Christmas Cooking

A friend has put together a cooking show on Facebook, ‘Big Al’s Kitchen’. She makes wonderful goodies and gives step by step directions for do it yourselfers. She’s kept it fairly simple, but it’s probably still a little above my abilities. I noticed, though, that the Christmas video recipes both included a bit of alcohol. It seemed fitting for the year 2020. Christmas spirits could go a long way in improving Christmas spirit. Her creations were made to be gifts and I thought, “What a great idea for spreading Christmas cheer.”

I pulled an old Betty Crocker cook book off the shelf and began perusing. There were so many cookies, candies, breads, cakes and other goodies, I didn’t know where to begin. In the back was an entire section titled ‘Gifts of food’. Perfect. What I learned next was surprising. Years ago, the bleak winters caused even dear Betty to turn to alcohol to deal with the hustle, bustle, and rush of the season. What peaked my interest most though, were the recipes with alcohol were easy. So it began.

Winter cordials were first on the list. I remembered my Grandmother having a cordial in a teeny tiny stemmed glass, no bigger than a thimble. That sounded like fun. A dessert drink to warm a person up on a cold winter’s night. I mixed up three batches; apricot-cherry, cranberry, and coffee. After two weeks, I poured them into cute little bottles and, voila, syrupy goodness with a kick.

After the success of the cordials, I felt it was time to expand my creative and edible Christmas creations. I had some brandy left over from project number one, and, as luck would have it, there was a recipe for ‘Brandy Balls’. It seemed a logical step in the direction of making some of Big Al’s recipes, but still kept me safely away from the stove. They are your basic, no bake cookie. Crushed vanilla wafers, pecans, cocoa, sugar and brandy. Mix it together in little balls, refrigerate, gift…piece of cake.

The mixing part went well. The rolling into little balls is where it started to head south. The consistency of the dough was similar to Elmer’s wood glue and it was just as sticky. I would pick enough dough out of the bowl to create a one inch ball, but I’d end up with industrial strength chocolate adhesive on the ends of my fingers and palms of my hands. I’d carefully place the completed ball in a Tupperware dish and then try to scrape the rest off my hands. I shouldn’t tell you this, since they were gifts, but the most effective way to get it off was to scrape it off with my teeth. I made a few this way, then had an epiphany. I’ll bet if I add more brandy it would be less sticky. I was wrong, but I really didn’t mind, in fact, I was beginning to enjoy it.

By the way, I love chocolate. Not just your average ‘love chocolate’, no, I LOVE chocolate, and this chocolate was starting to taste fantastic. What it needed though, was a little coffee to wash it down. I was too sticky to brew fresh coffee, but I had a bottle of coffee liqueur right in front of me. Close enough. After a couple thimbles full of coffee cordial, I made a tiny cup out of the brandy ball dough. Do any of you remember that bubble gum with the liquid center when we were kids? Freshen-up. Yep, kind of the same sensation. Pretty soon I was just eating the chocolate balls and washing them down.

I tossed back a rather large thimble full of cordial and headed to the piano. I gave the dogs a Christmas concert to remember. Merry Christmas, Darling, A Marshmallow World, Let it Snow, and finally, What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve. Jag was less than impressed and asked if HE could have some brandy.

The net results of my time were four brandy balls, sticky piano keys, and a headache. I don’t think Big Al needs to worry about competition from ‘Kitchen Kapers with Farmer Dan’.

Cell Phones

I’ll start by saying, I have no idea how cell phones, or any technology, for that matter, works. I just know that when I push the correct spots on the face of my phone, I get to talk to someone. I know not the magic that allows it to happen, I’m simply happy and relieved that it works. Some days it’s good magic but some days, it’s a dark, dark magic that makes me say bad words.

Yesterday was one of those days. To clarify, it wasn’t necessarily bad, just annoying. I received four calls from people inquiring about my pickup that I am selling. I’m not selling a pickup. Two believed me, two took a fair amount of convincing to not come and look at my invisible pickup. I received several calls marked “potential spam” and I appreciated my phone carrier greatly for recognizing those and saving me the time and frustration of refusing yet another extended warranty on an automobile I haven’t owned in two years.

I also got three calls from local numbers, which I answered, because I’m trusting and somewhat naïve. Each of these stated that they were returning a call they received from me. Sorry, I don’t call more than two people a day, so I new I hadn’t called three strange numbers. The last guy was great though. After I explained that I had received a couple other calls like his, and several calls to buy a pickup that I didn’t own, he said, “While I got you on the line, do you have a pickup for sale?”

All of this unwanted phone activity reminded me of some cell phone calls and texts I had a few years ago. I don’t know if it’s still the case, but at the time Burlington, Colorado and Hershey, Nebraska must have had the same cell phone prefix, and sometimes, it must not matter what area code you use. I had an on and off relationship with a farm wife from Burlington. I let it last longer than it should have, but she was a prolific and entertaining texter. It started harmlessly enough.

“John Deere called and your tractor is done”

“Great, Thanks”

See, harmless. At the time, I was sitting in my tractor and had no clue what she was talking about. I had no idea who it was from, man or woman, but I suspected it was for one of my brothers and never looked back.

About a week later, I got this.

“Where are you?”

“On the Thompson place”

“No you’re not. You’re on the Johnson place”

“Then why did you ask”

“Don’t be an ass. We don’t have a Thompson place”

“I’ve been here disking all day!”

“You’re planting on Johnson’s. Do you want lunch or not?”

“Sure”

It kind of went downhill from there. She called later.

“Where are you?”

“On the Thompson place”

“Who is this???”

“Dan”

“Where the heck(she didn’t say heck) are you? Do you want your sandwich or not?”

“What kind is it?”

“You’re such a jerk”

At least now I knew that she was married to Farmer Dan from Burlington. I thought it was incredibly ironic that there was a Farmer Dan in Burlington with the same phone number as me. The summer went on and Farmer Dan from Burlington’s wife and I had many short, somewhat terse conversations and exchanged some colorful texts.

The last two went something like this.

“Thanks for not appreciating dinner. I put a lot of effort into it and you said nothing. All you ever talk about is how great a cook your mother is. Don’t bother coming home tonight!” This is very much a paraphrase because Mrs. Farmer Dan from Burlington had a special grasp of the English language, and an extremely cutting way of getting her point across.

I did reply. “Sorry”

The last text I received simply informed me that we were getting a divorce. After three months with her, I can honestly tell you I was relieved. I couldn’t take much more and it didn’t seem to me that there was any way to fix our relationship.

The night she told me of our impending divorce, I had many conflicting feelings. I would miss her texts. They always gave me great enjoyment and an interesting form of entertainment. I wondered if Farmer Dan from Burlington had gotten the news of his upcoming divorce. I truly wished I could tell him the happy news. I couldn’t even imagine the relief he would have felt knowing she was leaving him if she treated him in person the way she treated me on my phone.

Mostly, after the whole experience, I hope and pray that Farmer Dan from Burlington found a lovely girl who appreciates his mother!

Someday It Will Be Funny. Maybe

By 1968, Dad had grown tired of watching crops burn up. He put in an irrigation well, added a CAT engine, and bought a mile of mainline and at least a half mile of sprinkler pipe. By then he had four boys to help him move it. I had just entered the picture, so I wasn’t much help (Thank goodness). With the built in labor force, he earnestly tried to water every inch of ground he could. They laid mainline where ever possible and even carried hand move sprinklers, with the aid of poles, through corn. It’s not hard to figure out why two of my brothers practically disappeared after six years of that.

In 1974, I was mostly a nuisance when it came to moving pipe. I would try to ride the sprinkler joints while Dad and Mom, or one of my brothers carried it the required number of steps, to the next set. There were twenty eight joints, I think, so my brothers got proficient at shaking me off so they didn’t have the extra weight. I did want to be a part of it and at least think I was helping. Dad would have me help move the mainline. I could line the two ends up and hold the clip that held the two together up out of the way while Dad shoved them together.

It was a great Father/Son bonding experience for the most part. The only hiccup we ever had happened on one of those perfect, cool summer evenings. We were putting the mainline back out in the alfalfa. I was lining pipe up, holding the clip up, and saying “shove!” Dad would push them together, I’d clip them, and on to the next pipe we’d go. Line it up, hold up clip, “Shove”, watch in horror as finger disappears between pipe.

It must have felt wrong on his end, because Dad jerked the pipe apart, and I held up my hand. My little finger was kind of hanging beside my hand and I can tell you this, there’s a lot of blood in a six year old’s finger. Dad came running down the pipe, but I was too quick for him. “You cut off my finger!!” It was a very rational reaction from a six year old. “Would you stop! Come here.” “No! I want MOM. You cut off my finger!” The race was on. He yelled at my brother, who seemed to be frozen and watching the excitement from a safe distance, “Would you go get your mother!!” She was a quarter mile away setting out a sprinkler line with another brother. It could have been his fastest 440 ever. Dad finally caught me and wrapped up my finger with his dirty handkerchief. It was the kind of farm triage that builds a healthy immune system.

I tell this story, not because it’s a great story, but because it illustrates how time takes a little of the edge off certain episodes. 2020 has, so far, been a crazy, crappy, shake your head kind of year. My finger looks a little funky forty some years later, and I imagine, 2020 will look a little funky years from now. BUT, it will be a part of our history and it will have molded us and affected us in ways, good or bad. It will be a little like having a scar, that in time heals, but leaves a mark.

Coronavirus Casualty

I’m blaming the weather. Are anyone else’s cows a little nutty this year. I pride myself on calm cows that just stand there while I tag their babies. This year, so far, I’ve had three come after me. Percentage wise, that’s probably not bad, and if you get out of the way, it’s no big deal. Tag them later. Unfortunately today, the third time was a charm.

I had tagged seven calves with no issues. I grabbed number eight and sat on him. Momma kept close watch over me while I banded him. When I started to give him his shot, I can’t really tell you what happened. I did a backwards somersault, and then another, and another, and another. I believe there were more gymnastics mixed in there also, but I can’t be too sure. After approximately six said somersaults, she finally decided to go back and check on her baby.

I must admit, when I got to my feet, I was not a happy camper. The things I said while I was picking up everything she scattered out of my calf kit can’t be printed. It was along the lines of , “If you think I’m done with that calf, you got another think coming!” I picked up my kit and walked up to that calf and grabbed him by the back leg again. That B….that Sh…..that rotten ……that ol’ cow chased me all the way down the hill we were on. When I went by my Ranger, I thought she’d stop. Nope. She wasn’t gaining on me, but I wasn’t getting any separation either. About 60 yards into the chase, my coveralls and the calf kit were starting to weigh on me. I was just about to accept death when she gave up chase and went back to her calf.

I walked back and sat in my Ranger, still puffing. I thought about a couple things. First thing, I really need to start running again. Second, I was glad she didn’t kill me. I could just see the headline. “Local stockman dies of coronavirus complications. Underlying health conditions included angry 1400 pound cow.”

Happy New Year

Here I sit, looking out the picture window, watching the sun set on another year. It’s truly amazing how much we can experience from Solstice to Solstice. We pack in memories and hopes and dreams and good and bad over the last 365 days, then file it with all the previous ones. Some make big plans for the upcoming year. People resolve to this and that, or maybe quit something else. I was asked yesterday what my New Year’s Resolution was. It’s the same as usual. I’ll try to be a good dad. I may even try to be nicer to people and swear less when I work cows.

This past week, I took my lovely bride out to dinner. A young couple was in the booth behind us with four little ones, I’m guessing about eight, six, three, and a new baby. They were good as gold. When they left, I attempted humor and wondered aloud if they knew what caused that. My bride reminded me that our children were actually closer than those four.

So now, as the current year draws to a close, I have been reflecting on our past New Year’s. I thought I’d share one when our children were about the same age as the little ones at the restaurant. For some reason, we got a wild hair and decided to haul four kids, ages 1,3,5 and 7, to Minneapolis to see my bachelor brother. I’ve made poor decisions before, but this one was a doozy.

First night there, we’re off to Chuckie Cheese’s to eat bad pizza, drink too much soda, and touch a hundred games that a thousand children before us had touched. All was well, until the next evening, when child number two unloaded used hot cocoa all over my brother’s living room. As much as I prayed that it was just her weak stomach, child three and four, quickly followed with violent volleys of partially digested food and nuclear waste.

New Year’s morning we decided to make a run for it. My brave brother, who hadn’t had a stomach bug since high school was locked in his bathroom with lysol and disinfectant wipes. We said good-bye through the door and loaded the kids in the minivan as child number one began to forcefully empty.

Five hours into our eleven hour trip home, Number Two decided she’s better and she’s hungry. All vomiting had slowed so we pulled into the first fast food place and got her chicken nuggets. Bad decisions seemed to plague this trip. Not twenty miles down the road, I hear, “Dad, I don’t feel so good.” That was immediately followed by ‘SPLAAAAAT’. While we cleaned chicken nugget chunks off the windshield (yes, really) we contemplated getting a hotel room in Omaha and waiting it out. That’s when we made our first good decision. Five hours more, and we would be in our own beds.

Trust me. Our driveway never looked so welcoming. I came to a stop at the back door, stepped out of the van and it was my turn. Good Heavens. The bathroom floor was the most comfortable spot in the house for the next eight hours. I actually decided I might live the next morning when my phone rang. It was my brother. A weak and trembling voice on the other end of the line said, “I hate you.”

Just a dog?

Red showed up in the spring of ’06, a full grown, wiener dog and something mix. He made himself right at home and quickly adopted Eli as his own personal human. Together, they shared countless adventures, slaying dragons, dinosaurs, and boredom. The kids had a series of forts on the farm where, with their dogs, they conquered childhood. They played and imagined while the faithful dogs kept watch. Red killed snakes, chased off skunks and badgers, and would not have flinched if a dragon would have threatened his charge.

It wasn’t all fun and games. He also fancied himself a cow dog. More than once he got yelled at for healing cows the wrong direction or standing under the trailer, biting them as they loaded. He certainly felt he was indispensable, checking cows from the front seat of the pickup, head out the window, ears flowing back in airplane mode.

Those little legs covered a lot of miles. He trained for several marathons and countless halves, 10Ks and 5Ks. Only as the gray started to take over did he run the first half mile, then turn back and happily meet us at the mailbox when we finished our run.

When Eli went to basic training, Red would lie in the living room, head on his paws, looking wistfully into his master’s empty room. He had protected his boy from ‘dad attacks’ and the bogey man for years inside that room. When Eli was sick, Red comforted him. When he read, or played guitar, Red curled up and simply enjoyed his company.

Red was a funny, crazy, yappy, faithful hound dog. He struck the doggy lotto when he showed up all those years ago. He was always a bright eyed bouncy dog until the last couple days. It was hard (and it is with every dog) burying him today. I faced him east toward the sunrise and put his ears in airplane mode. Strange, how tears flow hot and unchecked for a little animal that becomes such a big part of life.

Fall Festival Fail

A full day of small town fall festival fun can be exhausting. Breakfast, parade, barbecue in the park, ice cream social, car show, and other activities make for a long day. In many places throughout the day and especially at the dance between the bars, the German Kool-aid flows like the two rivers that meander past our little town. Several years ago, I had spent all day Saturday enjoying the festivities, but not the liquid ones.

I had helped with the dance and at about 1 am I headed out to change water. That won’t mean anything to some, but believe me, others know how one feels about changing water in the middle of the night by the end of August. I was already suffering from sleep deprivation and I had just spent all of Saturday on the go. I was a prime candidate for a UFO encounter.

I found myself in the middle of the cornfield, late at night, eerily quiet except for the rush of water through the pipe and into the rows. I always enjoy the stars, searching for constellations and satellites. A bright light moving slowly back and forth above me was not what I had expected. A chill ran through me and I began to try to convince myself it was an airplane or the Air Force, and it would be long gone when I got the set changed. It wasn’t. Still there, still moving, back and forth. I made my way back to the pickup, and I don’t know if any of you have tried this, but I willed the motor to be as quiet as possible, and hoped my tires maybe wouldn’t touch the ground on the way home. It sounded like a Sherman tank driving out of the field. I knew whatever it was would notice me now.

I got about halfway home and decided to see if it was still following me. It was. Still there, still moving, still bright. So I called the Sheriff.

“Hey, this is Dan Huebner, has anyone reported a bright light moving around in the sky?” Just a word of advice, if you ever call the sheriff with a stupid question, don’t tell them who you are.

“No, you’re the first one tonight. Where are you?”

“I’m south of Hershey changing water.” There’s a pause and I think I hear stifled laughter, but I’m pretty focused on the light that seems even brighter and more active.

“Have you been at the Fall Festival all day?”

“Yeah, I just came from the street dance.”

“We’ll have someone check it out.” It took me years to realize that was dispatcher code for “Buddy, you started drinking at the parade this morning and you, my friend, need to go to bed.”

I got home and it was still up there. Still moving, back and forth. By now I’ve added a creepy aura around it and it has definitely changed positions in the night sky. I run in and drag Allison out of bed.

“Do you see it?” I can’t tell you how disappointed I was when she said “YES!”

I needed a second opinion, so I called brother Steve, who was staying at Mom’s. Why I thought he would answer his phone in the middle of the night is beyond me, but he did.

“Do you want to see a UFO?”

He was on his way, with my mom in tow. Allison and I were out in the driveway watching it when mom and Steve got there. Steve got out and looked with amazement at our mysterious light. Mom slowly got out of the car and shuffled around to the front so she could lean on the fender and look up. There we were, staring up at the UFO, directly above the farm. It was still there, still moving, and still bright. The hair on the back of my neck had been standing up for about an hour now.

My mom looks right at me and says, “Oh, Hell, don’t you read the papers? That’s Mars. It’s trajectory is the closest it gets to Earth’s. It’s so close, the atmosphere refracts the light giving the illusion of movement.”

She got back in the car and slammed the door. Needless to say, they went home and Allison went back to bed. I stood there, staring wistfully up at the Red planet, watching it bob and weave and shine. I realized, standing there alone, that if a UFO was actually looking for some sort of intelligent life form in my driveway that night, all they would find was the dog.

Growing Up??

I could have done it. It wasn’t that far and my depth perception is still pretty good. Right foot on top of the fuel tank and left foot on the side of the pickup box and ta-daa! Eight feet max from the swather platform to the fuel tank, then maybe seven or eight more to the pickup. I contemplated it. I visualized it. I thought, “Who am I kidding?” I climbed down from the swather, walked around the fuel tank, and put the tailgate down on the pickup to get my tools. There’s too much summer left to give in to my ego and get hurt.

Yes, I’m afraid those days are slipping away. Invincibility paired with quick healing are seemingly things of days past. It has been a gradual learning curve, but I’ve come a long way over the years. My better half driving me to the ER is happening less and less frequently.

She had fair warning. We hadn’t dated a month when she got to haul me to the hospital the first time. Why is it always such a surprise when I get hurt? I always think, post accident, why did I think that was a good idea? I wonder what my lovely pre-bride would have thought or done if she would have known that this was just a prelude of things to come.

It was a week or two before county fair. My niece’s steer was tied up in the barn during a rainstorm. Lightning struck the barn and must have grounded through his brain, because he was nuts after that and a twelve year old certainly wasn’t going to be able to show him. Sometimes it’s good to be young and strong and dumb, sometimes it’s not. This was probably the latter. I told her dad I could walk it out of him.

We tied a new lariat to the end of his halter. My plan was simple. I would hold on close to his chin and turn his head when he got jumpy. If he tried to get away, my brother could lock down on the lariat, and he’d stop. That was the theory. All was well for about thirty feet. The steer tried to make a break for it and I leaned into his halter and bent his head around. He wasn’t slowing down much, so my brother set his feet and that new rope stretched out nice and tight. Why I thought 300 pounds and 25 feet of rope where going to neutralize a crazed 1300 pound steer is beyond me, today. For a moment it seemed to work though. That rope stretched out like one of those balloon launchers before he couldn’t hang on any longer. It shot between the steer and me, over the halter, then wrapped under the halter back behind us. It was off to the races and I was basically tied to the steer.

We went step for step most of the way around the corral before I got tangled up in all the rope and went down. Apparently, that was the moment he had been waiting for. Now, Angus are a Scottish breed, but he did that Irish river dance thing on my legs. When he got tired of pulverizing me, he took off like a race horse and unwound me like a yo-yo. That nice new nylon rope went around and around and took most of the skin off my belly, chest, and back. I was so happy to be free of that calf I just laid there thinking how comfortable the mud in the corral was.

When I decided that my feet were pointing the right direction, and I didn’t seem to be losing too much blood, I sat up to see what I’d missed. My brother had dallied the steer to the fence and was beating him over the head with a board. When he was satisfied he had made his point he looked over at me and asked, “Are you OK?” Surprisingly, yes, I was OK, for a while.

I was young, and thought I was tough, and was desperately trying to impress a lady, so I didn’t say much for a couple days. My bride to be and I were having lunch and I was not talking about my 4-H skills. When we finished I stood up and everything turned yellow and down I went. She insisted on taking me to the ER which I argued feebly against. They x-rayed my legs and found I had nothing more than a broken ego. My legs looked like those dance charts in music class though, only hoof prints instead of shoe prints from my waist down. The ER doctor looked at my ribs and the leg x-rays and said, “This happened three days ago? Cowboys are idiots.” I didn’t tell him I wasn’t a cowboy, and I couldn’t argue with the adjective.

What happens in South Dakota, stays in South Dakota

I’ve spent a lot of hours in the hay field the last couple weeks. A person has time to think and reflect out there by yourself, churning out bale after bale. I’m not sure what it was about the day. The sky was a bright blue, with those low, puffy, marshmallow clouds floating by. It was cool for July, has been all summer. All the colors, sounds, and smells were just right to take me on a trip down memory lane.

My folks always took in the new teacher, or pastor, or whatever wayward waif came through town. The summer I was six, it was my brother’s shop teacher. He was getting married in the middle of South Dakota, and it must have rained because we were headed for the wedding.

It was a little tiny Catholic country church that maybe held 40-50 people. It was a beautiful, cool summer day, perfect for a wedding. I don’t remember much about the first part of the ceremony, but I began to pay more attention when it was time for communion. The priest didn’t look much older than the bride and groom to a six year old, so I’m going to just say now, as an older, wiser person, he was still learning.

He consecrated three big chalices of wine, and began communion. I assume he assumed everyone there was of the Catholic persuasion. It turned out only the bride, her parents, an aunt, and her new husband were Catholic. The rest of us were apparently Lutherans and Hutterites. I didn’t understand the situation at the time, but the young priest, after communing a total of five people, had a dilemma. He started in on the first chalice without difficulty.

This is were a six year old started to take notice. I have to chase a squirrel now. Isn’t it odd to think back about your parents. I’m ten years older now than they were when we sat in that pew all those years ago. That’s how old I always see them. 40ish. I would guess my brothers see them younger than that as I was kind of a tag along. Anyway, when the priest started in on number two, I asked, “What’s he doing?” I just asked Mom, but in a church that size, I verbalized what everyone was thinking. Mom hushed me, and sort of put me in a head lock. When he started on chalice number three, I said, loudly, “Is he gonna drink it all?” My parents stared straight ahead, but the priest gave me a kind smile and nodded to me before he finished the last of the wine.

I give him a ton of credit. I don’t remember noticing anything odd until the last song. He had a firm grip on the lectern and sort of swayed in big circles along with the music. After that I couldn’t understand him the rest of the ceremony. I’ve been to countless Catholic weddings and funerals since that sunny July day, but it’s the only one the priest ever spoke in tongues. It was interpreted just fine though, because the bride and groom kissed and we all had cake and punch, which is the only reason a six year old goes to a wedding anyway. Who am I kidding? It’s the only reason a fifty year old goes to a wedding.

Identity Crisis

For the 86th time, on the fourth of July, the entire country celebrated my mom’s birthday. Those of you that know her, know she has her quirks and strong opinions.

Allison leaned back and said, “Do you know what one of my favorite things your mom did over the years was?”

I was hesitant to answer. Was she serious? Sarcastic? Was I suppose to guess?

“I just loved it when she duct taped a big X on her suitcase when we flew somewhere.”

I don’t know if it was because she was a child during the depression, or because her and dad didn’t have two nickels to rub together through the 50’s and 60’s, but she didn’t want to lose anything, and by golly someone might take her luggage by mistake. Never, in all of our travels, did I see a similar, enormous, circa 70’s, green, hard-sided suitcase, but the one I did see had a large silver X on it. Come to think of it, she never lost it either.

I made a comment about the generation. The cake pans, tupperware, and folding chairs all had names on them. They all loved to share, but they needed the necessities back. Then I made my mistake. I always have to tell a story. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.

I was 21 and sharing a drink with an attractive young lady. The way I remember it, I was making good headway and the evening was looking promising. She giggled at the appropriate times and gave the overall impression that she was enjoying my company. She seemed quite interested in my shirt. She played with my sleeve and, I guess, checked out the quality, because she wanted to know what brand it was.

It was a new shirt and I didn’t know, or care what brand it was. Most of my nice clothes had disappeared at college, so I had gone shopping to replace them. I asked the gal at the store what looked good, and that’s what I bought.

So, that’s how I got to this point in the evening, pretty girl, leaning in close, and my heart rate beginning to rise. Just so all of you know, that was the high water mark in the evening. I told her to check and see what kind of a shirt it was. She pulled my collar back with one hand, and quickly covered her mouth with the other.

“What brand is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what’s it say?”

She tried to stifle the laughter, but she failed. She finally said, through gasps, “It says, DAN HUEBNER!”

Mom strikes again. My mother, bless her heart, had sewn my name into every article of clothing I owned. Where she found fabric name tags is beyond me, but the air rushed out of my entire evening and ego like a big balloon. It made about two loops and went ‘thud’ on the floor.

It’s not like it’s going to damage our marriage, at this point, but my lovely bride laughed way too hard at that story. She sat on the couch and laughed. She let out a snort a short time later just thinking about it. Then she walked by me on her way to bed, quietly chuckling. I thought she was going to reach over and check my collar.