.p.h. hairpin turn at one end of the road, the end we were driving toward.

When within one hundred yards of the turn, I suggested to eldest son that he start slowing the truck down in preparation for the turn. Eldest son insisted that was what he was trying to do. But when nearing seventy-five yards from the turn he still hadn’t slowed the thing down.

“You’d better slow down,” I said with a touch of tension in my voice.

At fifty yards from the hairpin turn we were still approaching it much too fast.

“SLOW DOWN!” I exclaimed. By now, I was beginning to panic.

“I have the brake pushed all the way to the floor but nothing’s happening,” was his reply.

Finally, when we were just twenty-five yards from the turn, it dawned on me why eldest son couldn’t get the truck to slow down even though he was pushing the break pedal all of the way down to the floor. What he thought was the foot brake was, in actuality, the clutch. I quickly moved my left foot to the driver’s side of the truck and pressed the brake pedal to the floor, bringing our vehicle to a hasty halt.

Without a word spoken between us, we exchanged places in the cab of the truck, and I drove us directly home, where I hastily when into my bedroom and changed my underwear.

"When can we go driving again?" Eldest son inquired the next morning.

"Just as soon as we buy a vehicle with an automatic transmission," I answered.

"When will that be?"

"When the truck wears out," I said.

And believe you me, I took great care of that truck. I planned on it running for a very long time.

2 comments:
Hale McKay said...
Whew! Sounds like an experience I had when I took my daughter out driving a few times. I still feel sorry for that piles of bagged leaves she run over. I was glad we pulled away before the poor person who had toiled so long raking and bagging them didn't see us. My ears were burning later when he must have been cleaning up the mess.

On Thin Ice

2007-09-01T23:18:00.000-04:00

Growing up in the Rocky Mountains for the first part of their lives, my kids never experienced anything like an ice storm. We just never had them. So our first winter in Branson, Missouri, my sons went berserk when we had our first ice storm of the year.

It started on a Monday with the five-day forecast. The weatherman on T.V. called for possible freezing rain by Thursday afternoon, turning to a full fledged ice storm by Thursday night.When the kids heard this prediction they screamed, jumped up and down, and clapped their hands with the excitement of a lottery winner, and later that night, while kneeling at his bedside, youngest child was heard praying for the weatherman’s projection to come to pass. We really needed to have a serious talk with that child.

Thursday evening, as they impatiently awaited the arrival of the storm, the boys were wound up as if on a caffeine high. They were literally motion with no where to go. If they weren’t wildly running throughout our little abode, bouncing off the walls, and loudly creating endless, incoherent chatter, they could be found with their eyeballs glued to the freshly cleaned living room window, their hot breath creating a circle of fog on the glass which they periodically wiped clear with their hands.

Well, amongst all the chaos I somehow managed to fall asleep on the sofa around 8 pm. Some time thereafter, I was startled to a state of semi-consciousness by a biting chill in the air. I was further brought to a more cognizant state of mind by the piercing, high-pitched voice of youngest son.

“Wow, this is cool,” he said as he stood on the porch (the front door wide open), leaning over the banister with his tongue hanging out, trying to catch falling ice.

“Shut that . . .!” I started to yell, but was cut off by eldest son’s nervous laughter coming from somewhere in the vicinity of the unsheltered parking lot of our apartment complex.

I rose to my feet and made my way to the open door to see what the heck was going on. What I saw was a bit unsettling. Eldest son was floundering all about on the icy parking lot (a parking lot with a fair incline to it), trying to make his way back to the porch. Evidently, while I was snoozing on the couch, he decided to try his skating athleticism on the newly formed ice rink outside.

Slipping and sliding all over the place, he grabbed at everything in sight; only, everything in sight was covered with ice and his hands just slid right off. Over and over again he’d slip and fall, get up, slip and fall, get up, slip and fall. It was like watching a newborn colt trying out his legs for the very first time.

Finally, I tossed the boy a rope I kept in the coat closet for just such an emergency (I didn’t grow up in a family of all boys without learning a thing or two about the mischief they can get into) and I pulled him in.

“Hey Dad, “eldest son said once he was back in the house, “how about we take our rocking chair and slide down our road in it?”

The look I gave him must have bespoke my thoughts concerning his proposal for he abandoned the idea and never brought it up again. I mean come on, what was he thinking? There was no way we could've steered the chair around that first bend in the road.

10 comments:
Jules said...
This one brought back such great MO. memories! thanks
Monday, August 20, 2007 9:18:00 AM EDT
kel said...
Brilliant story!!
Monday, August 20, 2007 1:52:00 PM EDT
doodlebugmom said...
I hate freezing rain. I will take snow anyday!
Monday, August 20, 2007 2:27:00 PM EDT
kristi noser said...
I have to admit I love it when it rains and freezes. Not only do you not have to go to work, you get to watch all that ice sparkling when the sun comes out. Beautiful.
Monday, August 20, 2007 3:33:00 PM EDT
kristi noser said...
Oh, and why waste time riding a rocking chair down the slippery slope? Go for the Barcalounger!
Monday, August 20, 2007 3:34:00 PM EDT
Valerie said...
having never dealt with sleet, i guess i'll take rain. 'sides people here lose their freaking minds every.time.it.rains.
Monday, August 20, 2007 8:39:00 PM EDT
JunieRose2005 said...
Doug,I think your boys must have heard some of your childhood stories and wanted to live up to their Dad's escapades! ;)Junie
Tuesday, August 21, 2007 11:27:00 AM EDT
skrpndiva said...
Can't even imagine that scenario. I have never experienced snow, sleet or ice! After all, I am a California girl, born and raised...I should say, a southern California girl, born and raised!Jacquie
Tuesday, August 21, 2007 7:04:00 PM EDT
Melanie said...
For me freezing rain meant the school buses would be cancelled, and consequently I couln't get any work done. Sounds like your kids had a great time and there were no bones broken.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007 7:52:00 PM EDT
Rachel said...
Sounds like the apples didn't fall far from the tree. teehee!!! The rocking chair would have been fun. You could have tied the rope to it - got a good speed up -the rope would have caught and then you would have all went flying on the ice......wheeeeeee.........

Bowling Ball Paranoia

2007-08-20T21:44:00.000-04:00

Sometimes adults forget how youngsters like to collect things. Don’t get me wrong, collecting stuff is fine, but kids like to collect the oddest things and for the most bazaar reasons.

For instance, your child brings home a stick. It just an ordinary looking stick, nothing special. A few days later, you’re about to throw the stick out when your child pitches a fit.

“Why don’t you want me to throw the stick away?” you ask.

“Because,” he says with a look of indignation, “when we go to the ocean I want to throw it in the water and see how long it takes for it to wash back to me.”

Never mind that you live in North Dakota, have never seen the ocean, and don’t care if you ever do. Heck, you can barely afford to put gas in the car to get you to work and back, let alone make a trip to the coast. But, there’s still a chance that some day you’ll go and he wants to be ready.

Middle son used to collect rocks. “So what’s wrong with that?” you ask. Nothing, it’s just that he was so sure every rock he saw was rare and worth a fortune, especially since a buddy of his, who was an expert on rocks (“he has a book on the subject and everything”), assured my son that every rock he owned was priceless. Consequently, no one walked around barefooted in our house unless stubbing one’s toes provided some kind of morbid pleasure.

As kids get older, the things they collect become even more bizarre. A few years back I looked out our front window and spotted some kind of black, round object in the gutter across the street. I asked eldest son to go check it out. A few minutes later he came waltzing through the front door with a 20 pound bowling ball in his arms.

“Can we keep it?” he asked, as if it were a puppy.

What was I supposed to say, “Only if you feed it and clean up after it?”

I figured the bowling bowl was probably meant for the Salvation Army truck, which was coming by that morning to pick up the neighborhood’s used goods, but while discussing this fact with my sons (by now all three were begging me to let them keep the thing), the truck passed by our house. We were stuck with the ball.

Well, months later that confounded bowling ball was still with us, and you know, that thing took on a life of its own (ever noticed how the finger holes in a bowling ball look suspiciously like a face?).

One time I tripped over that darn ball at the bottom of the stairs. After the pain in my big toe subsided, I made my way upstairs to the family room to watch T.V. When I finished watching television I arose from my chair, took two steps toward the staircase, and tripped over that dang ball again! It made me so paranoid I picked it up and searched for little feet on its bottom side.

That whole situation was reminiscent of an ugly growth on one’s foot, which, no matter what one does, it won’t go away.

But truth be told, I was almost afraid to get rid of that little ball--I feared it would find its way back to our home and seek revenge on me for trying to dispose of it.

I have to admit though, as time passed I became fond of the thing. It was so cute with its pug nose and beady little eyes. Besides, it became part of the family for the minute the kids gave it a name (Rolly if you can believe it) the ball was here to stay.

What I couldn’t figure out was if it was a boy or a girl and if bowling balls breed like rabbits. Just to be safe, I figured we’d get it fixed.

7 comments:
Anonymous said...
I really enjoyed reading this post, just like always. You tell a great story. You always make me chuckle.Walley Gator
Sunday, March 25, 2007 11:21:00 PM EDT
Peter said...
Hi Doug, those bowling balls are cute little suckers aren't they, got a way of worming their way under your guard.
Monday, March 26, 2007 3:28:00 AM EDT
cmk said...
My girls collected rocks and the youngest wouldn't EVER let me throw away any scrap of paper she had written on--never mind the fact she DIDN'T know how to write at the time! I was so very lucky to have to only deal with scraps of paper and rocks--NO bowling balls anywhere to be seen. Funny, funny post.
Monday, March 26, 2007 3:03:00 PM EDT
Rachel said...
My great neice is into the rock collecting thing. Hopefully she'll get over it soon, or at least learn that she doesn't have to have EVERY rock she sees.Bowling balls do look like they have little faces! I like the name you gave it!!
Tuesday, March 27, 2007 11:45:00 PM EDT
mischief said...
I never grew out of collecting rubbish and now I try to keep it to collecting airline sickbags and totally random HUGE posters discarded by perfume shops. My flatmates are going to disown me soon. A great blog Doug!mischief
Wednesday, March 28, 2007 8:52:00 PM EDT
Elise said...
Funny! I enjoyed this.
Thursday, March 29, 2007 1:33:00 AM EDT
4evergapeach said...
It's great to be back. I've really missed your posts. I need to catch up.One question though...How do you "fix" a bowling ball? LOL
Saturday, March 31, 2007 7:19:00 AM EDT

Sometimes You're the Windshield, Sometimes You're the Bug

2007-08-20T20:52:00.000-04:00

A few years ago, when living in Branson, Missouri, former Mrs. Bagley and I were awakened early on a Saturday morning by the crack of thunder, which sounded like the U.S. Calvary had discharged a battery of cannon from our rooftop. A monsoon like rain followed on the heels of the thunder and began soaking the ground.

I lay in bed, on my back, bug-eyed, staring at the ceiling until sometime after 4:00 am, when I finally drifted off to sleep. Fifteen minutes after drifting off, my heart was jump-started by the annoying screech of our alarm clock, and with just three hours of sleep I began getting ready for the family trek to the Kansas City International Airport to pick up eldest son, who was flying in from a vacation out west.

By six o-clock, braving the pouring rain, I ran out to our car (we lived in an apartment and didn’t have a garage) and discovered I’d left the driver’s window down the day before. Dashing madly back into the apartment, I grabbed an armload of towels, bolted back through the downpour and piled the towels on the seat. You know, it’s amazing how much water a car seat can hold—I went through three armloads of towels before I could sit in the car without soaking my britches.

Finally, we drove off toward Kansas City, but we didn’t get far. The dirt road leading from our apartment to a main road crossed a hollow (pronounced holler in Southern English), and the heavy rainfall had created a wide, fast moving creek that traversed the road at the bottom of said hollow. Rather than risking our lives by fording the swift moving creek (in the Ozarks, every year people die when trying to cross the powerful waters that travel through the hollows), I turned the car around, and we went back to our humble abode.

I was able to phoned eldest son to tell him that unless, like Moses, I could part the waters, we would be late to pick him up. He was instructed to sit tight once he got off of the plane.

Well, we were an hour and a half late arriving to KC International, and eldest child, impatiently tapping the sidewalk with his foot, was outside the terminal, waiting for us. We loaded his luggage, he climbed in to the car, and we headed home.

We’d not been on the road very long when I could feel sleep deprivation rearing its ugly head, so I pulled to side of the road to let ex-wife relieve me of my driving duties. Almost as soon as I sat my hind quarters down on the passenger’s side of the front seat I fell asleep.

An hour or so later I was roused from my deep slumber when the words, “OH NO!” screeched forth from former wife’s lips, soon followed by a horrendous bang of something striking the driver’s side of our new car.

On the two lane highway were traveling a tow truck, coming in the opposite direction, was towing a motor coach. Just before we passed each other a set of dual wheels from the rear axel of the motor home came off and rolled, at about 60 mph, directly toward our car. Ex-wife swerved in time to avoid a head-on collision with the tires but the free-wheeling dualies did smack our left front fender.

We pulled off to the side of the road to inspect the damage. It was obvious our car was inoperable, leaving us stranded in the little Missouri town of Clinton, which had no rental car companies anywhere in the vincinity.

One of the officers at the scene of the wreck offered to take us to a restaurant where we could phone someone in Branson to rescue us. We loaded our belongings into his cruiser, and just before we pulled onto the highway our neighbors drove past us on their way home from a trip. They had noticed the wreck, saw the tow truck pulling away with our automobile, and observed the police car following it onto the highway. Our neighbors didn’t offer us a ride. They didn’t notice us in the officer’s car. It would be another five and a half hours before we finally made it home.

Well, we made a phone call from a pay phone in the lobby of the restaurant, then gathered up our belongings and, resembling a band of vagabonds, traipsed through the restaurant toward a table in a back dingy corner of the establishment.

That’s when the bus boy stopped us. “Homeless people are to wait outside by the back door for leftovers!” he exclaimed.

I don’t remember what I said to that little snot-nosed nymph as I attempted to explain our situation, but I’m sure it wasn’t nice, for he shot me a dirty look and retorted, “Sorrrry, Mr. King of the road!”

Our ride home finally made it to the restaurant and picked us up. It was late in the night, early morning actually, when we arrived in Branson, but before dropping us off, friend refueled his car. While he was doing that I headed over to the cashier to pay for the gas.

While stepping out of his vehicle, I heard something hit ground but was too tired to really pay much attention to it. I should have. One forward step and CRUNCH! I'd stepped on my sunglasses which had fallen from my coat pocket, thus creating the perfect end to a perfect day.

As this adventure wound to a close, middle son tried to cheer me up.

“Don’t worry, dad,” he said. “Life is at its worst just before it gets better.”

“I’ve been waiting for life to get better now for many a year,” was my response.

“Well,” he told me, “maybe we haven’t seen the worst yet.”

That boy was such a comfort.

8 comments:
Peter said...
“maybe we haven’t seen the worst yet.”Now that is a cheering thought isn't it!!!
Monday, April 23, 2007 7:18:00 AM EDT
JunieRose2005 said...
Lol! I love that line, Doug!“maybe we haven’t seen the worst yet.”Great story...but I'm sure NOT a fun day for any of you!Junie
Monday, April 23, 2007 10:22:00 AM EDT
Britmum said...
Wow what a cheery time you had. lol I am glad you can see the funny side though and write about it.Take care xx
Monday, April 23, 2007 2:54:00 PM EDT
Valerie said...
"and that's when i killed the boy, Your Honor."'nuff said.
Monday, April 23, 2007 8:34:00 PM EDT
cmk said...
Valerie said it all...
Tuesday, April 24, 2007 4:40:00 PM EDT
Rachel said...
What an adventure Doug!! Well, maybe it didn't seem like an adventure then! You sure had one rotten day. Seems like your son was looking for that silver lining somehow! Glad you didn't hurt him!
Tuesday, April 24, 2007 9:33:00 PM EDT
4evergapeach said...
Do you listen to country music Doug? There's a song that describes that day...."If your going through Hell" Here's the first verse:Well, you know those times when you feel like There's a sign there on your back.Says: "I don't mind if you kick me; "Seems like everybody has."Things go from bad to worse:You think they can't get worse than that an' then they do.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007 10:54:00 PM EDT
Melanie said...
Great words of wisdom. I will remember that the next time I'm in the depths of despair. Life is getting better for you Doug, isn't it?
Wednesday, April 25, 2007 12:03:00 PM EDT

An Unusual Lost and Found

2007-08-20T20:41:00.000-04:00

LOST:

A cute, chubby, happy little boy, wide-eyed and innocent, a little boy who used to be scared of the world without Mama or Daddy holding his hand.

Lost is a little boy who mimicked Daddy's every move, who loved horsey rides on Daddy's back and who would say "Mitmy Mouse" instead of Mickey Mouse and "Kop Kopter" instead of helicopter.

Lost is a boy whom Daddy had to rock-a-bye and sing to sleep, a little boy who liked to play catch with Daddy but could never quite throw the ball back in Dad's direction.

Lost is a little boy who liked to play chase under the dining-room table and giggled hysterically when he was caught.

Lost is a carefree little boy who loved to sing and laugh and pull silly, little pranks on his parents and then laugh himself sick when they would put on a big to-do so as not to spoil his fun.

Lost is a little boy who proudly walked out of the bathroom with his face all scraped up, holding Daddy's straight-edge razor, announcing to Mommy that he had shaved his face just like Daddy.

FOUND:
A medium-sized, strong, handsome, teenage boy who walks with a bounce in every step, who carries himself with the confidence of someone ready to tackle the world and all that it has to offer, knowing that he'll always come out on top.

Found is a teenage boy whose feet have grown too large for Daddy's shoes and, therefore, walks his own path, making his own way in life.

Found is a teenager who isn't sure anymore just what his relationship with Dad is and sometimes is embarrassed to be seen with Dad when his young buddies are around.

Found is a teenager who increasingly spends more time away from home, who enjoys hanging with friends a little more than he does his own family.

Found is a teenager who years ago gave his Mickey Mouse doll to a younger brother but who still gets excited when he sees a helicopter, vowing to fly one some day.

Found is a teenager who can sometimes act like a monster and prefers to toss footballs with friends rather than with Dad and who throws the balls more accurately and farther than his father ever could.

Found is a teenager who would rather flirt with the young ladies than play chase with Daddy, who sings his own tunes, listens to his own music and can't eat, do homework, or sleep without his radio turned on.

Found is a teenager who has outgrown horsey rides on Daddy's back and is more interested in the horses under the hoods of cars.

Found is a teenager who is in need of his own razor to shave his ever-darkening beard, who like a bear cub, likes to wrestle and test his strength against Dad.

Finally, found is a little boy who is fast becoming a young man and has left his father somewhat lost in the world.

8 comments:
cmk said...
And time moves on faster and faster...despite what we, as parents, might want.
Sunday, May 13, 2007 11:15:00 PM ELOST:
Peter said...
Pas, Present and Future Doug, you still have the Man to come to complete the picture.
Monday, May 14, 2007 12:36:00 AM EDT
JunieRose2005 said...
Ahhh-Doug,It's too fast for any parent!Junie
Monday, May 14, 2007 3:48:00 PM EDT
Valerie said...
Doug, you are such a writer...sharing the pride and pain of watching your boy becoming a man...much too quickly.
Monday, May 14, 2007 9:06:00 PM EDT
Renae said...
That was absolutely beautiful!!! I loved this post the best!!
Wednesday, May 16, 2007 12:06:00 PM EDT
Anonymous said...
I have to say, this is one of my very favorite posts of yours. Very touching. You are a great father. Walley Gator
Wednesday, May 16, 2007 11:28:00 PM EDT
4evergapeach said...
I lost the same boy and found the same teenager.Love the post!
Thursday, May 17, 2007 10:58:00 PM EDT
skrpndiva said...
What Valerie said! Wow, what a great scrapbook page that would make!!!Popped on over when I noticed you'd visited my blog.Great posting! Love it!
Friday, May 18, 2007 1:46:00 PM EDT

The Sock Exchange

2007-08-20T20:25:00.000-04:00

When I embarked on the journey of fatherhood no one told me one of the “joys” I had to look forward to would be loss of personal property. It must be one of those taboo subjects that everyone knows exists but never talk about it, like when one’s family discovers that Uncle John has a hidden passion for anchovies on his pizza.

A few years back, I noticed certain personal items of mine were disappearing, namely my socks. Now, to my way of thinking when dirty socks are thrown into the clothes hamper, once they’re washed they should, like a boomerang, return to the place from whence they were thrown. But this wasn’t happening.You see, about a month or two after buying a drawer full of new white athletic socks, I noticed not all of them were returning to me after I threw them into the hamper.

An intense investigation revealed that eldest son, in a moment of teenage delusion, had been “mistakenly” grabbing my socks instead of his own out of the hot dryer.Unfortunately for me, eldest son had worn said socks, and no shoes mind you, while playing several sandlot football games in the mud and rain—he figured he’d be in deep ditty if he muddied up his new $200. 00 basketball shoes, so of course, my new socks were the logical substitute.

Well, back to the store I went to purchase another drawer full of socks. This time, however, I had a plan.While at the store, I also bought a laundry pen and put a big capital D on the toes of all my new footwear. There was no way eldest son could unknowingly end up with my socks in his possession.

For a while all was going pretty well with my plan and I began feeling putting smug about it all. Then it happened. One day, I went to the orthopedist about some knee trouble I was having. Not surprisingly, the doc wanted x-rays taken of my knee, which, of course, meant I had to slip out of my jeans and into one of those backless hospital gowns that were obviously designed by an exhibitionist.

As I sauntered down the hall toward the x-ray room, I became acutely aware that I was on the receiving end of a host of odd looks from the nurses and doctors’ assistants. I couldn’t feel a breeze on my hindquarters so I knew wasn’t flashing anyone. Maybe I absent mindedly forgot to put on my 18-hour deodorant and it was now in its 19th hour. A quick, nonchalant, sniff of my right armpit eased those fears, so why the stares? Then I noticed that the eyes of all who were staring at me were focused downward, toward the floor. MY SOCKS! I’d gotten so used to wearing socks with a big D on the toes that I completely forgot about it.

My first impulse was to quickly bend over and rip those suckers from off my feet. But one doesn’t bend over in public when one is wearing a funny little medical gown; not unless one wishes to remind others of that great old Creedence Clearwater song, “I See a Bad Moon a Risin’.”

So I was stuck and I did the only thing I could do. Mustering what dignity I had left, I proudly strolled down that hallway as if there was nothing abnormal about wearing socks with a big letter written on their toes. Who knows? Maybe everyone would think it was some new fashion trend, bu that hope was dashed moments later by the x-ray technician.

I confidently walked into the room and the technician promptly ordered me to lie down on the ice-cold x-ray table. As the tech was maneuvering the machine over my knees she spied the D on my socks and began to hoot and holler.

“What the heck is the letter D doing on the toes of your socks?” she loudly asked.

Red-faced with embarrassment, I quietly told her of my stocking woes. Then she really started cackling and tears ran down her face as she lost her balance and slumped against a wall in a fit of laughter.

“Oh that’s too much,” she managed to say between laughs. “That is just too funny!”

Before I could ask her to keep it our little secret, she burst out of the room and ran down the hall bellowing, “Hey, everyone, you’re not going to believe this…!”

Soon, everybody in the building rushed to the x-ray room for a gander at my feet, and that, I’m afraid, was just the opening battle of the war over my possessions.

The very next morning I saw eldest son wearing one of my favorite T-shirts as he ran to catch the school bus. As I watched my favorite shirt disappear into the distance, worrying about what would become of it by day's end, I found myself singing that great lament of a song concerning one’s offspring, "Should’ve Had Dogs.”

8 comments:
skrpndiva said...
OMG, you are so hilarious. Imagine my surprise to see that you'd written today rather than Monday!That's a great idea though. May have to do that once my ds is wearing the same size as my dh.
Sunday, July 22, 2007 10:34:00 PM EDT
Valerie said...
pretty freaking funny.i have this image of you, strutting down the hall to the melodic strains of "Stayin' Alive," ala John Travolta.gotta love that.
Monday, July 23, 2007 8:00:00 PM EDT
cmk said...
Love the story. Thankfully, my daughters didn't find too many of my things appealing--I don't know WHAT I would have done, as I am very possessive of my stuff. :)
Tuesday, July 24, 2007 12:42:00 AM EDT
McSwain said...
That is FUNNY! Hopefully I won't have to worry about my son borrowing my clothes. Now there's a scary thought--I'll dismiss it quickly.I used to borrow my dad's socks, too, and his t-shirts to sleep in.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007 5:09:00 AM EDT
Renae said...
The things we do as parents to prove a point, LOL !! I have been in a few situations myself where all was good and then it backfired on me when I least expected it!! Take care and be blessed!!!
Thursday, July 26, 2007 11:47:00 AM EDT
Britmum said...
Thats so bloody funny.Scragend looses his socks to Sam already but I am afraid that is my fault. Geez how am I supposed to know?Take care xx
Thursday, July 26, 2007 10:22:00 PM EDT
Debbie said...
With big man toes I'm sure you were better off keeping them covered up.Man toes are not sexy! hahaha
Saturday, July 28, 2007 2:05:00 AM EDT
Rachel said...
What a funny story!! Yep, it's a good thing you didn't bend over in that little gown, what with that bad moon and all!! LOL That was a creative way to keep your own socks though! Playing basketball in socks; they sure won't last long that way!
Saturday, July 28, 2007 6:56:00 PM EDT