I've decided that what's good for John Boy is good for me. I've taken up smoking (my pen) while I surf the internet. I like to hold pens (in case I need to take notes?) while I work on the computer, which of course makes about as much sense as smoking said pen. But maybe this black sharpie isn't the wisest choice. It is hard to explain marker mouth.
Fire Station field trip this morning. Fireman Brad(name changed to protect his identity), the "Mr. Rogers of the station" sat all the kids down and told them a story about his diminutive, mealy-mouthed 3rd grade teacher named Mrs. Black who grew tired of talkative boys and finally flew off the handle. He scared the crud out the kids at the conclusion of the story by quoting her screams of "SHUT UP!"
From this the children were supposed to understand that they should be quiet during the fire safety discussion to follow. Unfortunately, the fire safety discussion that followed, even with the inventive hand motions, was like many fire safety discussions, and did not titillate the children like the mild cursing that had preceded it. "SHHH," he warned. "Do you need to hear the Mrs. Black story again?" "YES!" they all screamed eagerly in unison.
I don't remember Mr. Rogers ever telling children to shut up and not play with matches. It seems more tough-love Dr. Phil, than be-my-neighbor Mr. Rogers.
I need to give Fireman Brad some credit, though. He didn't just show us the kitchen and the big screen TV, then leave us to ogle the ladder truck. He got down on the floor and tried. I think the kids learned something.
Maybe I am harboring bad feelings. When Sam went up to demonstrate the STOP, DROP, and ROLL, the fireman asked "What is your name?" Sam told him. Brad continues: "Okay, he... is it he...? She...? HMMM... Is going to show us how to roll." Poor Sam, saddled by his Mother with androgynous hair and name. Too bad. I'm not cutting the curls over just one comment by Brad-the-scare-tactic-fireman.
Yesterday I went to the cannery. I go every month to fill orders for food storage for my ward. I like it there. Everybody is working hard. Filling orders, filling cans, canning cans. Rice to...here, weigh it...here, labels...here. It feels like a hive of sweaty worker bees. The poster bees for the hive on the seal of the great state of Deseret. I can imagine Brigham Young smiling down on our industry, even if he is a little sad that chunks of modern day Nevada, Arizona, Oregon, Myoming, Colorado and New Mexico got cut from the proposed state. I hope he feels some vindication. Utah kept his bees.
There are all kinds of safety and health rules to follow at the cannery: wear closed-toed shoes, take off your pretty jewels, don't put your hand under there or you will lose two fingers like that other poor guy. Everybody is all dressed up: gloves (blue surgical style) and hats (hairnets) for all the ladies and gentleman. Yesterday I got to wear the fluorescent vest for the last hour. The vest is normally worn only by the Stake leader, and I will admit that the power went to my head a little. I felt a little royal, almost like the queen bee. Until I glanced in a mirror, and noticed I looked like a school crossing guard/cafeteria worker.
But in a hot way.