Husband on a Stick

 "Husband on a Stick" - Thursday Thinking Out Loud, by L. Zern

My husband and I are of a certain age—not as old as some might assume and not as young as to be so foolish as to think that guzzling gallons of sugar water will make us immortal.

You know! A certain age.

We are of a certain age that is looking death square in the eyes while at the same time enjoying the consequences of forty years of faithful choices.

You know! We had four children when it wasn’t hip or cool and those children have now given us seventeen (almost) grand-children. We’ll take it. Our nest is empty most of the time except for Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays.

Actually, they come and go on Sundays. Enough said.

We are of a certain age that is contemplating the inevitable next step in this journey we call . . . life and living.

You know! A certain age.

Because of being a certain age, our conversations have shifted from “What’s for dinner?” to “If you go loopy first, and I don’t go loopy, I’m still coming to the old folks home with you. Deal?”

Or this recent conversation . . .

Settling in for another night together after forty-six (almost) nights together, I said, “Scratch my back!”

Husband scratches my back: think two bears getting ready to hibernate.

Suddenly, I realized one possible future. “Geez, when you’re not around anymore. Who is going to scratch my back?”

Husband, silent for a long drowsy moment, finally suggested, “You could always get one of those dried out alligator feet on a stick.”

“What are you saying? I could replace one whole husband with a single alligator foot on a stick?”

“Yep,” he yawned. “You know one of those back scratcher things.”

“I’m not sure how to take that.”

“Be practical,” husband added. “In fact, Conner (our grandson who works at a local Florida animal attraction) can probably get you an alligator foot on a stick for cheap since he works at that alligator place.”

Later, when I related the sad tale of our growing age related concerns, my son-in-law offered an additional bit of advice. “Shoot, Conner could probable get you one of those alligator feet on a stick for free, but it might only have two toes left.”

And this is how we’re planning to enjoy our sunset years, come what may and loving it.

Linda (Old Momma Bear) Zern

Words to Click By

 MONDAY TO GO:  "Words to Click By" L. Zern

I am a fan of YouTube. I love being able to search the world wide web for as many sources about how to milk a goat as is possible to be searched. 

You want to know how to milk a goat? Fear not. Someone is milking a goat on YouTube in Minnesota or Mikasoukee or Mudville or . . . 

Well, you get it.

The problem with YouTube? So many voices desperate for attention leads to the use of shameless hyperbolic words and phrases to lure the wary YouTuber. These are words and phrases that catch your eye, tweak your curiosity, and titillate you with their titillating tittles.

For example:

UNSPEAKABLE goat milking techniques

BOMB SHELL goats and the people who milk them

The DARKEST SECRETS of goat milkers

DIABOLICAL devil goats

The FILTHY SECRETS of making goat cheese

How do you not click on those chunky headlines? 

As a person who is constantly (perhaps an overstatement but maybe not) accused of being hyperbolic and drama prone, I can appreciate headlines like these: unspeakable, bomb shell, darkest secrets, diabolical, and anything filthy.

But be warned. You will be disappointed. The headlines rarely, if ever, match the report.

 But they sure do spice things up, and isn’t that fun? 

Since I’m accused of being a drama prone, volatile, over the top flair monger, I’ve decided to live my life in big words and bigger headlines.

For example:

UNSPEAKABLE things found under my teenage son’s mattress

BOMBSHELL report. Mom burned dinner again.

The DARKEST SECRETS of a grandmother of sixteen

DIABOLICAL kids and the brain-worms they infect us with

The FILTHY SECRETS of the family bathroom

Don’t pretend you don’t want to know what I found under that mattress? That’s a double negative, so you do want to know. Ha! Gotcha!

But you’ll have to excuse me now; I just stumbled on a YouTube title that reads SADISTIC FATHER INFILTRATES DORMS AND FORMS CULT OF COLLEGE KIDS. 

I’ve got to watch that one.

Linda (Drama Drone) Zern

How to Review Your Life

In my college writing classes, we had to critique each other’s work. We got the assignment, wrote the essay or short story or first chapter of blazing erotica.  In a world of non-judgment, tolerance, and anything goes, passing judgment could be a wee bit taxing.

So we had rules. 

They were as follows: We made enough copies of our essay, short story, or first chapter of blazing erotica to pass to each member of the class. We handed out the copies. Each person in the class took the essay, short story, or first chapter of blazing erotica home to review. 

We were then instructed to find three good things about the piece and then with delicate finesse and vibrating sensitivity we were allowed to list three ways the essay, short story, or first chapter of blazing erotica could/would/should be improved. 

Because to improve a writer must be able to identify where a piece of writing works and where it does not work.

So, back in class, sitting around a big round table, we were then allowed to share our observations. The author was not allowed to speak or retort. I like to call this method the Round Table Review.

Sounds straight forward doesn’t it?

Yeah . . . whatever.

I recall one such Round Table Review that I had to do that went something like this:  Things I liked  1) Strong title, 2) Excellent use of the word the, and 3) I like that you double spaced everything.

Things to be improved 1) A story about flappers should not be set in the 1995, 2) The dog’s dialog sounds stilted, and 3) Bestiality is spelled wrong.

I struggled for an entire Saturday to come up with three positive things to say about the above mentioned story. The irony? The writer did not show up for class—again, ever.

I will admit that I do like the Round Table Review method for other aspects of life, however.

In life’s endless struggles and events it can be very helpful to return and report if only for your own edification. Three things that worked. Three things that could stand to be improved. It’s that or be prepared to plaster smiles on your face, nod in the affirmative robotically, and clap like a three-year-old endlessly for the duration of this thing called life, especially in the non-judgement age of tolerance. Some examples of the Round Table Review for life: 

Things that worked:  1) Super cute balloon arch 2) Good pinata 3) Excellent bounce house.

Things that need work: 1) Keep the dessert skewers away from the kids around the balloon arch 2) Less blindfolding of children with pinata bats 3) Locate the bounce house that blew away and landed in the next county.

Things that worked: 1) Voted early 2) Displayed the I voted early sticker 3) Cute red/white/blue outfit worn for early voting.

Things that need work: 1) Never tell anyone that you voted or for whom 2) Make sure not to wash the I voted early sticker on your cute red/white/blue outfit 3) Find an underground movement to join.

Things that worked: 1) Sacrificed life for children 2) Ensured children’s health, wealth, and safety 3) Helped them on their way.  

Things that need work: 1)  Join the underground movement.

Being truthful about things that need work isn’t yucky. It’s necessary. Or the writing never improves, the mistakes are never fixed, and the best never becomes the standard. 

I believe there are three phases to becoming an author: 1) If anyone reads this essay, short story, or blazing piece erotica I’ll die 2) Okay, you can read it, but don’t tell me what you think or I’ll die and 3) I’ll give you a thousand dollars to read this, lest I die.

Grownups welcome constructive criticism.

Linda (Oh, Grow Up) Zern    

    

     

  

   

Chinchilla Wrestling

 

I am baby-sitting my granddaughter’s chinchilla while she is on a mission for our church. She’s out there talking to people about the meaning of life and living and the point of it all. (Zoe, the granddaughter, not the chinchilla.) 

She’s having a ball. (Zoe, the granddaughter, not the chinchilla who is also a girl.)

Actually, the chinchilla is also having a ball. Literally. She has a big plastic ball that she rolls around inside. She also has a dust bath, three-story cage, big wheel, wooden house, assorted toys, hunks of volcanic stone to sharpen her teeth on, and a human slave—me. 

The chinchilla’s name is Chee-Chee.

Chee-Chee does a good impression of being a grumpy teenager. Once in a while, she enjoys a good chin rub.

Mostly she is not in the mood and barks, jumps, and threatens with her tiny teeth. Everyone is terrified of her. 

Chinchillas eat copious amounts of timothy pellets or chinchilla chow, actual timothy hay, the bark off of teething sticks, and various nuts and seeds. NOTE: Chee-Chee digs raisins also terrorizing humans. 

Recently (a time not so far in the past so recently) Chee-Chee and I got in a fist fight. 

I shuffled to her cage with a plastic scoop filled with chinchilla pellets. Chee-Chee the chinchilla, in a show of grumpy dominance raced over, grabbed the edge of the plastic scoop with her tiny chinchilla hands, and started yanking the scoop out of my hand. 

We commenced wrestling. She yanked. I pulled. She yanked harder. Chinchilla chow dribbled from the side of the scoop. She put her back into it.

“Let go of that!” I yelled. 

We wrestled on.

Absurdity mixed with indignation. This dang creature weighs nothing under all that fur and she was winning. I started to laugh.

“I mean it,” I spluttered, “you cannot win.” Laughing turned to bigger laughing and a bit of hysterical chortling.  

And that made me pee my pants.

And that made me laugh harder, also pee harder. 

What? 

Urinating is often used in the animal kingdom as a form of self-defense in dangerous or tense situations. Toads pee on kids when they pick them up all the time; everyone knows it.

It felt like I was wrestling that mammal for my life.

Therefore . . . I’m a toad. I’m a toad attacked by a chinchilla that defended itself in a time honored, natural way.

What did I learn? I learned that to feed Chee-Chee I need to wait until her back is turned and sneak the food into her cage.

I am a toad who can be taught.

Linda (Tinkle Time) Zern

Lightning Rod

 We live in the lightning capital of the world. Hush. Don’t argue with me. I’m not in the mood.

We live in the lightning capital of the world. 

When summer arrives in the Central Florida, lung sucking heat arrives with it. Humidity smacks you in the face like a hammer. The will to live dwindles. 

However . . . as sure as the sun rises, thunder storms (storms full of thunder) arrive with the brain smashing heat. In the afternoon, the heat rises, the skies lower, black clouds boil across the sky. Various farm animals race for shelter.

The air takes on a pregnant, expectant quality: breathless and heavy. Wind races ahead of the rain, trashing trees and hairdos. 

And then the pregnant sky’s water breaks. Bam! With the rain comes the lightning. 

In Florida, we learn early on to count between the flash and the explosion: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi . . . 

Each Mississippi equals a mile, or that’s the rumor.

Expect when you can’t even get the “M” out of your mouth before the freaking fireball is cracking the concrete of the back patio. Lightning is fast, sure, and total. I know. I’ve seen it.

My husband and I watched a recent storm thrash its way across the yard, standing on our back covered porch. Ratty tree limbs crashed to the ground. Leaves whipped in tiny tornado swirls. I stood in water up to my neck . . . okay . . . okay maybe not my neck, but it was damp under my bare feet. I wrapped myself more tightly in my leopard print bathrobe. 

Lighting blazed behind the barn, once and then again.

“Wow, that was close . . .” I began as a flash of light ballooned into a freaking fireball straight in front of us. The thunder did a good, good job of imitating mortar fire from an invading militia.

Explosion joined screaming mixed with shouting.

“Lightning just hit that tree,” my husband (Captain Obvious) observed. 

I screamed some more and ran for the kitchen door. It was locked. Shouting, I started pounding on the kitchen door. “It’s locked. Let me in,” I howled, “let me in.”

Captain Obvious spit out, “Who are you yelling for? No one is in there. We are out here. You’re ridiculous.”

“Why do you always lock me out?” I countered. “I’m the only robber you ever lock out.” Howls and nuttiness mixed in my brain with visions of flaming fireballs. “I have no shoes on. You have shoes on.”

“You’re crazy. It’s too late.”

And it was true. The fireball had exploded against the Maple tree, the lightning traveling through its roots under the patio, cracking the concrete in three places and popping several pavers up and out of their spots. 

And that’s how I know we live in the lightning capital of the world. It tried to blow us up but only got the patio.

Linda (Lightning Rod) Zern

Old, Older, Oldest

 

I knew my husband and I were officially old when I heard myself saying, “Honey, do I have a neck hump?”

And he said, “Hang on. I have to put on my glasses.”

Because he couldn’t see my neck hump WITHOUT HIS GLASSES.  What the what?

Supposedly, age is just a number. Sort of.

Another sign that you’ve reached a questionable age of advanced decrepitude: When you’re sitting around with your peer group and the conversation goes a little something like this.

“Look at my fungus toe.”

The looking commenced. The conversation continued.

“That’s nothing. Look at my fungus toe.” Open toed sandals were kicked off, willy-nilly, and fungus toes were displayed with abandon.

“So what’s everyone doing about their fungus toes?”

My brain shut off at that point because my neck hump was giving me a fit.

Neck hump comes from looking down . . . for . . . every day of a long and fruitful life. Think about it. Try to sweep your floor, vacuum that rug, wash those dishes, fold those clothes, change those diapers, mop up that puppy tinkle, paint those baseboards, dispose of that dead (roach, fly, beetle, lizard) corpse WITHOUT LOOKING DOWN. 

Go ahead, try it. I’ll hold your coat while I practice good posture.

And when you’ve spent fifty to sixty years checking those memos from the boss or typing up notes from 6,000 pointless meetings you’ve had to attend, the hump is the least of your worries. 

Let’s not even talk about Menopause “apron.”

Recently, a gentleman in our church was asked to help oversee the activities of our young  men’s program. The gentleman in question was . . . well . . . not in the generation identified with one of those letters (Gen Z, X, Omega.)

 

“Do you think he can keep up with those young men?” Concern was expressed. 

Are you kidding? Have you seen the neck, gut humps on some of those Gen X, texting maniacs? According to my doctor, even the young and newly hatched are evolving bone hooks on their spine bones from excessive head forward, down looking, screen scrolling. By the time they are my age they’ll look like those vultures in that Disney “Jungle Book” cartoon. 

Sheesh. My neck trouble didn’t show up until I’d spent sixty-five years grinding my teeth and enduring a lifetime of mocking head shaking from the young and super keen.

All I know is this. Neck hump comes for everyone in the end, and the pelvis is the one bone in the body that is gender specific. Getting older means you’ve learned stuff, a lot of stuff. Some of it is helpful. Some of it helps you win at trivia games. And some of it annoys the young and newly hatched. 

“Stand up straight or you’re going to become a hunch back, and put your shoes on before you get toe fungus.”

Linda (Down But Not Out) Zern 

  

   

  

Fest is Short for Festival

My husband lived on Amelia Island when he was a Little League playing kid. He was a pitcher. He was a pitcher with a bad temper. He once told his catcher to let the baseball go by so that it hit the umpire who, Sherwood believed, was something that I can’t repeat. 

(I would repeat the something here, but I can’t repeat the something here because Sherwood was a nine-year-old with a foul mouth).

Sherwood’s family moved away from Amelia Island. 

Years passed.

Our oldest son moved with his family to Yulee, Florida which is due west of Amelia Island. Our family had come full circle, it would seem. So back we went to festival with the pirates over shrimp tacos and shrimp art—lots and lots of art depicting shrimp.

Amelia Island is the home of the Amelia Island Shrimp Festival. In Sherwood’s day, there were shrimp boat races, but they turned out to be less than thrilling, since shrimp boats only have to outrun shrimp. 

Now the Shrimp Festival features pirates, and a shrimp queen, a 5K run, and fifty ways to cook shrimp, and shrimp art.

I rather liked the endless, creative, and energetic renderings of shrimp. There were stained glass shrimp and paintings of shrimp and photographs of shrimp and shrimp sculptures and . . .

Art. Lots and lots of art.

“How do you like the art?” I asked my husband, the once foul mouthed baseball pitcher, as we wandered among the vendors.

“Hate it,” he said.

“All of it? Look! There’s a metal fish fountain with a shrimp inside it stomach, spitting water. How clever is that?”

“How much?” he asked.

“Much and many shrimp’s worth,” I said.

“Ridiculous.”

We kept walking.

Finally, he found a bit of art that appealed. It wasn’t shrimp related. It was a scantily clad mermaid. “I like that,” he said, pointing.

Our daughter-in-law summed it up, “Tasteful nudes. He likes tasteful nude paintings of mermaids.”

“Do they eat shrimp?” I wondered. No one answered, but I was willing to bet they did.

“How much,” he said. 

“Many and much shrimp,” I said.

“Ridiculous.”

“Agreed.”

“I need a tee-shirt with a pirate on it,” he said.

“Let’s go,” I said.

And that’s what puts the fest in festival. 

Linda (Two More Shrimp Tacos ) Zern

 

 

 

   

 

K is for Kurt

“Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them—in order that the reader may see what they are made of.” Kurt Vonnegut

I am an author. My husband is an engineer. We are different. We see the world in different ways. We like different things.

See Jane watch “The Walking Dead.

See Dick watch “The Andy Griffith Show.”

See Spot run from a zombie Barney Fife.

We use a Roku for entertainment, news, education, and conspiracy updates. It’s one of those computery machines that allows you to watch your favorite television shows in an orgy of endless viewing: commercial free, interruptions low.

See Jane fall asleep to re-runs of “The Walking Dead.”

See Dick in the middle of the night flip the Roku machine over to re-runs of “The Andy Griffith Show.”

See Spot scratch.

While my husband and I are different in our viewing tastes in television, we are alike in age. We are old-ish. We are becoming acquainted with not sleeping and waking up at two in the morning for nightly wanderings. We have a lifetime of stupid and embarrassing memories that torment us as we try to fall asleep and/or stay asleep. 

Falling asleep to episodes of “The Walking Dead” distracts our bad memory brains. So it’s nothing to fall asleep to zombies eating the world and then wake up to Barney Fife and his one bullet. 

See Jane toss and turn.

See Dick stumble around, change the channel, and fall asleep just in time to start snoring.

See Spot twitch in her sleep and chase zombie bunnies in her dreams.

I love “The Walking Dead.” It’s about characters that the writers are constantly throwing into a pit of writhing, zombie snakes, only to dare them to find a way out. 

It’s Kurt Vonnegut’s writing advice on steroids. I appreciate that. 

Honestly, “The Andy Griffith’ Show” isn’t all that different. How will Andy and Barney ever tell Aunt Bee that her pickles are NEVER going to win a prize at the country fair because her pickles are absolutely vile? Same concept. “No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them.”

Hey! It’s practically the same show. Maybe my husband and I aren’t so different after all?

Linda (Dream Keeper) Zern

H is for Horn Tooting

 

H is for Horn Tooting 

How Can We Stay Humble But Still Brag? Or The Paradox Of Social Media

Boldly and with my heart in my throat or throat-heart, I said to a respected organizer of a respected author’s conference, “You WANT me on the agenda. I am an excellent speaker.”

She gave me the head to toe once over and said, “So you say.”

I began to stutter like a person who stutters and responded, “Nnnnoo . . . nnnooo . . . iiiittt’s . . . true.”

Her eyes narrowed. Her brain spun. A long, fat moment passed. Then she took a chance on me, and I will always be thankful.

But what a painful, impossible moment. I have been speaking in public to large crowds since I was nine. I am a homeschooler. I am a teacher of various and sundry subjects. I am Irish (partly) and I have inherited the gift of blarney (partly). 

The dilemma? It’s all horn tooting. If no one cares enough to toot your horn, how does the horn get tooted and would should toot it? 

Sigh.

I am a woman of a certain age, raised at a time when the right hand was not supposed to know what the left hand was doing. It was a day when hands were supposed to mind their own business, and not brag to each other. Bragging was considered tacky, almost sinful. 

Today, the right hand not only knows what the left hand is doing, but the hands are fighting over who will hold the horn for tooting because everyone toots their own horn, right-handed or left-handed.

Social media has re-written the rules of horn tooting: brag, brag loud, brag long, and toot as loud as you can by blowing your personal trumpet of fabulousness! 

A few random observations I have made over the dizzying revolution of social media and phones that are smart.

CONVENIENCE! NOT! Smarty pants phones are constantly getting left places: the barn, under dirty laundry, on fence posts where fat raindrops can butt dial my father-in-law. Er . . . um . . . I mean . . . that might have, sort of, could have happened once, not that it did happen. 

SELFIES: Look at me, looking at myself. I like to take selfies on Sunday when my hair is arranged, my teeth are brushed, and my pearls are draped elegantly around my neck. To be honest and fair, I should take selfies when I’m pressure washing the barn, and I’ve managed to splash animal poop water on myself, and there is poop water dripping from my glasses, hair, nose, and neck wrinkles. 

TRAVEL LOGS!  Look at me, looking at stuff. (Don’t get me wrong. I do it too.) 

RECORDING FOOD INTAKE: People love their food. By the number of food related photos, food might be more important than looking at travel stuff, selfie stuff, deciding which Smarty Pants Phone to buy next, or the magic mascara that can CHANGE MY LIFE.

INFLUENCING, WHICH WE USED TO CALL ADVERTISING: Buy this, sell that, and make sure you give them my name. Recently, one of my grandsons offered to help me post “short” videos on my Youtube channel so that I could get “followers.” The problem? I’m not sure where I’m supposed to be leading a mob of strangers. But if I do figure it out, I’ll be sure and post pics.

BUY THIS; SELL THAT: Folks, on their “personal” media pages, like to pretend that they don’t want you to buy whatever it is they are selling. I’m calling, “BUNK!”

TEENY, TINY HAND COMPUTERS: Anything I can do on my computer, I can do on my teeny, tiny smarty pants phone. Except that I can’t. Because my fingers are too fat to type on that teeny, tiny keyboard that the kids type on with their thumbs. THEIR THUMBS! When evolution kicks in, their fingers will drop off, and humans will become nothing, more or less, than two opposable thumbs and a single, huge eye in the middle of their foreheads. 

WHY THE SINGLE EYE IN THE MIDDLE OF THEIR FOREHEADS? Because the only thing humans will be looking at is themselves (i.e. selfie-eye).

Oh, and humans will have HUGE mouths for all the horn tooting, of course. 

By the way, if you get a smarty pants phone call from me today, it’s because I’ve left my phone on a fence post, and it’s raining. TOOT. TOOT. Ain’t I the smartest girl in the world?

Oh, and how did I do speaking at the conference? I was dazzling.

Linda (Poop Water) Zern

PS. Staying humble means posting all the pictures not just the Sunday selfies.

The Lamentations of L. L. Zern

1. And the word of the Lord came unto me, saying,

2. Daughter of Eve speak forth of thy posterity, keeping nothing back, that others may know wherein thy happiness doth arise.

3. And I do make an accounting, to prophesy unto Sherwood, our patriarch, that our flocks doth flourish under the tender care of the junior shepherds of our tribe; our goats escapeth only on occasion to go forth and eat mine tender flowers. Our goats wandered through all the yard, and upon every sandhill, but they cometh quickly to the sound of oats in a bucket.

4. Lamentations, the word meaning, how? How doth goats escape so easily from both goat wire and gates chained with chains. 

5. And I did sigh much.

6. But the junior shepherds of our tribe brought much joy to overcome any lamentations, and they did include: Zoe Baye, called forth to California to teach and serve the tribes of that land; Emma Sarah, who sought much learning by faith and also by works; Conner-Boy who doth work much, to earn funds to purchase a signed poster of Jeff Goldbloom; Kipling Sherwood who sets for himself many high and lofty goals; Sadie Jolee playing well of the piano and being most helpful for Sunday dinners, Zachary Jon who waiteth with joy for his muscles to appear; Scout Harper, who loveth much and worrieth some also; Reagan Baye-Love, much healed and now playing of the flute and watching Anime; 

7. Hero Everdeen, who seeing a young woman dance forth in a public fountain dressed both in thong and cowboy chaps, playing forth on a cowbell, this Hero dideth speak forth, saying, “Boy! The big city sure is fun.”

8. Griffin Henry, using his own funds did buyeth a lovely picture with real feathers at a yard sale, saying, “YaYa would love that!” And I did truly love it;

9. Leidy Hazel, independent and talented and gifted, did make much her own cheese bread and hot chocolate, needing others almost not at all.

10. Ever Jane, a girl ready for any party or celebration or hockey game, perhaps one day joining forth her cousin, Hero, in “the fun big city.”

11. Silas Aricson, a large and mighty boy, who might yet grow taller than his YaYa before much more time passeth.

12. Boone Thomas, both sweet and kind, enjoyeth the approbation of his teachers to be an Otterrific Otter. 

13. Ellie Mae, a girl who delighteth both in dolls and dirt, rejoiced much in her aquarium where she keepeth lizards and other interesting creatures.

14. And finally, Ender, 16 of 16, three years old, who did argue much with his mother over the right way to decorate for the Christmas season, their contentions becoming heated, of which his eldest brother, Conner, quipped, “When decorators collide.”

15. Therefore thus saith the keeper of the record that it mystified how so much life and laughter hath come to us . . . it must needs be the Lord’s will for none other could have brought so much to be contained within our tents.

16. I make an end, and ye my flock, the flock of my pasture, are beloved now and forever this year of our Lord, two thousand and twenty-two. 

 

Why I Write Post-Apocalyptic Fiction

 I’m a reader. I’ve read it all—from cereal boxes to mammoth, generational, historical sagas (think Michener). I love them all.

As a child, books swept me away from a world I could not control.

As a teen, books invited me to discover truths no one was talking about.

As a young mom, books filled the gaps and kept me entertained when snotty noses ruled my days . . . and nights.

But of all the books, of all the stories, post-apocalyptic fiction fired my imagination like none other. 

“Lucifer’s Hammer” and “Alas, Babylon” had it all: built in drama, sensational conflict, and unlimited possibilities.

Now, I write post-apocalyptic fiction because the genre makes everything important again—food, water, air, family, children, security, relationships, sex, life, and death. 

A good story requires conflict. All good writers understand this. The old writing adage says write characters you love, run them up a tree, and then . . . throw rocks at them (Nabokov.)

Post-apocalyptic fiction? Done. It’s all there. The story spins out like a tapestry of trouble and triumph. Our characters can’t help but find themselves “up a tree” and the rocks come automatically.

It’s a genre that owns action, adventure, and survival. 

I used to think that mysteries must be hard to write. I never know who “done it.” But then I realized that mysteries, like post-apocalyptic fiction, have built-in drama—someone’s dead, someone is going to be dead, someone is making sure someone is dead. Bam! Drama!

And drama is the air our characters breathe.

Don’t get me wrong. I still read it all. But I’ll always find my way back to post-apocalyptic fiction where anyone can imagine themselves up that tree and the rocks just keep on coming.

  

  

White Coat Magic Mattress

I have white coat syndrome. I contracted it at my doctor’s office, and I got it from my doctor. 

And now I cannot convince my heart—run by my brain—that it is not going to be stabbed, poked, probed, burned, drained, cut, stitched, or beaten about the head and neck. 

Okay, I made that last bit up because hearts don’t have heads and necks, only the brains that run them do.

Over the years, my heart—run by my brain—knows that when someone says, “Expect a little pinch” what they’re really saying is “here comes the pain killer that’s going to burn like a boiling lava lake to dull the pain of the slicing knife.” 

My heart—run by my brain—calls B.S.

And now it, my heart—run by my brain—calling B.S., pumps up my blood pressure like a dollar store pumps up helium balloons for a buck. 

My doctor is convinced I have high blood pressure. I don’t. I have a brain that can’t lie to my heart any more. My doctor—convinced of the high blood pressure, cholesterol choked artery theory—makes me monitor my blood pressure at home for two weeks after I come close to stroking out in her office. 

It’s all good; no white coats at home. In fact, when I lay down on my magic mattress at night, my blood pressure is so low, I could be just this side of dead, which, in its own way could be a problem.

Thus, proving the importance of purchasing a decent mattress. 

At the end of the latest health crisis/pandemonium, I made Sherwood buy me a new mattress. Stuck at home, courting more than a few conspiracy theories, and napping on a daily basis, I said, “I refuse to sleep on a mattress with the fluff and heft of a grilled cheese sandwich.”

At the store and refusing to look at price tags, I flopped up on every mattress in the whole darned place, I looked at the saleslady and said, “This one. It’s the most expensive one in the place, isn’t it?”

With a greedy gleam, she nodded. 

“Wrap it up,” I said.

“I love this mattress, babe,” I said to my darling of forty-plus years.

“You should. It’s the same price as a down payment on a first class go-cart.”

“I love it so much I want it to line my coffin.”

“It’s too big.”

“I give you permission to cut it down to fit.”

“That’s morbid.”

“I told you that this is the mattress we’ll probably die on.” 

Later, after the last mattress we’ll probably die on was delivered and the blood pressure cuff squeezed my arm into two bloodless pieces, he asked, “How’s your blood pressure?”

“Non-existent!”

“Then our work here is done.”

I sunk even further into the ever cool, positive ion charged, body hugging, blood pressure reducing magic that is a decent mattress. 

Now if I can only drag my marvelous, decent, magical mattress to my next check-up.

Linda (Heart Health) Zern

Farming 101

BIG TRAMP IN HIS TEENAGE YEARS!

 

We buried Big Tramp today. Standing on his hind legs, he stood over six feet tall. In his prime, he weighed close to two hundred pounds, and he was our American Alpine herd buck. He was quite a guy.

Shaggy and massive he gave us a lot of darling goat kids and scared a few grown men back into their pickup trucks. But he never hurt a soul or wanted to. He was our gentle giant.

Burying him put me in mind of what farming or ranching is all about.

Farming is knowing that sooner or later your favorite buck or doe or bull or cow will not show up for breakfast in the morning.

Farming is getting up in the middle of the night to check on whoever is sick out in the barn.

Farming is watching for the signs that one of your flock or herd is in trouble.

Farming is being worried when the medicines you rely on to keep your animals healthy skyrocket in price.

Farming is pressure washing the barn before breakfast.

Farming is studying the good, better, or best ways of raising whatever you’re trying to raise.

 Farming is prayer for rain in due season.

Farming is not having to guess what the “circle of life might be” because you see it every day.

Farming is figuring out how to keep goats or pigs or cows where they’re supposed to be and not where they think they want to go, which is a mile down the road in the neighbor’s vegetable garden.

Farming is sun and sweat and dirt and heartbreak and the most darling babies you’ll ever see in the spring.

Farming is tough with a steep, steep learning curve. 

Farming is life . . . and death.

Our Tramp was a great guy who lived a great life in green pastures with lovely ladies out in the fresh air and sunshine. He lived up to the measure of his creation, and we were lucky to have had him.

Linda (Just a Hobby Farmer) Zern

  

Fire and Brimstone

 

Boxes Full of Hell Fire

If everything you bought at the box-store came in its own shipping box and you brought it home in those individual boxes, how many boxes would be stacked up at your front gate? Exactly. 

So many boxes . . . 

People think I get a lot of mail. Okay, yes, true. I get a lot of mail. But mostly it’s just boxes—lots and lots of boxes—which may or may not contain anything from a single sheet of paper or salt from the Himalayas. I like to play “Guess What’s In It.” People think mail means shoes, but it really means anti-fungal shampoo for Charlie, the itchy horse. Sometimes it means shoes, sometimes. But it always means stuff dropped off at the front gate in the long grass under the shiny Florida sun. 

Recently, I ordered an assortment of power bars that arrived in . . . you guessed it . . . a box . . . left at the front gate. I was excited to check out the new, exciting flavors.

Oldest grandson brought my eagerly awaited box, full of foil wrapped power bars, into the house.  He set it on my bed. What a good grandson!

A bit later, I picked up the box full of new, exciting flavors. Halfway to the kitchen my hands caught fire, and I screamed. Fire ants boiled out of the box that had been dumped in the long grass under the shiny Florida sun, apparently in a fire ant hill with a sign on it that said, “Come and get it.”

I chucked the box; ants cascaded to the floor, the wall, the atmosphere.

Drawn by the new, exciting flavors of the power bars, approximately ten thousand fire ants had taken up residence in the box and were working on carrying off my assortment.

I opened the box. The bars were covered with angry ants full of fire. They poured over the kitchen counter. I threw the foiled wrapped, not cheap, bars into the sink and tried to drown a mountain of ants. They backstroked their way out of the sink.

Screaming, I ran back to my bed where the box had been waiting for my happy arrival. There were pissed off ants, looking for a quick snack of not cheap power bars, in the bedspread, under my pillow, pouring down the bed skirt. I screamed some more and slapped at biting ants on my hands, arms, and hair. I threw the bedspread into the yard, probably on top of more fire ants, dropped kicked my pillows into the bushes, and stripped the bed down to the frame. 

“All I wanted was a low-cal, high protein snack that tasted good,” I wailed. 

Trying to save the power bars, I threw them into a Ziplock bag and then dumped them into the freezer. This morning I took them out of the freezer. Fire ants, slowed but still alive, crawled out of the Ziplock bag looking for someone to blame. I screamed and smashed ants.

I get a lot of mail—stuff in boxes. Most of the time it’s happy fun. Most of the time . . . 

Linda (Fire and Brimstone) Zern

 

   

 

  

BRAIN TEASER

 “Brain and brain! What is brain?” 

It’s a great line from one of my favorite Star Trek episodes. A planet of sexy, alien babes steal Spock’s superior brain to run their entire planet: electric, water, air, and apparently sewage. 

The sexy, alien babes have to use a special computer helmet to juice up their own atrophied brain power to be able to perform the surgery necessary to steal Spock’s brain and then install it in the planet-wide power plant.

When Kirk and company show up to retrieve Spock’s brain, the sexy, alien babes have reverted to their sexy, alien, baby state, and they don’t even know what a brain is. Thus, the fabulous ‘what is brain?’ line. 

Kirk keeps insisting they return Spock’s brain. They insist that they are stupid.

Once in a while, I feel a bit like those sexy, alien babes who can’t remember how they managed brain surgery without a college degree.

Like the time I lost my car keys . . . for two weeks . . . in my own purse. 

“Hey, babe,” I said, breaking the news. “I can’t find my keys.” I paused. “Anywhere. And I’ve looked.”

“Did you look in the truck?” he asked. 

I taped my finger against my chin. “That would be the anywhere I was referring to.”

“How about on the desk, the bed, the kitchen, the office, the barn, the passenger side door . . .” The list continued.

“How could I have lost them in the passenger door? I had to open the house with the house keys located on the same keychain as the key to the truck key.”

He sighed. “Your purse? Your pants? Your closet? The refrigerator?”

“The refrigerator!!!!!  Isn’t that a sign of mental disease or defect?” I spluttered.

To say that the conversation deteriorated from that point would be unnecessary.

I chalked up the loss of my keys to life and living, also the slow melting of my brain due to overuse rather than atrophy, until the day I noticed a tiny, barely-there pocket in the side of my enormous laptop case-slash-purse. 

“What’s this?” I asked the silent universe. Tucked carefully into the barely-there pocket were my keys. I was happy, as happy as a sexy, alien babe might feel after stealing Spock’s excellent brain to power my whole darn civilization.

I was happy . . . also chagrined. I mean who can’t find their own keys inside the confines of a single, multi-use purse? A sexy, alien babe, that’s who.

Brain and brain. Where did I put my brain?

Linda (Sharp as a Tack) Zern

 

   

The Christmas Song of Zern - 2021

 

1. The song of Zern, which is ours, did commence to be sung in the first month of this year and doth continue in the last month of this year of our Lord, two thousand and twenty-first, a year of unusual happenings and much speaking of the Lord. 

2. Let them kiss me with their kisses for I both keep the record of our folk and maketh the grass short enough for dodge ball to continueth unceasingly to be played by the children of our tribe. 

3. Our year did proceed thusly.

4. In the newness of the year, we did sicken of the plague which did cover the land, experiencing both mild and moderate and even worrisome symptoms. Then Sherwood our husband and father did spend but little time in the hospital close to our home, even Saint Cloud, there receiving both Ivermectin and steroids. Thusly, he walked forth from that place both healed and helped and blessed by those good doctors.

5. After much time going forth to battle against the Philistines, Aric, even Aric and his wife, Lauren, did proceed forth from the northern lands to the southern lands, even to come to rest in the village of Yulee. There to make an end of battle and to retire from the work of the Army. Silas and Ellie did delight much in the community pool and closeness of the endless moving of the waves found on their right hand.

6. Heather, the second of four, said moreover, the Lord hath delivered me out of the paw of the lion, and out of the paw of the bear, and hath preserved me as a mother in Zion. And Zoe, Conner, Kipling, Zachary, Griffin, and Ender did rise up and call her . . . to get them much to drink and eat. And Phillip said to Heather, Let not thy heart fail thee.

7. And the family of Maren and T. J., even Reagan and Hero and Leidy and Boone, abiding in the land of Texas, even Dallas, did rejoice much in the healing of their dearest sister and daughter, Reagan, from the darkness of childhood cancer. And they did go forth in the knowledge that their God doth hear and answereth the prayers of their hearts. And Hero did prophesy that God would work a mighty work because they are the Lorances and they don’t give up.

8. And the work of bringing forth the rising generation did continue forth in the home of one Adam, the youngest child brought forth in our home and his wife Sarah, in that Emma and Sadie and Scout and Ever Jane did play much of the piano, also their mother Sarah. While their father dideth work much to pay the cost. And they did prosper in the land.

9. And I did crieth to the Heavens for a kitten that might abide with us and she did come forth, living in the vent of the dryer, causing us to believe her to be a bat, but instead she came forth from the dryer vent to be held in the palm of our hands, needing but love and much food. 

10. And in this strange and most unusual year, the Lord did speak peace unto our hearts in the saddest moments and we didest hear the voice of angels whispering much of faith, of hope, and of charity when all seemed broken and lost. And we do continue in that pattern of love, measuring our lives by the times and seasons of our God, knowing that our days are numbered and known to our Father in Heaven. May Christmas be bright with hope in thy life and may it fill all thy days.           

The Laughter Starts Here

Need to laugh? Want to laugh? Feel free to laugh at me and mine. Find this collection of humorous essays and tales of hamster mayhem at amazon.com/author/lindazern 

 

ALL THIS AND HEAVEN TOO!

 

“Kip’s eating something,” my daughter yelled, pointing at her just turned one-year old. “I think it’s a dead frog.”

Swooping down from above, I pulled my grandson onto my lap and with a swish of my right pointer finger, I swiped his mouth and out popped a desiccated, mummified tree frog. Only later would I realize how practiced my actions had been—bend, reach, pull, swipe, empty oral cavity.

“Well?” my daughter wanted to know.

“Yep,” I said, “Dead frog.” I flipped the dead frog onto the coffee table in front of me.

“Ba-scussting,” observed the frog eater’s sister.

“No! Disgusting is the fact that the frog was almost re-animated into a zombie frog because of your brother’s magic baby spit.”

She stared at the now slimy dead frog looking for signs of zombie life. The one-year old howled for more dead frog.

Except ye . . . become as a little child.

My youngest son, Adam, waxed eloquent on the subject of Ayn Rand’s theories of the importance of individualism in opposition to the abstraction of the collective mentality by saying, “You know of course what Ayn Rand said about individualism in opposition to the abstraction of the collective mentality . . .”

My son had just raised his hand to punctuate a particularly salient point, when his four-year old stepdaughter turned away from her lunch plate to spit a chewed up noodle in a gooey wad at his feet.

He lost his train of thought. I lost my train of thought.

Then, with eyebrows raised and totally mystified, he asked the two questions we all want to ask everyone, “Why did you do that? Why would anyone want to do that?”

Suffer little children . . . and forbid them not.

“Grab that kid. He’s got no pants on,” someone shouted as a random two-year old streaked through the kitchen. Various people yelled. A few parental-types took off in hot pursuit.

Someone yelled, “Why won’t that kid keep his pants on?”

“Somebody find his pants,” someone else shouted.

The pants-less wonder jumped onto the couch and began a pants-less dance. Several people pointed and laughed—mostly kids and one grandfather. Eventually, the nudist was soon wrestled to the ground and re-pants.

Rumor has it that, of our two-year old grandson, a tiny girl from our church told her mother. “That’s Conner-Boy. He’s so funny. He takes his pants off in the nursery.”

. . . for of such is the kingdom of heaven.

My observations of the young and restless leads me to believe that heaven will be a very exciting place—full of fun and unexpected surprises. Then I watch Kip and Sadie learning to walk, and realize that no matter how many times they fall down—they ALWAYS get up--ALWAYS, and how full of hugs and kisses my grand daughters (Emma and Zoe) are, and how clearly Conner sees the world—mean people are bad and nice people are good. He sees no silly gray ambiguities the way we adults need to. My grandchildren teach me about tenacity, and kindness, and clarity—and heaven,

. . . and I do believe.

Linda (Cup Runneth Over) Zern