Sunday, November 30, 2014

HELL, ME? NO PROBLEM, I'VE GOT A RESERVATION!



This actually happened, the names have been changed to protect the guilty.





It was a pretty Sunday and I didn't go to church. I'd started maybe a month earlier. That afternoon I got a call from one of the members.

"Mr Sweet, this is Front Pewzilla. We didn't see you in church today?"

Now, some of you that know me, or have read me, are aware that I am already revving up the restraint.

"Hi, Mrs. Pewzilla, I'm sorry, one of those mornings."

"Well, will we see y'all next Sunday?"

"We'll try."
 "You'll have to do more than try, Mr. Sweet."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Okay, I'm off the phone now and quite proud that I had maintained my cool. 

Next Sunday came and I was sitting outside, dressed for church, I'm thinking it was around eight am. I went inside to get the phone.

"Hello," I answered agreeably."

"So, Mr Sweet, are y'all going to be in Church this morning?"

It's a good thing I had not buttoned my top shirt button and tightened my tie. I expect my head would have exploded.

"No, Mrs. Pewzilla, I'm thinking I will be watching the Cowboys and drinkin' a few beers."

There was silence and fear entered my heart. What if I'd given her a coronary?

The quiet was short lived. "You know you're going to hell, don't you?"

Coronary be damned. "Don't worry, Ma'am, I've got a reservation. You on the other hand will have to stand."

I hung up and changed out of from my Sunday go to meetin' clothes.

Thank Jesus for forgiveness, because the smile on my face had to be a sin.






Sunday, November 16, 2014

Police called for exhibitionist next door.

This is an old one folks:

The police arrived at the ladies house and followed her to her laundry room.

"Right next door. The man's in his bathroom,fully naked."

The two officers looked out the wash room's window. Next door was indeed a man who appeared to be shaving in his bathroom.

One of them turned to her. "Ma'am, all I can see of him is from the shoulders up."

She gave them a look of consternation, then moved a stepladder in front of the window. "Here, climb up on this and you can see all of him."

Saturday, November 15, 2014

HAVE YOU READ SOME DREW TODAY?

TWO NOVELS-TWO SHORT STORIES



 http://tinyurl.com/m5qy96t


http://tinyurl.com/ndcl75h





















































                                                                                                                                  






















                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Posting comments on my blog...try now...fingers crossed that I have it fixed.

Seems most that want to comment on my blog are having difficulty. Spent some time researching on the help forum and I think I have it set. Anyone should be able to post without a problem. Give it a try and let me know.

Happy Veterans Day!

For our freedoms, let us not take them for granted. Dear blood bought these rights that are so often touted as an entitlement. 






I was so young, but I was a husband and I was a father. New to both and particularly new to this military life which had been thrust upon me. I noted in an earlier blog that I was one of those...the last group, I believe, to receive that 'infamous letter' in which the first line said ''Greetings". Now, in the words of the song, "it wasn't me that started that ole crazy Asian war, but I was proud to go and do my patriotic chore." Proud, well that would be a stretch at the time. Scared sh!@less would have been more accurate. Nevertheless, I did it and looking back I wouldn't have missed it and I am proud.

I did my service in the Military District of Washington. Just imagine! But, that is another story.

Fort Ord, California is where I did my basic training. And the day had arrived. We were going to throw our two live grenades.

Wow, what boy in his childhood had not played army and hadn't thrown some make believe grenade.

Okay, I admit, really tossing one of those bad boys is a little intimidating.

The range had a concrete wall from which we would toss our implements of destruction. We were given detailed instructions which I paid close attention to, particularly the part about not releasing the clip once you pull the pin. No second chances here. We were told the unfortunate incident, where a trainee pulled the pin and released the clip...thought oops, I guess, and pressed it back, then taking a throwing stance with the grenade in is hand, next to his ear, and well, you know the rest of the story.

So, there I was, grenade in hand, ready to send it spiraling like Staubach zipped a football. 

Textbook I thought, as I stooped below the wall. (I mentioned the training, did I mention we were suppose to assume a prone position following the toss?) We were and the drill instructor emphasized this forgotten detail with a blow, from his massive forearm to the back of my neck.

I, of course was read the riot act. I wanted to say...hell, the wall is four feet high. Why go all the way to the ground. The thought that on the field of battle, there might not be a four feet concrete wall didn't occur to me at the time. What I did say was "Yes, Drill Instructor!"

Second Grenade, same as the first, and I proudly went to the ground, full prone, snappy, like I meant it.

In the drill instructor's way.

He was yelling at me the whole time, as I ran around the viewing bunker. Once there, one of my comrades said, "Hey Sweet (for those of you who don't know, Drew Adams is my pen name. My given name is Andy Sweet) come check this out. 

They had periscopes back there. I peeked in one. The drill Sgt. was still jumping up and down, filling the air with expletives.

I want to thank this man, whoever he is, or was. At this age I can appreciate the job he did and the real danger he faced daily, trying to teach knuckleheads like me.

Also I'd like the thank all the instructors who teach and train our soldiers. They are most often the reason our loved ones return to us.

Happy Veterans day.



Saturday, November 1, 2014

A WRITER?

I'm not sure how old I was, but for a clue there is the fact that I had not yet learned to write in cursive. You guys remember that? Our educators spend considerable time teaching us to print, then one day they say. "Hey, we're not gonna do that anymore. Let's try this." Back to the memory. I wanted an office. I cleaned out my side of the closet, a feat I accomplished, I'm sure, by tossing its contents out onto the floor. Then, I said "MOM!" Ah, the miracle worker appears and I inform her I must have a desk for my new office. She brings me a box which we turn upside down. Presto, I have a desk. Paper and pencil came next and did I mention I hadn't learned cursive yet? Printing is tedious and I have no patience for it, so I just scroll loops...sort of like cursive l s or e s, which I string across the page in unbroken prose. This probably occupied me for all of ten minutes, but the seed had been planted.

I think writing must start with reading. Many moons ago, probably kindergarten, there was the reading hour, I expect, just before napping hour. The teacher would read from a book. I loved it. A couple of years later I came across one of my favorites she'd read and stuck my own nose in a book. I tried to find out who wrote it, but failed. The book was titled "Chris" and was about a boy who earned money hunting crows and other animals that bounties were paid for. You see, at the time this book was written some animals were considered pest. The animals, not the boy. Mom (you know, the miracle worker) noticed me reading and that lead to Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, Tom Swift SR. and Tom Swift JR. and so on. Let's not forget comic books.

So I became a reader. When did I become a writer? Fifth grade, maybe fourth,we were assigned an essay to write. The idea of writing something intrigued me. At home I began constructing my masterpiece. I remember little of it, except it compared forests to cities, and the woodland creatures to city dwellers. I turned it in and waited breathlessly for my review.

F- COPIED!

There must be some mistake, I thought. After my fellow students had filed out of the classroom, I confronted her. She seemed perturbed that I would question her judgement. "I just don't believe you wrote this. I showed it to other teachers and they agreed someone your age couldn't have written it."

She showed it? I'm already thinking like a writer. That elation lasted only seconds. I wasn't old enough to realize my very character was being assaulted, but I knew it was bad. "Do you mean I read it somewhere?" I asked.

She sighed and gave me a stern look. "I mean, you didn't write it."

So there it was, branded a plagiarist and I didn't even know what that meant. I took the paper home and handed it to mom. We had some pretty good storms in Texas, but I'd never seen anything like her reaction to the ugly red F-COPIED. (I have another blog about the 'Power of Mama' you might want to check out.)

I wasn't privy to their meeting, but the paper was regraded, the F-COPIED removed and replaced with an A. I think someone else graded it though, because for the rest of the year I received nothing but the evil eye from that teacher.

So, was I a writer then? No, but the seed now had sprouted.

I think the first time I considered MYSELF a writer was when I read something I'd written, and it read like I hadn't tried to write it. Some of you will relate to this, for the rest, I cannot explain it further. Am I a good one. Who decides this? Certainly not me, for I am far to biased. I'd like to think I am, but ultimately it's in the hands of the reader. Where it began.