Confessions of a Defiant Mule

It started off as an annual trip to Georgia. The plan was to spend a week with my sister and my Dad. I had already enjoyed baseball game at Turner Field. Chipper Jones, Brian McCann, and Dan Uggla tried their noblest since Jason Heyward was on 15 day disability. Alas, they lost to the Cincinnati Reds that night. That’s OK. A bad game at Turner Field is still better than a good day at my cubicle. I even helped my brother in law renovate my Dad’s room. Between pulling up carpet and making multiple trips to the neighborhood pool, I had a lot of quality time with my brother in law that I truly enjoyed. It was a great week of diversion and respite.

Unfortunately, such trips often cause some very old addictions to resurface. I had hoped that I would be able to keep most of these addictions under control. Yet, there I was taking 48 individual wrapped 1 ounce packages and dividing them between two large zippered plastic bags so that I could take them back to New York in my luggage. I was doing fine until one of the individual packages ripped. The precious, grainy, substance spilled onto the floor. I had travelled far for this stuff. Nonetheless, I decided to take the single ounce loss and vacuumed it up. I sat there pondering on what just happened. I asked myself: “Self, how did I get to this point.”

I suppose it all started back in 1988 when I first relocated to Western New York. It was a bit of a cultural adjustment at first but I was handling it well. At least, I thought I was handling it well. I was browsing through a local grocery store and missing my home state. I figured I could fix myself a simple meal to remind myself of home and lift my mood. I went down the breakfast aisle and viewed the different items: cereal, oatmeal, farina (YUCK!). I then thought I was getting closer to what I wanted. I found a nice cylindrical canister of grits. I then looked at the boxes of instant grits and nearly wept. They had butter flavor and original and THAT’S ALL. There was no bacon bits flavor. There was no country ham flavor. To add further insult to injury, there was NOT ONE SINGLE, SOLITARY CHEESE FLAVOR. I approached the store manager about this. As soon at he heard me say grits, I had clearly lost him. I drove to store after store after store all with the same results: original and butter flavor and THAT’S ALL. I then came to the conclusion that President Grant MUST have written some law during the Reconstruction period that made such varieties of instant grits illegal north of the Mason-Dixon line.

I tried to find a way to right this grievous wrong (at least in my own home). It started with me calling my Momma and asking her to send some in a plain brown package from Georgia. I often made these requests from a payphone in case my conversations were being tapped by the FBI (Farina for Breakfast Investigators). It ultimately escalated to the point where I was even making long distance trades with friends and family members. My wife even made a deal with a sister of hers in Florida. Her sister would send instant grits from Florida for a variety of pasta that is apparently illegal there (Curse you, Ulysses Simpson Grant). I almost feel ashamed for bringing my wife into my addictions. I say almost because my wife loves grits as much as I do (bless her beautiful heart).

I now had the incident of the aforementioned package ripping behind me. I had made it through the security checkpoint in Atlanta and was now back in Rochester. I felt sort of like Johnny Depp in the movie “Blow”. I picked up my suitcase from the carousel and tried to think of something. I tried to think of my kids’ birthdays or something festive like that. I actually transcended myself to that place if you will. I tried to think about anything except what could happen to me if I get caught with the 47 ounces of instant ground hominy in my suitcase. I began to walk out of the airport. I was stopped by a government official with a badge. He was a Farina for Breakfast Investigator. I was surrounded by four other investigators. They had caught me dead to rights. I was busted. I looked at the investigator and asked “Parlay?”. The eyes of the investigators were wide with frustration. “We have to let him go” said the lead investigator. Another protested: “But he’s referencing the WRONG MOVIE!”. I walked away with my victory, my suitcase, and my grits. I thumbed my nose at the Anti-Grits government conspiracy. And I must confess, if it means I get to exercise my God given right to more variety of instant grits in my Western New York home, I’LL DO IT AGAIN!!

Comma, Come Here (Please).

As a writer, I always find it particularly pleasing to learn something new as I am seeking to amuse myself and my readers. I found myself musing over some pet peeves of punctuation and grammar. For example, I detest the use of quotation marks for emphasis. For example, you walk into a thrift store and you see a handcrafted sign that reads: ALL SALES ARE "AS IS" WITH "NO IMPLIED WARRANTY". This implies that the terms of the sale could be left to interpretation. Apparently, the cost of ink is great to underline words than to encase them in quotes. Our country has an undesirable unemployment rate and there are a lot of folks seeking work. In spite of this we have folks throwing around quotation marks willy-nilly and forcing them to work outside of their job description. Anyway, I digress.


Given that it was my day off from work and I had no homework to do, I did some Internet surfing about punctuation. I ran across the name of a great man — Aldus Manutius (circa 1450 – 1515 A.D). Aldus Manutius the Elder made some great innovations in writing that we now take for granted. Manutius the Elder invented the use of italics in writing. This can be a great tool of emphasis or aside information when used correctly (unlike those poor quotation marks). Manutius the Elder also established the modern use of the semi-colon. More significantly he produced what was then known as octavo book (one-eighth size paper). This allowed books to be carried in one's pocket or satchel. That's right, folks. Manutius the Elder created what we know as the paperback or pocketbook.


You may wonder what lead me to start this Internet search in the first place. Some might suggest that it could be one of the three following reasons: a) I was looking to expand my knowledge. b) My warped mind took me onto a new adventure. c) I was incredibly bored and my wife was hogging the television. Mind you, all three scenarios were a factor but the third was probably the greatest motivator. It all started very simply. My wife had to draft a 300 word essay for entrance into a college program. At first, she asked for my assistance as she was unsure that she could pound out 300 words. I found this laughable. A diplomatic person would say that my lovely wife is blessed with the gift of loquacity. I would quote the late Jerry Clower and suggest that my lovely wife "sure can shell down the corn". The point is that 300 words would not be a problem.


As I reviewed her essay, I corrected some spelling here and suggested some rewording there. I then noticed something very distinct. I have also reviewed a lot of essays for our daughter Brianna. However, Brianna and my lovely wife Renee are very different in the way that they handle one lone item; the comma. My wife, Renee, tends to insert commas here, there, and, everywhere with such reckless abandon, that is only rivaled by, the aforementioned quotation mark in its use. My daughter Brianna on the other hands writes gloriously long run-on sentences that are four feet long five feet wide and could pierce the engine block on an eighteen wheeler. I do not wish to come across like I am insulting either my daughter or my wife. Both have been known to prepare my meals. In addition, Brianna proofreads my essays before I post them to my blog site. I merely found this distinction between mother and daughter very intriguing. Therefore, I searched for the comma and found Aldus Manutius the Elder. Thank you Elder Manutius for all you have done.


I will submit a disclaimer here as well. I do not mean to suggest that I am an authority on punctuation or grammar. Several of my online friends are teachers (two of them are MY former English teachers). Instead, I will suggest that you turn to the writers' works below. I have no endorsement deal with any of these folks. I don't make a royalty nor do I get an autographed copy of their work (Mind you, I would never be so rude as to refuse such a gesture).

• Lynn Truss – Author of Eats, Shoots & Leaves; a great book that provides an accurate tongue in cheek guide on proper punctuation. http://www.lynnetruss.com/
  
• Mignon Fogarty aka Grammar Girl – I am a huge fan of the Grammar Girl podcasts and highly recommend Grammar Girl's Quick and Dirty Tips for Better Writing
  http://grammar.quickanddirtytips.com/
  
• Bonnie Trenga – Author of The Curious Case of the Misplaced Modifier: How to Solve the Mysteries of Weak Writing I bought this book for my daughter to help with her writing. http://sentencesleuth.blogspot.com/
  

I would also like to apologize to any of the above three writers for any implication that I have learned NOTHING from any of you.

When Do I Say “FORE!”?

I spent a WONDERFUL 4^th of July with my family. Every year we go to a sports park that is owned by our local church. The day is spent enjoying all kinds of great activities: inflatables, lawn games, a baseball pitching range, and face painting. This is in addition to all the concession food you can eat (everything was a buck apiece) and one of the most phenomenal fireworks displays ever seen.

In another recent event, my wife and I renewed our wedding vows in a mass ceremony the previous week. Due to this, I told my wife that as "newlyweds" we need to be a bit spontaneous and try something we normally wouldn't. That's right folks, right there on the 4^th of July, me and the missus headed straight for the lawn games. There were two games to choose from: bocce and croquet. Wifey and I decided to play croquet.

A very nice man approached us. He was in charge of coordinating guests who wanted to play croquet. He asked if either of us had played before. We explained that it had been since childhood for both of us. We asked if he just walk us through it as if we knew nothing about it (pretty close to the truth anyway). He kindly replied: "Well, you folks are probably used to playing nine-wicket croquet. This field is set up for six-wicket croquet. I'll explain it to you". This man then proceeded to spit out more words than a dictionary in a wood chipper. To his credit, he explained the rules and object of the game with eloquence and clear authority on the subject. My wife and I stood there, holding hands, trying to hide our deer-in-the-headlights feeling that had overcome us both. We both nodded our heads to properly feign complete understanding of what this fine gentleman had just explained to us. My lovely queen and I did our best to piece together his instructions. We also took pointers from another couple who already had a game in play. At game's end, my wife and I both had a great time. We then went to get our faces painted because; after all, we're newlyweds.

After leaving the lawn games, my mind got very curious about the origins of the game. You, my dear reader, are about to experience the origin and rules of croquet as I understand them. Please feel free to take notes. I know it is a common tactic for many to trust but verify. As a winner of many a trivia game, I can assure I can be trusted with this information.

Croquet was originally pronounced "KROK-et". That is because the game was named after the King of the Wild Frontier himself: Davey Crockett. It seems that when Crockett wasn't fightin' single handed through many a war and fixin' the crack in the Liberty Bell, he would passed the time playing a game he devised himself. Crockett would stand in his field and hit a boulder with a sledgehammer. The object was to make the boulder pass underneath the openings in his fence. This was any easy task for a man who killed a bear at the tender age of three. After all, Davey Crockett was a man. He was a BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIG man. Wait a minute. Sorry, THAT was someone else.

After the Louisiana Purchase, the Marquis de Lafayette was rather intrigued by the frontier game. Due to Lafayette misspelling (and mispronouncing) Crockett's name, the game was changed to croquet (pronounced "krow-KAY"). The name loosely translates as "sledgehammer golf". Also, Lafayette Incorporated the use of smaller spherical balls. He also created small arches which were driven into the ground. After all, Lafayette did not kill a bear at three years old. It's quite possible Lafayette NEVER killed a bear but I digress. Lafayette then struck a stick into the ground in the center of the play area in order to lean against it while his opponents were playing. Unfortunately, any given player's trajectory would eventually hit the stick. Lafayette eventually gave up and just made the stick a part of the game. Lafayette then painted the stick to look like a barber pole. Thus, the tradition was born for player' to get a haircut immediately following the game. This tradition ceased quickly as player's wanted to keep playing the game but were catching a death of cold.

The rules are quite simple. There are several horseshoe thingies driven into the ground. Four of the horseshoe thingies create a large upside down U shape. In the center is the painted, stripy stick. There is also a horseshoe thingy on each side of the painted stripy stick. There are four spherical balls that are painted blue, red, black, and yellow. The balls are played respectively in that order. I don't know why that is. Nonetheless, just work with me please. Using the sledgehammer doo-dad, the player strikes the ball in an attempt to pass through each horseshoe thingy, in order, in the shape of the upside down U. Once you have passed through all four horseshoe thingies in order, you do the same in reverse order until you make you way back to the first horseshoe thingy that started the game. After you do this, you make your way toward going through the two horseshoe thingies in the center. One quick note: be careful when you go to strike the ball with the sledgehammer doo-dad. It is very easy to hit the toes. If this happens, you have to call a toe truck (sorry, I couldn't resist). Once you have gone through the center of all the horseshoe thingies (in order, both ways), you then strike the ball with the sledgehammer doo-dad to hit the painted stripy stick. Apparently, the first player to hit the painted stripy stick with their respective colored spheres wins the match.

So, there you have it, folks: the rules and history of croquet. You may feel free to take the advice of Robert Ripley and "Believe it or not". You may find differing information on the Internet, at the library, or by consulting an actual croquet official. All the same, this is MY story and I'm sticking to it.

[This piece was written with dedication and abject apologies to my US History teachers, the United States Croquet Association, and the memory of Fess Parker]