Villisca Iowa Axe Murder House...Vacation 2006

Well, it's the last Theme Thursday and this week's topic is Halloween...and I have to admit I'm sort of a Halloween loser. Before moving to Oklahoma, all I would do was drive to 2 hours to my brother's house, take tons of pictures of his kids and drive 2 hours home because I usually had to work the next day. 

 

Opie and I did go to a Halloween party last year but I can't post pictures of that here because we went as Killer Bees but the fabric of my costume was apparently a lot cheaper and stretchier than I had realized and by the time we got around to taking pictures, my look was really more Stripper or Porn Star Bee. 

 

And no one wants to see THAT.

 

But,  I am into ghosts and goblins and things that go bump in the night. So much so, that my friend Eric and I go on ghost hunting trips as often as we can and I thought I'd share the story of one of the freakiest trips we went on. This is the description I wrote of our trip to the Villisca Axe Murder House back in 2006.

 

 

First some not so funny, incredibly gruesome background (for those who want more detailed background, check out this website: http://www.villiscaiowa.com/index.htm ).  The Villisca Axe Murder House is so-named because in 1912, 8 people (2 adults, 6 kids) were bludgeoned to death inside the place with, obviously, an axe.  The forensic evidence and court documents from the time indicate that the killer or killers probably hid in the house before the family got back from a church program and waited until everyone was asleep to come out and bludgeon (loving the word bludgeon, it’s just so creepy!) them.  The newspapers said that everyone was killed in their sleep but modern forensic detectives have examined the gouge marks in the ceiling (from the back swing of the axe) and the blood spatter and determined that some of the people did try to run.  There were a few different suspects but the killer or killers was never found.  The house itself has been featured on the show “Scariest Places on Earth” and is supposed to be one of the most haunted places in America.

Which pretty much makes it second only to Roswell, NM’s National UFO Convention as a prime vacation destination for Eric and I.

In any case, Eric’s schedule has been hectic this summer so our trip was pretty much spur of the moment…which gave us a few minutes of concern because it is harder to book a reservation in an axe murder house than one might think.  Luckily, weeknights are a little easier than others so we threw all our junk in the car and took off…

Sadly, we were only 5 minutes into the trip before we realized that neither one of us had remembered to bring a map.  But since we had our handy-dandy Yahoo directions, we decided to press on.

 It is interesting to note that Yahoo Directions include the following warning on the bottom of their directions:  When using any directions, it’s a good idea to do a reality check and make sure the road still exists and/or isn’t under construction.  This is only to be used as an aid in planning.

Reality check?  REALITY CHECK?  Reality is for people who are too scared to drink…seriously, who thinks we CHECKED the route?

Of course we didn’t check!  Checking would imply a lack of confidence in Yahoo.  Checking would hint that we did not trust our own innate navigational abilities.  Checking would mean we had actually READ THE STUPID WARNING before we were sitting in the middle of some untamed wilderness with limited cell phone service (think Deliverance).

You know what else we realized at that moment?  Cell service didn’t much matter as we had also neglected to bring the phone number of the Axe Murder House owner…a fact that some of you were noticeably unsympathetic about when we finally did manage to call and/or text message you and explain our plight.

Luckily, a few calls later, we managed to get back on track and eventually found our way to the Axe Murder Museum…at which point I stopped imitating the dueling banjos from Deliverance and started making Texas Chainsaw Massacre comments. 

First, let me describe Darwin (the owner).  He’s an older gentleman who just screams “Good old boy!”  He drove up to the museum in his black pick up truck, got out and straightened his blue and white striped bib overalls, and smiled…which is when I noticed that all his bottom teeth were missing and had been replaced by silver caps. (I really, really wanted to start singing Nelly’s Grillz, …you know, “smile for me daddy, lemme see your grill!” but A. I didn’t think he’d recognize it and B. It’s never a good idea to piss off a man who is the proud owner of an axe murder house.)

So silent, we went into the museum.  Which had all this cool stuff but was organized even worse than the junk box under my bed…I personally think Darwin has simply gone to every garage sale in Villisca, IA for the last fifty years and bought the museum as a storage room.  Very weird.

But not as weird as the tour he took us on next.  He told us he’d show us the church the family had been attending right before the murders, the houses of a few suspects, etc.  Then he got in his pickup, Eric and I got in my car and we followed him around town.  Followed him as he drove in circles without slowing down and pointed out the window.  Eric and I had no idea what the heck we were supposed to be looking at, though, to be completely fair, that might have been because we were both laughing so hard I almost ran off the road.

After this enlightening bit of travel, we stopped by the cemetery to see the graves (we were allowed to get out of the car for that one), then finally made it to the house…which has no electricity, no indoor plumbing, and was approximately as hot as the surface of the sun.  A situation which was not noticeably helped when Darwin lit about a million kerosene lamps and lanterns for us…

At this point, Darwin took us upstairs and  I got so sick to my stomach, I could barely hear what he was saying.

"I'm sorry," I said.  "I really feel like I'm going to throw up."

"Yah," he said.  "That happens all the time up here.  You're leaning against the closet that experts think the murderer was hiding in."

Creepy...and I got that same sick feeling every time we were upstairs.

And that's when Darwin left us alone in the house to conduct our intensive paranormal research.

 

First, we set up our “base of operations” in the living room.  This was right across from the bedroom where 2 neighbor girls who were spending the night were killed and right next to the screen door, but was the lesser of 2 evils as the only other option was upstairs where 6 people were killed in close quarters.  We piled sleeping bags on the floor (hardwood floor, by the way, NOT COMFORTABLE!), then got out our voice activated tape-recorder and our notebooks (one of us also got out our grandmother’s rosary and bottle of holy water to prepare for a possible exorcism of evil spirits but I will leave it to you to figure out which one that was).  Suitably armed, we began to explore.

 

Scoffers and non-believers may want to skip this next part but I assure you, Eric and I were plenty freaked out by the events of the night.  In any case, our experiences in the house were as follows:

 

·                    Took our voice-activated tape recorder upstairs and put it in the closet that the killer(s) supposedly hid in.  Got horrible sick feeling in my stomach every time we approached the closet.

 

·                    Knocked over lantern, couldn’t get it to relight.  Eric accused me of breaking some important oxygen-releasing device but I choose to believe it was evil spirits.

 

·                    Tried to call out on cell phone (read that cell phones have trouble there, even when full signal is available) while Eric played the piano (read that the piano draws the ghost of the woman in the house)  Cell phone hung up exact same moment that Eric hit first note. 

 

·                  Tried “scrying” with a crystal that’s in the house for the purpose.  You do this by dangling the crystal from a hand or finger, waiting until it’s still, then asking it a question.  If the crystal moves one way, that means yes.  Moving the other way means no.  Asked questions, got responses, couldn’t decide if we were moving crystal or not so later put it back on pedestal and asked questions.  Crystal continued to move, though not as much.

 

·                 Discussed murder for way, way too long, resolved to check every closet of my home every night for the rest of my life.  Couldn’t decide how to deal with a newly discovered axe murderer in closet, elected to think about it later.

 

·                    Checked voice-activated tape recorder several times, getting sick feeling each time by closet, and getting excited when realized it had taped quite a few things.  Laughed hysterically when realized that most of the tape was a recording of Eric and I laughing hysterically downstairs.  Moved recorder to different locations.

·                    Returned downstairs, realized rug in living room—which had been completely straight when went upstairs—was disheveled and almost turned over.
 

·                    Freaked out a little.

 

·                    Discussed rug indefinitely.

 

·                           Try to blame things on drinking, realize that in spite of frequently witnessed  predilection for such activity, neither of us has had more than one drink (quite possibly strangest event of entire night!)

 

·                           Blew out half the kerosene lamps before contracting lung cancer or bursting into flame, got out flashlight so could read while Eric took brief nap.

 

·                Fell asleep with flashlight ON…but flashlight was OFF when woke up 2 hours later.  Flashlight was still working but had definitely been turned off.

 

·                           Woke to strange sounds of undetermined origin.  Felt cold chills and heard sounds upstairs.  Listened to odd thumping for approximately 20 minutes, then tried to wake Eric to see if he could hear same.  He heard a little but fell back asleep before I could convince him to go up with me and investigate.  Decided would rather cut off own arm than go up and explore alone.  Fell asleep again few minutes later.

 

·                           Eric awakened by strange feeling of something tugging on his shirt and pulling it up.  Eric unable to move for long moment.

 

·                           More freaking out.

 

·                           Return upstairs for final time to retrieve tape recorder from closet in children’s room.  Do NOT get sick feeling this time…but do hear the sound of thumping on tape.  Wonder what it is, then decide that it sounds like the closet door opening and shutting, open mouth to say this when closet door rattles and thumps exactly as on tape.

 

·                           Freak out a little…though Eric, the scientist, wants to make sure that thump is not natural occurrence.  Watch Eric jump up and down, trying to make door thump.  Point out that not only is he unsuccessful, but that we have also been up in room at least 5 times and the door has never, ever moved.

 

·                           Record our experiences in notebook Darwin has left for the purpose, pack up and discuss the experiences for 6 straight hours.  Resolve to return again in the future for more experimentation.

 

Like I said, I know many of you will scoff at this and I probably wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t been there but it was definitely worth the trip!  And we seriously might go back next summer so let us know if you want to come with us, the more investigators the better!

Houston We Had A Problem

Ok, here’s a travel tip for one and all…if you are supposed to catch a plane at 7:45 and your friend is picking you up to leave for the airport at 6:00 it is usually a bad idea to decide to start watering all the flowers in your backyard at 5:55.

This is an even worse idea when you aren’t 100% finished packing for the trip…

Thus began Eric and my vacation this year, a little journey I like to call “Houston, We Have A Problem.”

In any case, after I finally realized that Eric was pounding on the front door with all his might, I quickly let him in, threw the rest of my stuff in my suitcase, and we got started for the airport a mere 37 minutes behind schedule.

And, interestingly enough, after we found out our flight was delayed and we settled in for a long night of vodka-drinking and card playing, it only took about 37 minutes for the first offended bystander to move away from us.

Undaunted, we pressed on.

Then, when we finally got on the plane, I spent approximately 37 minutes explaining to Eric all the different way death by plane could occur.

Undaunted, he drank on.

In any case, once we were safely on the ground in Houston, we stayed with our friends Brett and Rhoda and their adorable cow, Esau. Interestingly, they kept referring to Esau as a dog but since we all know dogs must be able to be carried under one arm or stuffed in your purse, I can only conclude this near 100 pound beast must have been a cow. A friendly, really cute, well-trained cow but a cow none-the-less.

We had a great time with all of them…although some of you may pity Brett since he spent an unbelievable amount of time driving Eric and I around Houston. He even agreed to take us an hour away to the National Museum of Funeral History.

And believe it or not, there wasn’t a huge crowd at this museum…we didn’t have to stand in line or anything! We got right in and were immediately to peruse the GIFT SHOP which featured items like “Death Salsa” and “Chocolate Coffins” and T-Shirts that read “Any day above ground is a good day.”

You know, it’s a little challenging to discover a place that I find too tacky for words but this place definitely qualified…although that didn’t stop us from hysterically giggling as we pointed out typing in the different displays and taking a few photos of questionable taste.

NASA was the next stop in our little journey (from death to the moon in one day!) but we decided that we needed some liquid refreshment before going any further so we tried to find any place that sold vodka.

This, unbelievably, was a much more difficult task than one might imagine.

Eric and I kept pointing out little gas stations etc to Brett (I’m sure THAT wasn’t annoying at all) but none of them carried package liquor. You could buy individual cold cans of beer but no vodka, what’s that about? Even the skeevy little gas station in the hood that we stopped at only had beer.

It’s interesting to note that I didn’t even realize we were in the hood until I offered to walk from the gas station to the grocery store down the street and Brett suggested it would be safer to get in the car. Apparently any place with an unlicensed portable taco stand outside is a little “sketchy.”

The “safe” place we stopped at next had bars on the window…I have a feeling I wouldn’t survive long on my own in Houston.

In any case, once properly fortified, we headed on to NASA. The first thing we did there was take a tour of the astronaut training facility…actually, the first thing we did was get in line to take a tour. A line which was moving slower than a turtle on valium because everyone had to stop and have their picture taking before going on one of the tours. According to the signs, this was for security reasons.

Which made me decide that if the only thing standing between me and a terrorist attack is a cheesy picture of Eric, Brett and I in front of an even cheesier space background, I should pack up some survival gear and head for Montana because this country is DOOMED.

Then, they sold these security photos at the end of the tour for twenty bucks apiece…wouldn’t a terrorist just BUY his photo back if he wanted to be undetected?

Anyway, it is also interesting to note that Eric had an absolute fit about the wastefulness of this yet was the first to say “Hey, aren‘t we going to buy that?” at the end of the tour.

As far as the tour itself, there were three options: Red, White, or Blue. The Red and Blue lines were insanely long and required an hour to hour and a half wait. The White tour was ready for immediate boarding.

Probably because I could have done the White tour with my parents’ Suburban and a VCR--a little fact that I pointed out six or seven times while on the white tour (of course we weren’t waiting in some hour long line, we were on VACATION!).

The White Tour would probably have been more interesting during the week when they were actually training astronauts at the astronaut training facility. As it was we got to see a bunch of empty rooms and an empty swimming pool that was forty feet deep…which, of course, inspired me to try to incite the other tour members to join in a rousing game of Marco Polo.

Sadly, I had no takers.

Nor was I allowed to see, try-out, or sneak my way into an anti-gravity chamber.

The disappointment is still overwhelming.In any case, we also tried out a space shuttle landing simulator (Eric ended up going so far off course the machine told him he was in a place no man had ever been before. This, from the man giving me airplane advice!), went to the zoo, playing cards, hung out with Brett and Rhoda and generally had a great time. However, this is getting pretty long so I will just end by saying, we had a great time, we’re glad to be back, and we’re still concerned about the security standards in the US.

Not so Neighborly

You know, I have been so caught up in the trials and tribulations of my darling students this year, I had almost forgotten the sublime joy to be found in witnessing a little redneck squabble.
Luckily, though, a fine specimen of the redneck tribe has moved into the house behind mine and, I feel confident, will be providing much entertainment in the months to come.

My first evidence of this was this morning’s comedic episode.

I was out in my backyard, putting up a special anti-squirrel birdfeeder (a trickier task than I realized when I first began) when I heard the unmistakable rumblings of an imminent brawl.
“F*** this!” The woman screamed. “F*** this, and f*** you, and give me back my f***ing Visa. I know you f***ing stole it from my f***ing purse, you hear me, you f***ing thief?”

Since I live a few doors down and I had no trouble distinguishing every beautiful word, I’m pretty sure the f***ing thief heard her loud and clear. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hear his reply but I’m pretty sure it was equally as insulting since about thirty seconds later, a large amount of male clothing was flung out of the back door into the yard.

Clothing that, at the time of this writing, is still decorating their pitiful excuse for a lawn.

The clothing was followed by a furious man who stomped out the door and stormed over to his car (a decidedly un-redneck looking vehicle that I made a mental note to avoid in the future.)

In any case, as the guy was storming out, the woman came skipping around from the front of the house.

Yes, skipping.

Skipping and chanting “You’re not leaving without me!” in a little girl voice that was disturbing on a lot of levels.

If you are thinking that it sounds like the woman had been perhaps been imbibing an alcoholic beverage or two, I would have to say that you are one hundred percent correct. While I am never one to judge (ha ha), I would like to point out the following things that I found disturbing:

A. It was NINE-THIRTY in the morning. I mean, seriously! Who, other than a RAGING ALCOHOLIC is so drunk at NINE-THIRTY that they skip around the yard? (I considered leaning over my fence and sharing this little tidbit but my expertise at Conflict Mediation led me to believe it might have been counter-productive.)

B. The woman outweighs me by an easy fifty pounds yet had no trouble skipping around in Daisy Duke shorts that I couldn’t have gotten on my left leg. In addition, she was wearing a tank top that would have been snug on my five-year-old niece.

For those of you who remember the horrible years that I lived in Cincinnati, let me assure you, the sight was frighteningly reminiscent of the obese alcoholic who set my apartment building on fire and had to be dragged out bare-ass naked.

Anyway, the woman continued skipping around, blocking the man’s exit, at which point he threatened to call the police.

Which, of course, started the oh-so entertaining back and forth repartee that consisted of “You can’t call the police, I’m calling the police! No, I am! No, I am!”

I considered yelling “If you don’t shut up, I’M CALLING THE POLICE, YOU RIDICULOUS REDNECKS!” but again decided it would be counter-productive. After all, I didn’t want to give the two of them a common enemy upon whom to vent their drunken rage.

As the neighborhood expert in Conflict Mediation I, of course, also considered popping over the fence and offering my services but before I could react, the drunken woman pushed the old man out of the way, flung herself in the car, and locked him out.

Ahhh, sweet victory.

I honestly have no idea how long she stayed in the car because as soon as the man started beating on the window in a rage, my ridiculous animal woke up and his finely honed guard dog skills kicked in, which caused him to start barking at the top of his tiny little lungs.
This, of course, threw both the drunks a little off. The man actually jumped a foot and began looking all around for some vicious killer dog.

At which point, I was completely overcome by a bout of hysterical laughter. And since I doubted the rednecks were in the mood to appreciate humor at their own expense, I grabbed my little mongrel and fled to the house.

So, as I said, I don’t know who finally won the Battle of the Buick. All I know for sure is that the car is gone, the clothes are still in the yard, and this is probably not the last I’ll hear from these fabulous new neighbors.

Wildlife in the Walls

Wildlife in the Walls…Part 2

While some of you have been busy mocking my pain, greeting my critter conundrum with a cacophony of catcalls and caustic comments—not to mention a plethora of pitiful pictures—others have been kind enough in express sympathy for my situation and inquire about all the ways I’ve been battling the burrowing beast.

This update is for you.

To be honest, dealing with the monster has not been easy.  Especially since I spent the weekend making one of the classic blunders.  Yes, once again I decided to do research on the Internet.  This is not something that ever turns out well.  The Internet is not, surprisingly enough, filled with stories of how the sweet cuddly raccoon inadvertently found its way into the wall and then, once it realized its mistake, wandered out again.

The Internet is filled with information like “can grow up to 30 pounds” or “distantly related to BEARS” or “vicious when cornered” or my personal favorite “common rabies-carrier.”

Then I came upon an article from August 2006 in USA Today that was titled (I swear this is true!):

Psycho Killer Raccoons Terrorize Olympia

That’s when I decided to stop researching on the Internet…largely due to the fact that it is difficult to do research on the Internet while imagining psycho killer raccoons lurking in my walls, waiting to pounce on me in my sleep and rip out my throat.

Do you get the feeling that I didn’t get an incredible amount of sleep this weekend?  Well, you’re right.  I didn’t.

Which is annoying because I usually have no trouble sleeping.  I usually sleep like a freaking baby. I sleep like the dead.  I can sleep through thunderstorms, tornado warnings, phone calls… I can even sleep through small dogs barking and whining and burying things in my bed.

But I can’t sleep through the sounds – real or imaginary—of raccoons in the walls.

And you know what else?

I don’t handle sleep deprivation well…a fact well evidenced by my recent trip to Ace Hardware to buy spackle.  See, when I was in mid search for the rotten raccoons, I noticed that there was a hole in the drywall above the fireplace.  And since this is the same wall where the raccoon first made its presence known, I thought I should close it up before it forced its way into the main part of my home (how the raccoon was going to squeeze its 30 pound body through a dime-sized hole is unclear, even to me, but that didn’t stop me from working up a pretty good panic about it).  So off I went to Ace Hardware and some spackle.

Except in my exhaustion, I couldn’t remember the word spackle.  So I went to the front checkout, said I had a hole in the wall and then started a full blown game of charades in which I acted out my version of spackling.

It was pretty impressive, let me assure you.

The clerk, oddly unimpressed, raised her eyebrows and said “Spackle?”  in that voice most people save for slow children.

“Spackle!”  I agreed.

And suddenly, inexplicably fell in love with the word spackle and began repeating it over and over.  Different tones, different inflections, even a few different accents.  In fact, I had just started rhyming it with other words—I’d really like to tackle the spackle—when the clerk said “AISLE ONE!”  like I was some sort of dangerous lunatic.

Unfazed, I went over, grabbed the spackle (so fast I could hear the wrapper crackle!) and returned to the cash register.

At this point I kind of started to realize how weird this poor woman probably thought I was and I decided to explain.  I meant to say something like “Please excuse my strange behavior but I’m really tired.  In addition, I’ve been under a great deal of strain because a wild raccoon has dug its way into my walls and is now possibly living in the attic.”

Instead, I looked the woman dead in the eye and said “I have a raccoon.”

That’s it.

Just “I have a raccoon.”

Like I had it in my purse or something….which is probably why she said “OK, then.” And practically threw my bag of spackle at me before hurrying to the other end of the store.

In any case, I went home, tackled the spackle then set about trying to convince the raccoon that my home is not a wild life refuge.

How does one do this, you might ask?  Well, I could have gotten the exterminator guy back in here with his traps but I didn’t want to do that because:

A.                 The guy actually suggested I stick my hand in a wild raccoon hole

B.                 They kill the poor thing and that messes up my karma.

C.           They charge something like $400 for 3 days of traps WHETHER THEY CATCH THE DAMN THING OR NOT.

Call me cheap, but I thought I’d see if I could handle this by myself.  So, I tried to figure out where the monster has made its home and then basically flooded the area with light and sound.  So, I have spent the past few days with every light in the house on, the patio light shining on the hole, the radio playing at full volume while I beat a broom handle on the walls and the attic door and all the vents and the hole itself.

I don’t know how the raccoon felt but I can assure you that there are a few small dogs who wish they lived somewhere else.

It is interesting to note that when I mentioned my little adventures around the raccoon hole at work this week my friend and colleague Denise F said (and this IS a direct quote):  “You should pee on it.”

Like I’m going to go outside and urinate all over the yard.  THEY ARREST PEOPLE FOR THAT, DENISE!

Anyway, in the midst of all this, I realized that unless I actually saw the raccoon leave, I would have no way of knowing for sure if I had scared the little monster off.  So in a flash of brilliance I decided to cover the hole with plastic.  If the plastic got ripped through, I would know the rotten little monster was still running in and out of the house.  If it remained intact, I'd know I was safe.  However that little chore isn't as easy as it sounds because every time I heard so much as a leaf blow across the sidewalk, I freaked out and jumped about a foot in the air, preparing to fend off a psycho killer raccoon attack.

And you know what I realized when I finished?

Nothing says class like duct tape.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that even without resorting to indecent exposure and public urination, it looks as if the beast has left.  The plastic has been undisturbed and today my handyman came over, ripped out all the old siding and insulation, and actually found the nest.

And you know what he said?  “Wow, was it big!”  Convincing me that I not only had a psycho killer raccoon living in the walls but it was some sort of mutant freak hulk sized raccoon to boot.

I’m lucky to be alive.

Anyway, the handyman is now sealing every possible crevice in the building and I should be raccoon free from this point on.

WIldlife in the Walls

So, as many of you know, I have been battling the woodland creatures that have decided to make their home in my home.  I initially thought they were in the chimney but after hysterical investigation (not at all helped by the mongrel hounds) I realized the chimney was vermin free.  The vermin, you see, were actually in the walls.

Which gave me horrible images of that stupid yet disturbing movie The People Under The Stairs with the bizarre incestuous brother and sister and all the kids trapped in the walls.

In any case, I thought I had finally gotten rid of the evil beasts a week or so ago when I had all the siding ripped off one side of the house and completely replaced.

I had, you see, misunderstood the tenacity and inherent malevolence of the woodland fiends.

See, yesterday morning I heard them scrabbling about on the other side of the fireplace…chittering and chattering to each other, scratching on the wall and otherwise freaking me and the mongrels out.

Though in a noble effort to keep the house from becoming a paradise for parasites and other pernicious pests, Peek ran across the room and began clawing at the wall, barking and otherwise threatening the creatures.

The creatures were not, unfortunately, impressed.  In fact, I’m pretty sure I could hear them in the wall, laughing and taunting us without mercy.

And then, when I took a quick look outside to see if I could figure out what was going on, I noticed a huge hole in the side of my house.

Huge.

Like almost 10 inches high and 4 inches across with insulation and other housing materials hanging out.

Like some horrible wild animal had clawed its way inside.

So, I grabbed my flashlight, went outside, peered inside then reached in the hole and---

Yah, right.  I stuck my hand in the hole.  I reached inside a wild animal’s lair and started fishing around.  That’s what I did. Then, just for kicks, I got in my car and tried to see how far I could drive with my eyes closed. 

You know me, I just like to live on the edge.

However, it is interesting to note that last night when the vermin removal specialist arrived and looked at the hole, that’s exactly what he asked.  “Did you try reaching inside?”  He asked.

“No,” I replied.  “I was going to but I didn’t want to put down my crack pipe.”

At which point he made a lot of observations that I would like to categorize as HIGHLY DISTURBING.  For example:

1.      I’m not sure what it is but it’s definitely big.

2.      Look at those claw marks!

3.      Wow, that’s really gotta be big.

4.      I’ve just never seen anything like it.

5.      It could be a raccoon or a possum but it has to be a big one.

6.      Seems like there’s gotta be more than one in there…maybe a mama and some babies.

7.      Boy, I hope it’s not a mama raccoon; they sure are mean when they’re protecting their babies.

8.      I mean, we are talking about a BIG animal here.

Which is when I pretty much begged him to stop talking.

The most disturbing thing he said was that although he’s sure he can trap the beast, due to state laws about dealing with dangerous animals, he can’t come back with traps until Monday.

Yes, he actually said the words DANGEROUS ANIMALS.

A phrase I’m pretty sure he regretted almost immediately since I started saying things like “Are you trying to make me cry here?  Because I have no trouble crying, if that’s what you’re after.”

Judging by the fervency of his apology, that’s not what he was after.

He did come in and investigate the fireplace and the rest of the house to make sure there was no access for the animals but if I were you people, I would plan on hysterical phone calls and long winded complaints from me for the rest of the weekend.

Be afraid.

I Might Be A Redneck

WHAT A WEEKEND!!!!

I spent this weekend on The Current River with a group of friends from Quincy---the group gets smaller every year, I can’t figure out why. I’m sure my shenanigans have nothing to do with it.

But make no mistake; there were shenanigans. There were shenanigans, there was brouhaha, there was hullabaloo…there was no hanky and no panky but there were many moments when I asked myself “When did I actually become redneck, hoosier, white trash?”

At least I was not alone; my friends were equally as trashy…but we worked our way up to it…see, since we all live in different places, we were supposed to meet at the Current River. Unfortunately, after I got my whole car loaded and ready to go, it wouldn’t start---and no amount of cussing, kicking or crying made a damn bit of difference. I called just about everyone I could think of to come and start this ridiculous car but nothing worked. So, I called my friends back home and said I wasn’t going to be able to go. They packed quickly, hopped in their car and drove an hour and a half out of their way to take me down to the river.

This was the one and only uplifting moment of the whole trip.

Most of the rest of the drive was filled with people (not me) spitting chicken bones out the window, blaming flatulence on other passengers, and the designated driver screaming things like “You drunk idiots, I will turn this car around!!”

So we got to our campsite and had to set up in the dark. Ever see a bunch of drunk morons trying to set up camp in the dark? Plus the only person not drinking (the driver) was a little annoyed with us and shouted many things that could be interpreted as instructions but weren’t all anatomically possible.

But we made it and got on the river bright and early the next morning. We all brought breakfast to eat on the run but I have to say my orange jello shots were the biggest hit….

Vodka; it’s not just for breakfast anymore.

I think the moment that I realized all of my friends were redneck hoosier white trash was when my friends Henry and Julie tipped their canoe and all of us—including Henry—frantically saved the beer and left Julie floundering in the river.

I think the moment I realized I personally was acting like redneck hoosier white trash was when Henry tried three times to grab a Jello shot, missed and I got frustrated, grabbed a handful and threw them in his mouth yelling “Oh for the love of heaven, let me do it you weak--handed bastard!”

This doesn’t seem so bad unless you realize that Henry only has one hand.

In my defense, Henry did think this was one of the funniest things he’d ever heard. He laughed so hard he dropped his paddle and almost fell out of his canoe.

The people sailing by, on the other hand, looked at me like I was, well, the biggest example of redneck hoosier white trash that they’d ever seen--especially after Henry dropped his paddle and I yelled “Hook it, Henry, hook it!”

It was a new low….I’m so ashamed.

The next time I tipped, however, Henry thought it was funny to scream “Two hands aren’t helping you now, are they???”

After all this excitement, I did decide that a nap might be in order and I realized that if I hooked my legs around the side of the canoe and slid my paddle between the cross bars, I could actually lie down and have a nice little snooze as we floated down the river…I asked my canoe partner if I could use his paddle to further balance my head and he said “Don’t you think at least ONE OF US should paddle?”

I think there was some sort of criticism implied in this remark but I chose not to think about it too hard…

There are further stories, many of them worse, but I am out of time. I will end by saying car trouble sucks, my friends are great, and alcohol is the devil….